“Do you ever stop talking?” Ryder asks me.
“Do you ever start talking?” I ask him.
He sighs.
“Dan Grebbs it is.”
I turn up the volume, and that’s all we listen to for the remaining forty-minute drive into the city. The lilting calls of loons and mournful wolf cries transform the car into something bigger than the both of us.
As I follow the GPS directions, I realize we’re going to be driving within two miles of my own house in Brookline. The suburb, which is surrounded by Boston on three sides, is probably the most affluent neighborhood in Massachusetts. At the very top of the list, at least.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it when I say, “I grew up three blocks from here.”
The twinkling lights of the country club come into view. This club is one of the oldest in the state. Sprawling hills and twenty-seven award-winning holes make up the lush grounds. The golf course looks gorgeous in the darkness, with the historical clubhouse all lit up among the backdrop of a vast inky sky.
“Let me guess, your family has a membership to this place,” Ryder mutters.
“No, but they tried hard to court us when I was about fourteen,” I answer with a rueful smile. “Mom was, like, Let’s give it a shot. Who knows, we might love it. So we spent an entire afternoon trying it out. Dad hates golf and tennis, so he played squash and discovered he hated that more than those other two combined. He stole the racket and took it home and burned it in our fireplace. Mom was annoyed when they told her the dress code for women was only white or pastels. And it was the furthest thing from mine and Wyatt’s scene. We did some skeet shooting, and Wyatt got pissed because I outshot him, so he stomped off and tried to score weed from one of the kitchen workers.” I chuckle to myself. “That’s the day we discovered we’re not a country club family.”
I pull into the majestic circular drive and stop behind a BMW in the valet line. At the valet station, I hand my keys to the young man in the white polo shirt and khakis. He opens the door for me, and I realize too late that I didn’t bring any cash to tip the valets. Ryder has us covered, though, slipping the kid a ten-dollar bill.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Big spender,” I murmur when the car disappears.
He shrugs. “These poor guys basically survive on tips. Least I could do.”
We walk through the arched entryway toward the ornate front doors.
Ryder tugs on his collar, ill at ease. “What now?”
“Now we mingle.”
“Kill me,” he begs.
“How do you feel about murder-suicide? I could easily kill you, but I don’t think I can kill myself, so you’ll need to murder me and then take care of yourself. Is that something you’re comfortable doing?”
He looks at me. “Forget I said anything.”
We enter the fancy lobby, side by side but with two feet of distance between us. It smells like money in here. Looks like it too, thanks to the mahogany-paneled walls and white marble floors. We provide our names at the table tucked away on one end of the lobby, then follow the discreet easel-set signs toward the main ballroom. There, we’re surrounded by a sea of people in tuxedos and gowns.
Semiformal, my ass. Clearly everyone went the black-tie route.
Every single woman we pass scopes Ryder out. That’s usually the case with tall gorgeous men, but it’s also the vibe he gives off. The men here are all slick, wealthy professionals. They’re businessmen, lawyers, doctors. Whereas Ryder… There’s something primal about him. It’s the barely contained power of his body. The way he walks. The intensity in his eyes. The way his expression conveys that he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone and couldn’t be bothered to be here. That bad-boy energy sucks you in every time. Women are drawn to it. Most men are too.
“Gigi Graham!” A stocky man in a crisp suit and graying hair at his temples appears in our path.
I vaguely recognize him but can’t remember his name.
“Jonas Dawson,” he says in introduction. “My firm represents your father’s foundation.”
“Oh, right.” I pretend to recall this fact. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dawson.”
Five more steps and we’re intercepted by another stranger who thinks they’re my best friend.
“Gigi, so nice to see you!” a heavyset woman booms, clasping both my hands in hers. “Brenda Yarden, Bruins’ head office. We met last year at your father’s jersey number retirement event?”
“Of course.” I feign recollection of this too. I gesture to Ryder. “This is Luke Ryder. Cocaptain of the Briar men’s team.”
“Good to meet you.” Yarden gives his hand a quick shake before turning back to me. “We’re hearing murmurs about the Hall of Fame, and we cannot be more excited. What’s your father thinking about it all?”
“I mean, that’s up to the selection committee,” I remind her. “Not sure Dad has any say about whether he’s nominated.”
The next ambush involves a trio of male boosters who interrogate us about whether Chad Jensen expects to win the Frozen Four this year. I don’t know why they think I can speak for Jensen, nor can I offer many details about the men’s team because I don’t actually play on it. But Ryder is no help, so I talk out of my ass for about ten minutes before they mercifully move along.
For the next hour, we shuffle around the ballroom like mindless robots, while I pretend to care about the boosters and what they’re saying to me. I’m the only one touting the program, so my voice hurts by the time we manage to find a quiet moment for the two of us.
I grab two skinny flutes of champagne from a server in a black uniform with a red bow tie.
Ryder starts, “I don’t want one—”
“It’s not for you,” I grumble.
I chug the first glass in front of the amused waiter and place the empty on his tray. Once he’s gone, I sip the second flute.
“Easy, partner,” Ryder warns.
“Partner? Is that what this is? A partnership? Because from where I’m standing, I’m the one who’s been doing all the Briar hyping. PS you’re driving home because I plan to have at least, oh, ten more of these.”
“I told Jensen I wasn’t good at this shit.”
“Yeah, and you’re even worse than you made yourself out to be. Would it kill you to smile?” I peer at him over the rim of my glass. “I’ve seen you do it, so I know your face is capable of arranging the muscles in that way.”
He narrows his eyes.
I spot another small group of donors making their way toward us. Pure, single-minded purpose.
“Oh God, no,” I moan. “I just need five minutes of peace and quiet.”
“C’mere.” Ryder grabs my champagne flute and deposits it on the tray of a passing waitress, then takes my hand.
The next thing I know, he’s whisking me across the ballroom toward the stage. There’s a curtained area on either side of it, blocking off the two sets of steps leading up to the wings. I blink, and suddenly we’re tucked behind the curtains. Enveloped in darkness.
“Better?”
His rough voice tickles my ear.
I gulp, my pulse speeding at the realization that Ryder and I are standing in the dark, scant inches apart.