What’s cooler than butterflies?
WHEN WE GET INTO THE SUV, MY PHONE CONNECTS AUTOMATICALLY, playing the next track on my playlist.
“As a new father whose wanderlust could not be contained even with a squalling infant at home, I was eager to teach my son the auditory magic that nature has to offer.”
In the passenger side, Ryder drops his face in his hands.
“We journeyed, my wife, Helen, and our son, Steven, to a place that may not spring first to mind when craving a pure auditory experience. The Northern Atlantic. Yet we were delighted by the happy chatter of the St. Lawrence humpbacks and piercing cries of the seabirds. Little Steve particularly enjoyed the symphony of the Northern gannet. We spent hours imitating the throaty vibrato that escaped their beaks as they foraged at sea. And that’s only the gannets! Nothing can possibly prepare an eager toddler for the sheer volume created by thousands of seabirds at dinner time. And now…let me take you there.”
Ryder inquires, “What do you have against music? Honest question.”
I give him the finger.
Putting the car in drive, I leave the Briar campus and head for the interstate. At a red light, I notice a frown digging into Ryder’s forehead as he texts something on his phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He sends the message and rests the phone on his thigh. “Yeah. Fine. Just another update about the Dallas GM. Julio Vega. I guess he’s not thrilled about Briar’s performance this season. Although he did tell Owen he enjoyed my goal.”
“Owen?”
“McKay,” Ryder supplies. “He’s the guy in the pros I was telling you about.”
My jaw drops. I tear my gaze from the windshield to gawk at him. “Are you serious? You’ve been busting my chops about my famous dad and his famous friends, and meanwhile you’re best buds with Owen McKay?” McKay is one of the hottest players in the NHL right now. “Who’s friends with superstars now? Can you introduce me?”
He narrows his eyes.
“I’m serious. I’m a huge Owen McKay fan. How do you even know him?”
“We grew up together in Phoenix.” Now he shifts his gaze out the window.
“That’s really cool. Hey. You should see if he’d donate something to the auction. A signed jersey! We could get it framed.”
Ryder shrugs. “I might be able to arrange it.”
“I’ll text Whitney and tell her. Seriously, that item would slay.”
Thirty minutes later, I pull into a familiar place. The colorful signs in the parking lot guide me to the appropriate place to park.
Ryder exhales in resignation. “The butterfly gardens?”
I beam at him.
He sighs.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t have come,” I protest.
“Well, obviously. I thought it was going to be something cooler.”
“What’s cooler than butterflies?”
“Are you kidding me right now?” He diligently studies me. “I can’t figure out if you’re being serious.”
“Dead serious. This is my favorite place in the whole city.”
I shut off the engine and the sounds of Horizons disappear. We get out of the car, Ryder with visible reluctance. There’s a small hut outside of the building where you can buy tickets, but I gesture for Ryder to bypass it. I reach into my wallet.
“We don’t need tickets. I’m a member. And you’re in luck—my annual fee covers one guest per visit.”
“You have a yearly membership to the butterfly gardens.”
“I told you, it’s my favorite place. I come here all the time.”
I flash my card to the person at the gate, and then we walk into the indoor conservatory, a.k.a. six thousand square feet of sheer heaven. Immediately, I feel my entire face light. I happily take in the sight of butterflies against a tropical backdrop. The beautiful colors all around us. Shimmery pastels to iridescent blues, with browns and yellows and reds thrown into the stunning array. I brought Mya here once, and she said it made her feel like she was inside a rainbow. I think she meant it as a compliment?
“Honestly, this is how I picture heaven to be,” I tell Ryder, the lightness in my chest creating a spring to my step. “Look at it. Have you ever seen anything prettier?”
I glance over to find his blue eyes, vivid in their own right, fixated on my face.
“What?” I say self-consciously.
He clears his throat. “Nothing. You’re right. It’s nice here.”
I grab his hand and urge him forward. “Come on.”
We amble past a koi pond framed by lush vegetation and a bubbling waterfall. Lots of people decided to visit the gardens today. We pass a group of parents with their young children bounding along the winding paths. We dodge a hand-holding couple standing at one of the feeding stations. They’re watching a small orange and black monarch sip on some nectar.
“I don’t get you,” Ryder says gruffly.
“What’s not to get?”
He shrugs.
“No. Tell me.”
“You’re just…not how I figured you’d be,” he admits.
“Okay. And how did you figure I’d be?”
“You know, this super serious hockey player with a one-track mind.”
“I can be serious about hockey and still have other interests.”
“Like butterflies,” he says dryly.
“Why not butterflies?” I gesture at all the beautiful creatures fluttering over our heads. “Look how gorgeous they are.”
We wander toward a new path, this one quieter because there’s no children. A few feet ahead, a pink-haired lady is photographing a yellowish-brown butterfly perched on a leaf.
Ryder gives me a sideways look. “I just realized…I’ve never seen you take any pictures.”
“Should I?”
