America’s Geekheart

by Grant, Pippa

“He may have mentioned it.”

  “That’s bribery. And it’s working.”

  Ellie snicker-snorts into her wine glass, and Mrs. Ryder looks back at us with an indulgent smile.

  “I love this shade of midnight,” my mom announces. “It reminds me of a few producers’ black hearts. Alicia, what is that painting? I can’t decide if it’s a duck or a Ferris wheel.”

  “This one?” Alicia points to one of the samples high on the wall that Mom’s gesturing to with her paintbrush. “It’s the fountain in Reynolds Park, Ms. Darling.”

  “Mom, where are your reading glasses?” I ask.

  “They’re for reading, dear, not painting.”

  They’re not actually reading glasses, but we call them that because she refuses to acknowledge that she’s been blind as a bat for years. She also refuses laser eye surgery and must’ve forgotten her contacts tonight. Probably thought a few extra beta carotene supplements would cover it.

  No wonder I like Beck so much.

  I actually come from a family of goofballs.

  Huh.

  While everyone stares at the fountain and probably also silently contemplates if my mother’s on drugs, I sneak another glance at my phone.

  Did you know your dad loves Scooby Doo? For the record, I don’t have any desire to try a Scooby Snack. A guy’s gotta have some boundaries. But I did eat fufu in West Africa. Pretty decent.

  Mom’s waving her Perrier bottle and telling a story about the time she had an argument over artistic vision with a director who refused to see the symbolism in the shade of curtains in a certain scene, so I text Beck back.

  Dad loves Road Runner even more. And if you scratch Cupcake behind the ears, she’ll be your best friend for life.

  “I see you,” Mackenzie whispers, so I tuck my phone away.

  But I keep finding opportunities to slip it back out and check the running commentary of Beck’s guys night at his place.

  And the invitations to come over and join him for anything from weeding the potted plants on his patio to helping scrub behind his ears after an apparently well-aimed cupcake bomb thrown by James.

  And by the time paint night is over, there’s nowhere I’d rather go than back to Beck’s place.

  Which might be a sign that I have a serious problem.

  I don’t think he’s just acting the part. But I also know there’s been at least one photographer lounging at the outdoor café seating across the street all night, and the longer we’re together, either because of a contract—or more, if all of this is real—the more I’ll be back in the public spotlight.

  Mom links her hand in mine and tugs me toward the back door, since we have a driver waiting for us out of sight of the street. “Come come,” she says brightly. “Tomorrow’s the big night. And someone needs her beauty rest.”

  The mention of the big night sends a chill down my back, because formal events and I don’t get along well when cameras are involved. Beauty rest won’t solve my paranoia or my legitimate fears.

  But I still want to see Beck.

  The very reason that I’m in the spotlight and have to get dressed up fancy and make a grand entrance and pretend to be someone I’m not.

  Out in the alley behind the building, Ellie and Mrs. Ryder slip into one waiting car and Mackenzie hugs me before getting into a second. We’re being chauffeured around like celebrities, with bodyguards in each car.

  It’s making me itchy, which I’m actively ignoring, because I can do this.

  I can do this for Beck.

  Mom shuffles me into the last car. “Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder, sweetheart,” she whispers. “If he’s honestly interested, let him stew for a while.”

  I don’t want to let him stew.

  I want to go see him. Despite all of the complications with photographers and gossip rags and having to have freaking bodyguards to go about my business in the city, I want to see him.

  “Plenty of time after your contract is over,” she adds, and a momentary chill washes over me.

  She’s right, of course.

  When it comes to fame and tabloids, she usually is.

  “Dad likes him,” I say slowly while our car pulls out of the alley.

  “Your father’s a pushover, and we both know it,” she replies.

  And she’s not wrong about that either.

  “I like him too, Serendipity. But take your time. And make sure he’s worth it. He has to earn your affections for his career right now. Let’s see if he tries so hard when you’re the only thing at stake.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, young lady. You know full well you’re a gem worth seventeen of his careers. But I want to know that he knows it.”

