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31. Artist/Aider and Abettor of Fugitives

"Besides," Ryder starts again. "knowing you, he's probably the ugliest, geekiest, stupidest guy in the history of ever."

My laughter and good mood dies abruptly. I feel I should be offended . . . yep, I'm offended.

"What does that make you?" I snap back without missing a beat.

"I'm the exception."

"You're the ugliest exception ever."

"What was it you said? Your mouth says one thing, your body language says another."

"Right now, the only thing my body language is saying, is just how much I want to shove you out of the car and run over you a few hundred times."

Ryder goes to reply but cuts off abruptly when the road suddenly opens up into a small clearing.

There's an old pickup truck parked in front of a simple cabin. The roof is covered in pine needles, there's a set of stone steps leading up to a wooden porch with a bench swing on it, a welcome mat in front of a door painted a dark green, and a few small windows spaced out around the front.

It's a small cabin, and though I've never personally spent the night here before I know that's it got two bedrooms, a small bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. Of course, it might as well only have one bedroom since the other had been converted into a studio of sorts.

"We're here," I mutter. "Now get out so I can run you over."

"Ladies first."

"Age before beauty."

"Then why aren't you moving?"

I glare at him before pulling the keys out of the ignition and pushing open my door. "Child," I mutter under my breath as I hop out and slam the car door. I hear Ryder laugh before he gets out of the car as well.

I don't make it very far before I'm tripping over a log and falling right into Ryder.

"Whoa," Ryder says as he steadies me and keeps me from falling. I'm about to thank him, but then he goes and opens his mouth again.

"No need to go throwing yourself at me, all you had to do was ask."

My cheeks are on fire as I push away from him. "I tripped," I tell him.

He smiles mischievously. "Whatever you say." He winks at me. I glare at him.

I stop him before he can go up to the door. "Look," I start. "I want you to promise me right now that you're not going to stare."

He stares­­-and I don't doubt it's on purpose-at me without blinking for a moment. "What on earth are you talking about it?"

"At Quinn," I clarify. "Promise you're not going to stare at Quinn."

"What is this guy horribly disfigured? That's the only reason I can think of for you telling me not to stare at him."

I hesitate. "No . . ."

"Then he must be extremely quirky, in which case my reply is, I grew up with my sister. There's isn't much I haven't seen."

Ryder notices me hesitate again. He looks annoyed. "The only other option I can come up with is that he's famous or ridiculously good-looking for you to be trying to get me to promise not to stare."

"Not famous," I reply. "and Quinn's . . . average looking."

"Then what's the problem? Out with it."

"Quinn's just . . . beautiful . . . in an entirely different way."

"That explains literally nothing."