Stop it. Just stop it, already.

And then he’s there—his torso right by my window—and his firm rap on the door combines with my nerves to rip a scream from my throat.

The man bends down, and I suck in a gasp that is part surprise, part fear, part wonder.

Because I’m staring at a man who can’t possibly be there.

I’m staring at Ryan Hunter.

Chapter Seven

I fly out of the car, then pound my fists on his chest. “Dammit, Ryan! Goddammit, you scared me to death!”

He pulls me close and strokes my back, waiting for me to calm down. I breathe him in, letting his familiar scent soothe me, letting his strength calm me. “It’s okay, kitten. You’re fine. Come on, Jamie. You’re safe.”

I hold tight, breathing deep until the terror has passed and I feel calm again.

Calm and mortified.

I ease out of his arms, taking a step backward. The night is so thick that I can see his face only in the thin light from the Ferrari’s interior that spills out from the still-open door. I see the concern. The hint of worry that is fading in his eyes now that I am steady again.

I don’t want to see the anger that I know is coming, and yet I can’t stand here and pretend to still be scared just so that I can put off the inevitable.

I draw in a breath, tilt my head back so that I can see him, and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

I expect anger. I expect fury. But the soul-deep sadness that fills his eyes is more than I can handle.

“Hunter,” I say, my voice choked. “Please, just let me—”

He nods at the car parked behind the Ferrari. “Get in,” he says in a voice that broaches no argument.

“But—” I lick my lips. “I can’t go back. I have to get to Vegas.”

“I’ll take you where you need to go, Jamie,” he says, and now I hear the anger bubbling up from somewhere dark and deep. “Now get in the goddamn car.”

Since he is more than capable of simply picking me up and tossing me inside—and since at the moment he looks prepared to do just that—I do as he says.

It’s a Mercedes, smooth and sleek with a leather interior and that incredible new-car smell. I put the seat belt on, kick off my shoes, and draw my knees to my chest.

I watch as he leans into the Ferrari, then emerges with the keys and my phone. He comes to the Mercedes, opens the door, and gets in without saying a word.

For a moment, he just sits there, and I think that he is finally going to speak. Then he presses the button to start the car, puts it in gear, and pulls onto the highway. In seconds, the Ferrari is behind us, and I twist in my seat to watch it disappear in the distance.

“We can’t just leave it.”

He looks at me, and I swear if he stays silent I’m going to scream. Thankfully, he answers. “I’ll take care of it.” His words are clipped. Measured. “I’ll have someone get her to Vegas.”

“Good,” I say. “Perfect.”

He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t ask why I’m determined to reach Vegas before Texas, and so I decide not to tell. Instead, I ask what is on my mind. “How did you find me?”

“I’m the head of security for Stark International. Do you really think I’d allow Damien to drive a car that doesn’t have a tracking device installed?”

“Oh.” I frown. That hadn’t occurred to me. And I suppose if it had, I would have assumed the device had been removed once Damien gave the car to me. “Okay, then.” I lick my lips. “In that case, why did you follow me?”

The muscle in his jaw tightens, and I brace myself for the explosion. But when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft. “You left in a hurry, without any of your things. I was worried,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to look at me. “Turns out I had reason to be.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I say. And then I add, “I really am sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, and a thick, uncomfortable silence fills the car.

I want to reach for him, to put my hand on his.

I want to give him comfort, but I know that is something I am no longer entitled to do. So instead I lean my head back and close my eyes, giving in to the sudden, cloying exhaustion that has settled upon me.

I don’t plan to sleep, but I must have dozed off because I am jerked awake when the car slows and the texture of the pavement beneath the tires changes.

I blink out the window and see a small, squat building in front of us.

“Where are we?” I ask sleepily.

“Baker,” he says. “We’re staying here until morning.”

“What? But I need to get to Vegas.”

“Not past midnight you don’t. And I’d rather you get there alive.” He pulls into a parking space and kills the engine. Then he turns to face me. “I’m tired, Jamie. I was up all night before the wedding, and then throughout the party. I didn’t get much sleep after that, either,” he adds.

He looks at me, his expression cool. “I’m running on fumes, and I know you are, too. So we are staying here, and we are going to sleep.”

“Fine,” I say because what else is there to say?

As far as I can tell, this is the only motel in Baker, and it’s tiny. It’s also almost completely sold out, which I find surprising. There is only one room, and it has a king-size bed. When Ryan tells me this, I stoically nod my head. Secretly, though, I am worried. I ran because I believed it was the right choice—and because I am weak.

I am still weak, and simply having him nearby makes me weaker. I cannot remember ever being as affected by a man as I am by Ryan Hunter. And if he makes a move during the night, I’m not at all certain I will have the strength to say no.

Because the truth is, though I am certain that going back to Texas is the right thing, I regret the way I ran from him. I regret even more the nights I lost with him.

Maybe The Plan really is only about Texas. And maybe taking the memory of Ryan Hunter back with me would have made me stronger.

And maybe I’m pulling rationalizations out of my ass to justify sleeping with him in this tiny hotel.

Right. Best to just not go there.

The room is small and dingy and smells like old socks. There is a lumpy bed and a threadbare armchair.

I sit in the armchair.

Ryan doesn’t sit at all. Instead he paces, and I know him well enough to see that he is debating something. I presume it’s whether or not to yell at me.

I decide to dive in. I figure I owe him that much. “I’m sorry,” I say for about the four millionth time.

He sighs, then sits on the edge of the bed facing me. “Just tell me why. Because honestly, Jamie, I’m baffled. I thought we were having a good time. I know damn well that I was.”

“Me, too,” I say, my voice small but earnest.

“And I thought we’d reached an understanding. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t going to be one of the men you tossed away. And I sure as hell thought that we were on the same page about you not simply sneaking away.”

“I fucked up,” I say. My breath shudders and I feel tears sting my eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Or piss you off.”

“You managed both,” he says, and when I look at his face, I see something vulnerable in his eyes.