  I sigh and drop my head onto her shoulder, and then I feel like a total heel because it’s been years since I’ve leaned on my mom, and she’s leaving town sometime next week, while Beck will be here long after.

  “Thank you for being here,” I whisper.

  She squeezes my knee and presses a kiss to my forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  Thirty-Two

  Beck

  I can’t sit still.

  It’s two hours before the gala starts.

  Two hours until I see Sarah again.

  Even more hours until I’m alone with her again.

  I thought I’d talked her into coming over last night, but she texted a picture of her bedroom around midnight and said that she and Meda were crawling into bed after her mother’s night-before-an-event routine, but don’t worry, she was pretty sure her skin survived.

  It’s not weird to have memorized everything about her bedroom, is it? Pale yellow walls, a lavender comforter on what’s probably a king-size bed, flowery throw pillows, with the cat curled up on the right side.

  She has a bookshelf next to her bed with an eclectic mix of science fiction and romance novels, all with well-worn spines, but not so worn that I couldn’t read the titles when I zoomed in on the picture. And the reading lamp suggests the books aren’t just for decoration.

  There’s a painting—impressionist era—of a child in a straw field, and another of Monet’s waterlilies. Very similar to the painting I have in my guest room, which feels like serendipity.

  Serendipity.

  Sarah.

  It’s impossible to think of her names without smiling.

  Also, those fuckers who posted her picture from paint night in the gossip pages this morning speculating that she sleeps in a custom rocket ship bed with posters of David Bowie in Neverending Story and blueprints for how to get through the toughest Pac-Man levels can rot in hell.

  Not that there would be anything wrong with her bedroom however she wanted to put it together, but because they’re trying to box her in with one part of her personality.

  They keep trying to tear her down.

  While my popularity rating keeps skyrocketing like I’m not the reason she’s in this mess in the first place.

  If she’ll let me, I’m taking her to Shipwreck and away from all this once tonight’s gala is over.

  Except she posted another blog this morning.

  This one’s about the science of gossip, public shamings, and trolls.

  My girl is hitting back. She ignored every last troll comment, but she started tweeting back to people who were talking about actual science stuff.

  She’s fucking blooming.

  And I haven’t seen her in too many hours.

  Not even Tripp’s proposition about the Fireballs yesterday can distract me from thinking about her.

  I have it bad. But in the best way.

  “You never done one of these before?” Dad asks me while he’s flipping through the channels. Mom and Ellie are having their hair and makeup done in the guest room by one of my people, but Dad, Wyatt, and I don’t have to get ready just yet. Tucker’s hanging with Tripp and his kids and mom tonight, which sounds better than what we’re about to do, if you ask me.


  Except for the part where Sarah’s not there.

  “One of what?” I ask Dad.

  He looks at my bouncing knee. “One of these benefit dinner things.”

  I force myself to quit fidgeting. “Oh. Yeah. Tons. Remember, I took Mom to an awards gala two years ago in Milan?”

  He smiles. “Said she couldn’t understand a damn word anybody said, but the eye candy was spectacular.”

  “Pretty sure the problem’s that he’s never had a real date before,” Wyatt offers.

  “Ah. That makes sense.”

  I don’t argue with them, because they’re not wrong.

  Not entirely, anyway. I’ve been on dates.

  Tons of dates, especially if you count the ones that didn’t end with a woman in my bed.

  But none where I felt like the fate of my heart rested on it going well.

  And none in the last five or so years where I was willing to risk my heart for the woman who will be on my arm.

  I trust her.

  I trust her.

  That’s kinda…huge.

  “Your mother said her dress is beautiful,” Dad tells me.

  “She’d be beautiful in a paper bag,” I reply.

  Or preferably without anything at all.

  And there I go getting stiff as a marble rolling pin again.

