Ryder lifts the bag and shakes it tantalizingly.
“What kind of donuts?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Just get in the damn van, Felicity.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going,” I point out.
“Is it within state lines?”
I hesitate a beat, then nod.
“Good. Get in the van.”
My willpower fades away completely. I’m powerless in the face of donuts and cold air. Bending, I pick up my guitar, slide open the side door, and maneuver the case inside. The back of the van is full of all kinds of electrical equipment — cables and wires and techy gadgets I don’t recognize.
“Just toss it in anywhere,” Ryder says, half-turned to watch me.
I secure the guitar beside two crates of equipment, then climb into the passenger seat. As soon as the door slams closed, I lean back against the chilled cloth with a deep sigh. I feel more feverish than the time I ended up in the hospital with strep throat my junior year of high school. My internal temperature must be approaching triple digits.
I hear Ryder fiddling with the AC buttons, turning them to the maximum cold setting. I’m reveling in the rush of chilled air when something lands in my lap.
“Eat one of those. It’ll revitalize you.”
My eyes crack open. I eagerly pull a donut from the bag and take a bite. The honey glaze hits my tongue, so sweet it could send you straight into a diabetic coma. To be honest, after weeks of granola bars and cold convenience-store sandwiches, it tastes so dang good the coma would be worth it.
“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful. “This is amazing.”
Ryder chuckles lowly and shifts the van into gear. We drive half a block before we hit a red light and slow to a stop. He glances over as I polish off the last bite, my stomach rumbling with contentment.
“Go for it,” he says lightly, when he catches me eyeing the white paper bag again.
“Nah, I’m good. One’s my limit.”
His brows go up.
“Okay,twois my limit. But I’m not going to steal all your donuts.”
“They’re never as good the next day.” He shrugs. “I’m happy to share.”
I grab a second one with a bashful grin. “Thanks.”
“So, where to?”
“About twelve miles south on Route 65,” I say, still chewing. “The Elmwood Estates.”
He looks curious, but doesn’t ask any questions as he plugs our destination into his GPS. We make a U-turn at the next intersection, following signs for the interstate.
“I like the dress, by the way,” he says conversationally. “Never seen you in anything except your Nightingale uniform.”
“I forgot how nice it feels to wear an article of clothing that doesn’t expose my entire stomach and cannot, under any circumstances, be described asbooty shorts.”
He laughs.
“Speaking of uniforms…” I eye the white WOODS ELECTRIC logo embroidered on his black polo shirt. “What’s with the van?”
“Oh, this? Only my glamorous day job.” His words are carefree, but there’s a touch of resentment in the lines around his eyes.
“I’m not interrupting your work, am I?” I ask, suddenly worried.