“It’s weird. I usually can’t go one day without seeing a chick taking a picture for social media. I saw a bunch of cheerleaders the other day posing in the quad for, like, a million shots. One of them kept poring over each picture and then ordering her friends to redo it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, my camera roll is filled with a gazillion shots. I just don’t take pictures here anymore because I’m pretty sure my last butterfly pic count was ten thousand, and I’m not joking. As for posting the pictures I take, nah. I’m not a social media girl.” I cock my head at him. “I assume you don’t have any social media either?”
He starts to laugh.
“Yeah, dumb question.”
“You know better, Gisele.” He shrugs. “I’m surprised you don’t have it, though.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“Because you’re a chick.”
“So that automatically means I need to be posting bikini pics and selfies? Fun fact: sometimes you can take pictures and just keep them for yourself without including the rest of the world.”
“I’d like to be included in the bikini pics. How do I opt in?”
I grin. “I’ll start sending you weekly shots.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“And I used to be on social media,” I remind him. “I still have the accounts, but they’re either private or deactivated. My old friend went after me pretty hard. That’s when I realized I don’t want my whole life online. All these moments belong to me. Not anyone else.” I wave at the butterflies and moths floating freely around us. “This is just for me.”
We keep walking, and I begin to feel the heat. The conservatory is made almost entirely of glass, and the October sun shining through the panes heats up an already tropical environment.
“It’s like we’re in the sauna again,” he grumbles, rolling up the sleeves of his gray Under Armour shirt.
I sort of wish we were. Because then he’d be inside me again.
“The butterflies need the warmth to fly. Do you not want them to fly, Ryder? When did this vendetta against butterflies begin?”
“At a very young age,” he says solemnly.
I love it when I get him to be playful. I’m starting to crave it on a level I’m determined not to overthink.
We stop in front a feeding station, where I read the information plaque on a nearby tree. No matter how many times I come here, I still manage to learn something new. There are too many paths and vegetation patches to keep track of.
“Aw look, you have a new friend,” I say in delight.
Ryder cranks his neck to squint at the blue butterfly that just landed on his shoulder.
“Poor guy,” I tsk. “He doesn’t know you well enough yet to figure out you’re an asshole.”
With a laugh, I dance down the path. I’m in a spectacular mood today. First the sauna sex, and now I’m here. This place always revitalizes me. And, maybe…as grumpy and uncommunicative as he can be…a tiny part of me enjoys spending time with Ryder.
“So what else are you into?”
I stop in my tracks.
“Are you trying to get to know me?” My jaw is literally at my feet.
“Forget it.” He walks past me.
I scamper eagerly after him. “No, let’s do this. Ask me anything. But,” I warn, “anything you ask me, you have to answer yourself.”
“This feels like a trap.”
“That’s how it works.”
“Fine,” he finally relents. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Wow. Such a thought-provoking question.”
I swear, this guy is reticent to share even a single significant detail about himself. Favorite color. Ha. Total cop-out right there.
“Green,” I tell him. “What’s yours? Wait, let me guess—black to match that enchanting disposition?”
“Gray.”
“That’s pretty much the same thing. What shade? Light gray? Dark?”
“A deep slate gray. Stormy, like your eyes.”
My heart does a little somersault. He’s not trying to be romantic, but I liked that line. I liked it way too much, in fact.
I’m starting to worry I might be in trouble.
I keep reminding myself this is supposed to remain casual. He said he doesn’t do feelings. And, really, it’s hard to picture myself going out with this guy. He’s notoriously tight-lipped. It’s like pulling teeth to draw personal details out of him. Exhausting just convincing him to tell me a sad story about his childhood.
Granted, if I had a whole bunch of sad childhood stories, maybe I wouldn’t want to share them either.
“Favorite sound?” His question interrupts my thoughts.
“Sound? That’s a weird one.” I ponder it. “The rain. I love the sound of the rain. What’s yours?”
“A puck striking the boards.”
“Oh, that’s good too.”
“Favorite sex position?”
My head swivels toward him in accusation. “You can’t discuss sex in the butterfly gardens.”
“Why not?”
“This is a very PG place.”
“Yeah. Well. I just turned it X-rated. Got a problem with that?”
He moves closer and I gulp for oxygen. It’s difficult to breathe, and that has nothing to do with the stifling tropical air pushing a hot breeze through the gardens. All around us, butterflies hover. Chase one another through the flowers. A few of them dance past Ryder’s head. It’s the most Disney moment possible, yet the gleam in his eyes is downright pornographic.
“Favorite position?” he prompts.
I swallow through my suddenly dry mouth. “I like being on top.”
“Why’s that?”
“It hits a good spot, inside and out.”
He smiles knowingly. “You like grinding your clit against me while you ride?”
I can scarcely breathe. “Oh my God. You’re not allowed to talk dirty right now.”
“You think this is dirty talk? That’s sweet.”
I croak out a laugh. “Fine. What’s your favorite position?”
“Anything that lets me be inside you is going to be my favorite position.”
Yeah, I’m in trouble.