  After a while, we pull our tuxes on, and Mom and Ellie emerge from the guest bedroom looking like dark-haired angels of mischief. Mom’s in a soft blue long-sleeve gown that I should probably be able to tell you all the technical terms for, but women’s evening wear, shoes, and purses are three places I refuse to go with my fashion lines.

  Both of them have their hair curled and pinned with jewels, and Mom looks twenty years younger.

  All of us stare at Ellie expectantly until she lifts the hem of her burgundy gown to reveal she’s in flats, because even though she barely has a limp anymore after recovering from her accident, we all know heels aren’t her wisest choice.

  “Good girl,” Wyatt says.

  She rolls her eyes, but she also smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek, then wipes the lipstick off. “I thought you were wearing your fancy uniform.”

  “Didn’t want to show up your brother when he needs to look good.”

  “Oh, or drag the Air Force into it if he makes an ass of himself again. Right. Got it.”

  “Hush,” Mom tells her, though I probably deserved that, and it’s delivered with a teasing grin that softens the blow. “Everyone makes mistakes. Like you hating Wyatt for twenty years.”

  “Totally different,” she replies with a happy smile.

  “Completely,” Wyatt agrees, though he’d agree with anything she said if he thought it would get him laid.

  Fucker. That’s still my sister.

  “Are you all ready?” Charlie breezes into my kitchen in a slinky black dress and fancy ’do, phone clutched in her fist. “Our ride’s here. Time for Sarah and dinner.”

  My stomach growls.

  My cock might too at the mention of Sarah’s name, but thankfully, it’s really quiet about it. And I tell it to simmer down, because I’m not getting pictures taken of me sporting a boner on the night I’m supposed to be making the ultimate I’m sorry to Sarah and the world.

  My knee’s hopping the entire ride. Mom’s beaming. Dad’s shaking his head and smiling ruefully. Ellie’s rambling about how much Tucker would’ve loved this car, especially with all the buttons next to the seat.

  And I’m feeling like a dumbass for using a stretch Hummer to haul around three environmental engineers on our way to meet a fourth.

  But it’s not like we could take the light-rail.

  Okay, technically, we could’ve. But not without causing a scene.

  Made enough scenes this week, and I’d like to put off the air of competent fashion mogul tonight instead of complete and total dumbass.

  “Work mode, Ryder,” Charlie reminds me quietly when we pull up to the planetarium where she set up this last-minute fundraiser. There’s a red carpet rolled out and photographers and video cameras lining the ropes giving us a path inside the glass-and-steel domed building.

  “Holy shit,” Wyatt mutters. He reaches for his bow tie, but Ellie grabs his hand before he can mess it up.

  “Smile for the cameras,” she tells him. “They’ll love you.”

  “A few more than there were in Milan, aren’t there?” Mom says. She’s also shrinking back some.

  “It’ll be quieter once we’re inside,” I tell her. “Ellie’s right. Just smile. They’ll love you.”

  “Of course they will,” Dad agrees.

  Charlie climbs down first and steps aside. Wyatt’s next, and he waits just outside the door to help Ellie. Cameras flash, and shouts of It’s the Ryders! go up in the crowd.

  “Are you this popular, or are they all hoping you’ll fall on your face?” Dad asks me with a wink and a grin.

  “Both,” I reply.

  I hope I’m not wrong about the reporters inside.

  Charlie vetted the media and my team hired extra security for the night. Once we’re in the main space for the semi-private dinner, there are exactly four reporters authorized to join us in the building, and since we personally vetted every one of the seventy-five guests—mostly Copper Valley businesspeople, some athletes and musicians, and local politicians, and I bought most of their tickets and just asked them to be here without doing anything other than dressing up for a show and dinner—I know everything will be fine.

  I think.

  I hope.

  This week hasn’t exactly been an exercise in smooth sailing, and I know Vaughn’s waiting on the final reports out of tonight to decide if the foundation is still on. We invited him, of course, but he couldn’t make it.

