NINE
RYDER
"Do you have something against Charlie or what?"
Her question throws me for a loop. We’ve been sitting in silence for almost twenty minutes, and I thought she wasn’t in the mood to talk.
But after Annabeth showed up today, something in Eve cracked. The light in her eyes dimmed.
I hadn’t expected her mom to be on our audition list. But when she stepped into that room, she owned the scene—committed, natural, believable. If I were going strictly off talent, I’d have cast her immediately.
But then I looked at Eve—curled in on herself, fists clenched in her lap, her jaw tight and her expression unreadable. It was the only time I’ve seen her look like she wanted to be anywhere else but near me.
And it hit me like a punch: something between them runs deep—and ugly.
“Charlie’s got the skills,” I say eventually. “Hell, he’s been nominated for an Oscar.”
“Really? Because he didn’t exactly scream ‘genius’ to me.”
I smirk. “He’s good. Just not always... professional.”
“You mean—?”
“He sleeps his way through half the cast and crew.”
Eve crosses her legs, picking at the edge of her skirt. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth as she mulls that over.
The hem hikes up just enough to draw my attention, nothing obscene, but it’s still distracting. I focus hard on the road, trying to force down the growing pull in my chest.
Lately, these thoughts come faster, sharper, harder to resist. They’re no longer passing curiosities, they're a storm, and I’m drowning in them.
“I thought he was sweet,” she mutters. “Kinda charming, too. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”
I brake harder than I mean to as we hit a red light. My hands grip the wheel until my knuckles strain.
It shouldn't bother me. Charlie’s decent enough. Eve’s not mine. But something bitter flares in my chest anyway.
“I don’t keep track of his hookups,” I reply stiffly.
That glint in her eye—mischief, maybe challenge—returns. Her lips curl with a subtle smirk. “Maybe I’ll just ask him myself.”
She’s baiting me. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You don’t need my blessing,” I say coolly.
She pouts, her little sigh of frustration far too adorable for my sanity.
We roll to a stop in front of her building, and any amusement I felt disappears in an instant. The place looks like it belongs in a war zone.
Piles of trash line the sidewalk, windows are either shattered or barred, and spray-painted gang signs claim every inch of wall space.
A group of guys hangs out right by the entrance, all rough edges and bad intentions. The way they stare through the car window at Eve makes my blood boil.
“I’m walking you in.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says quickly. “You’ve already done enough.”
I’m already out of the car, circling to her side before she can stop me. I stand close, blocking her from their view.
They’ve got tattoos creeping up their necks, low-slung jeans, and enough chains to set off every metal detector in L.A.
Maybe I’m judging them. Maybe I’m not. I’m not willing to take the risk with Eve in the equation.
“This really isn’t necessary, Mr. Vane. I’ve lived here a while—I know the drill.”
“It’s not you I don’t trust.”
She glances at my parked Ferrari. “You’re seriously going to leave your car out here? It’ll be stripped in five minutes.”
“I’ll buy another one if I have to. Come on.”
She groans. “Fine. But you’re only walking me to the door. That’s it.”
Inside, the place looks better than the outside—barely. We climb the narrow stairwell up to the fourth floor, and I can’t help but wonder why she’s staying somewhere like this.
Didn’t Thomas ever try to help her out? We made a fortune together. If I had a daughter, I’d make damn sure she didn’t have to live in a place like this.
But maybe that’s the thing—Eve doesn’t want help. She’s too independent to rely on anyone, even her own family.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like the idea of her coming home alone every night.
Does she carry anything for protection? Mace? A taser? Hell, even a keychain alarm?
When we finally reach her door, she turns to me with a soft look in her eyes.
“Thanks for walking me up, Mr. Vane,” she says quietly. “I’ve got it from here.”
“I’ll have a car sent to pick you up in the morning,” I say, not giving her the option to argue.
Eve lifts a brow. “That’s generous, Mr. Vane, but I really don’t need a private car. The bus works just fine.”
A muscle in my jaw ticks. “That wasn’t a request.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m your assistant. You shouldn’t be spending extra money on me. My job is to make your life smoother—not more complicated.”
“Don’t argue with me, Eve.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ryder.”
And there it is. The nerve. The spark. The attitude that makes her unlike anyone I’ve ever worked with. She’s standing her ground—again—like she’s not the least bit afraid of getting under my skin. And oh, she is.
We’re standing inches apart, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick with something electric. One wrong move and I’m kissing her. And I want to. God, I want to. Just to shut her up. Just to taste her and see if she’s as defiant with her lips as she is with her words.
Her cheeks are pink. Her breathing’s changed. I can feel her pulse without even touching her. She wants it too. Or maybe I’m just imagining that—because I’m one second away from doing something I absolutely should not.
Then the door creaks open.
“Hellooo? Thought I heard voices out here,” her roommate, Taylor, says brightly. She’s all legs and pink clothes—shorts, a crop top, and zero shame as her gaze slides over me.
Everything about her outfit screams flamingo Barbie, which now explains Eve’s fashion choices last week.
Taylor smirks. “Well, well, well. So this is the boss.”
Eve groans. “Taylor, this is Ryder Vane. Mr. Vane—Taylor Green, my roommate.”
I nod, polite. “Pleasure.”
Taylor’s eyes dance. “Wow. You weren’t exaggerating. He is a total stud muffin.”
Eve’s face flames. “I did not say that.”
Taylor giggles. “Yes, you did. You also said he had the world’s biggest ego.”
“Are you trying to get me fired?”
I bite back a smile. She’s adorable when she’s flustered. “I won’t take it personally,” I assure her.
Taylor shrugs. “Well, in that case… Mr. Vane, care to stay for dinner? Eve’s cooking tonight. Her spaghetti slaps.”
Eve stiffens. “Taylor—no. He’s not staying. He has places to be. Important things. Boss things.”
“Actually,” I say smoothly, stepping over the threshold, “spaghetti sounds perfect.”
Eve’s face is priceless. Shock, panic, maybe even betrayal. “Oh my God, Taylor!”
Their apartment is… small. Cramped. But it’s got charm.
There are bright pillows scattered over the couch, mismatched kitchen chairs, alphabet magnets on the fridge, and a stack of unpaid bills on the table like a centerpiece. It’s a mess but a warm one.
A home.
I notice a few things right away.
First: the textbooks. Organic chemistry, molecular biology, physics. Notes stick out from every corner, dog-eared and highlighted to death. They’re Eve’s, clearly.
Then there’s the calendar near the stove. The last day of the month is circled in red. Four times.
MCAT EXAM!!
It hits me. She's studying to become a doctor. The pieces fall into place, her book at lunch, the late-night exhaustion, the constant need to prove herself.
I’m impressed. But also not surprised. Eve has always been extraordinary.
I remember her showing up after science camp years ago, excitedly waving her model of the chickenpox virus. Thomas and I took her out for sundaes that day, if memory serves.
The third thing that catches my eye?
Bills. Some medical. Some overdue.
It takes everything in me not to react. She's carrying more than anyone her age should have to. And yet here she is—cooking dinner in a cramped apartment, trying to pass med school, and still managing to run my schedule with precision.
Eve Stone is more than just my assistant.
She’s a damn force.
Thomas's name jumps out from the top of the medical bills—clear as day, stamped across every page like a bruise.
Eve’s quick to snatch them up, her movements smooth but hurried as she clears the cluttered table in a single sweep. “Um—go ahead and sit down, I guess? Just a heads-up, this meal’s more ‘college crash course’ than five-star cuisine. I'm no culinary goddess.”
I shrug off my suit jacket, folding it neatly over the back of a chair that clearly belongs to a different set than the others. There’s something oddly endearing about the mismatched furniture. It suits the space—chaotic but warm.
“I’ll be sure to mention that in my glowing Yelp review,” I tease.
She snorts softly, the kind of laugh I want to bottle and keep for rainy days. “Did you just crack a joke? You? Is the world ending?”
“I’m hilarious. You just have a limited sense of humor.”
“Right. I’ll get your agent on the phone. We’ll prep the press release: ‘Director Trades In Film For Stand-Up. Public Cringes.’”
“Good thing I’ve got my day job to fall back on.”
She rolls her eyes, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon like she’s trying to keep from grinning. “Must be nice—knowing you’re failure-proof.”
Behind us, Taylor’s perched on the armrest of the couch, fiddling with a silver lighter, flicking the lid open and shut. I glance over, curious. She catches me looking and flashes a grin.
“You two are adorable,” she declares. “I totally ship it.”
I blink. “You… what?”
“Ship it. It means I want you two to kiss and ride off into the sunset or whatever.”
Eve glares daggers at her. “She’s drunk. Ignore her.”
“Am not,” Taylor sings, still playing with the lighter.
“Seriously—put that thing away and help me with dinner. I thought you said you quit smoking.”
“I did,” Taylor replies. “But this lighter’s sentimental. A friend gave it to me. Can’t part with it.” From down the hallway, her phone starts to ring. She perks up instantly. “Oh! That’s probably my 8:30. Save me a plate, would you?”
“Fine,” Eve mutters. “Just try to keep it down.”
“Zero guarantees!” Taylor calls, disappearing into her room.
Eve’s back at the stove, pouring marinara into a saucepan while the pasta water begins to boil. I watch her in the soft light of the kitchen.
“She said ‘client,’” I note.
“She’s a camgirl,” Eve says casually, tossing in a pinch of salt. “You know, online adult content?”
“I know what it is.”
“Just checking. You’ve got that ‘classic movie guy’ vibe. Never know what ancient slang you’re rocking with.”
I feign offense. “Ancient? I’m forty-two, not fossilized.”
She stiffens just slightly, and I curse myself. Loudly. Internally. What am I even doing here?
She’s half my age. She’s Thomas’s daughter. My assistant.
This is past a bad idea. This is full-blown recklessness. It’s like I’m walking into a room labeled “Do Not Enter” with my eyes wide open.
“I should go,” I say suddenly, pushing to my feet.
There’s a flash of something in her expression, disappointment, maybe? Regret? “Oh… Did I say something wrong? I was just kidding about the old man crack. Honest.”
“It’s not that. I just… need to leave.”
She nods slowly. “Alright. Thanks for today.”
I pause at the door. “You’ve done great work, Eve.”
She offers a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Vane.”
“When we’re not in the office,” I say, trying to sound casual but failing miserably, “you can call me Ryder.”
Her smile stretches, something softer blooming on her face. “Okay, then. See you tomorrow, Ryder.”
I walk out before I change my mind, my heart thudding too fast, like I’ve been sprinting instead of sitting in a kitchen full of bad decisions.
She’s off-limits.
I should stay away.
Every part of me knows that.
And still… It only makes me want her more.