  Or possibly didn’t want to be here if I blow it again.

  But it feels like the stakes are so much higher than getting to help some kids and reclaim my image.

  Because of Sarah.

  I hope like hell tonight’s not torture for her.

  Dad climbs out of the Hummer and helps Mom down, and I can see her blushing all the way down her neck as she smiles at the waiting press.

  I follow them all, tug my cuffs down, and flash the smile that landed me my first modeling contract before stepping to Mom’s other side and offering her my arm. “Two escorts for the belle of the ball?”

  She laughs and tucks her arm into my elbow. “You are such a charmer.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  She smiles up at Dad. “I know.”

  He winks at her, and the six of us head inside past shouted questions about if I’ve learned my lesson, if Sarah’s here, if her parents arranged all this to revive Sunny’s career, if I’m paying off the picketers at my factory in Hoboken, how much I’m paying Sarah to date me, how much she’s paying me to talk about Persephone, and is it true that I’m selling out to finance a rocket ship to Mars so I can offend all the little green men too?

  “Is it always like this?” Mom mutters.

  “Usually they’re asking him to flash his underwear,” Charlie tells her. “So this could be considered an improvement.”

  “They’re just looking for reactions,” I assure her as the glass doors part and let us into the cool lobby.

  And I do mean cool.

  Not only is it ten degrees cooler than the summer evening outside, but it’s also just wicked awesome.

  The rounded walls are black velvet with stars sprinkled like glitter, and the recessed lights of the ceiling three stories above illuminate an artist’s rendition of the solar system in brilliant colors and textured paint that makes you think you could reach up and feel the flames in the glowing sun.

  There’s a compass designed into the marble floor, and the ladies’ shoes click-click-click subtly amidst the murmur of the distinguished guests who could make it on such short notice.

  Wouldn’t be here at all if there hadn’t been a wedding cancelation. The bride’s a former Sweetheart though—tha
t’s what the Bro Code fan club was called back in the day—and she agreed to let us take over the venue on the stipulation that she get to attend.

  Easy enough.

  I greet the other last-minute stragglers, then cast my eyes upward again, scanning the cantina lofted on the second floor at the top of a staircase that hugs the curve of the wall.

  My daughter will accompany you, but only if she’s allowed to make an entrance in style, Sunny said during negotiations for how tonight would go down.

  Fuck.

  Not even a week ago.

  Charlie needs another raise for pulling this off.

  Ah, there’s Sunny at the top of the metal stairs now, in a butter-colored gown that hugs her trim figure. Judson’s at her side, his head twisted to say something to the woman standing behind him.

  I can make out a trail of golden fabric, but I can’t see Sarah.

  That has to be Sarah.

  Unless she’s backing out.

  But because she doesn’t want the attention?

  Or because I was the dumbass who shouldn’t have told her how much I want to kiss her the other night?

  I do want to kiss her. And strip her. And make love to her.

  And I wanted to be there in her bedroom with her last night, or to have her in mine.

  But if she’s not ready, I can wait.

  I’ll wait a fucking century if I have to, because she orders food for me and posts blogs that tell off trolls who don’t realize they’re being told off, and she sasses bouncers who call me an asshole even when I deserve it, and she has no idea she’s gorgeous and strong and a fucking inspiration for just being her.

  Judson steps aside, and every thought, every breath, every heartbeat stops.

  Complete, full, no question stops.

  Swear on my underwear, even the earth stops breathing.

  I lock eyes with those gorgeous brown orbs, hidden behind layers of mascara, but still there, looking for reassurance, and fuck me with a hand beater, when her rosy lips tip up in a tentative smile, I’d sell off every last one of my lines and homes and buildings and buy her a first-class ticket to Mars if that’s where she wanted to go.

  Or Saturn.

  Or to the scoop in the Big Dipper, so she could try drinking out of the well of Space.