"Taylor?!"
Without any other greeting, Seth burst into the poolhouse, arms flailing like semaphores. A flood of garish sunlight surged in after him.
Ryan shaded his eyes as he closed the door. "Good morning to you too," he said dryly. "Thanks for knocking."
"Right. Morning, knock, privacy . . . got it." Waving away the obvious reprimand, Seth planted himself on the ottoman. Then, too excited to sit, he bobbed back up again. "Ryan, Summer just told me that Taylor is back in town and that you and her?" His brow furrowed. "Or is it she? Never mind, whatever. Summer said that the two of you will be--how did Taylor put it?--accompanying each other to the charity auction tonight. Dude, is that true?" Seth paused just long enough to catch his breath. "You going is newsworthy enough, but . . . with Taylor?"
Sighing, Ryan buttoned a somber blue shirt over his wifebeater.
"Seriously, buddy. Taylor? Townsend?"
Ryan tilted his head, frowned, and gave a wary shrug.
"So--wait, really?" Seth's eyes widened and he hopped on the bed. "Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood," he caroled, bouncing gleefully. "Together, ladies and gentlemen. Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood."
"Stop. That," Ryan growled.
"But dude! Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood."
"Seth!"
Chastened, Seth sat down, but he continued to smile to himself. "And at a Newpsie event," he mused aloud. "Who would have thought we'd ever see T and A?"
Ryan's head jerked up and he dropped the watch he was fastening. "T and . . .? Seth!"
"What?" A flush of realization slowly warmed Seth's face. "Oh. Whoa. Sorry, man. That was just Cohen initial-speak for Townsend and Atwood. I didn't mean T as in tits and A as in ass. Although Taylor's breasts are definitely perky and your ass--"
"Do not finish that sentence," Ryan warned. "Not unless you want yours kicked."
Seth gulped, stumbling off the bed and backing toward the door. "Um, no, not so much," he conceded. Despite himself, he couldn't keep a grin from resurfacing. Ryan sounded so gruff, so dead-arm threatening--so normal. It had been ages since Seth had heard that ironic tone, drained of its reservoir of grief and guilt. Silently, he thanked Jesus and Moses and, no less reverently, Taylor Townsend. "But Ryan," he continued, once he had moved a safe distance away. "You have to admit, the idea of you and Taylor . . ."
"There is no me and Taylor," Ryan insisted. Brushing past Seth, he headed outside and across the patio. Seth scurried ahead of him, turning to jog backwards as he spoke.
"Of course there's no you and Taylor that way, Ryan. But she told Summer and Summer told me that you two are going to the charity auction--"
"What are you, twelve?"
"Not twelve, dude. Just, you know, confused and intrigued and—ow!" Seth rebounded dramatically as he bumped into the French doors. "Also injured at the moment."
Swallowing a furtive grin, Ryan sidled around and headed for the cereal cabinet. Seth followed, rubbing the back of his head.
"Come on, Ryan," he pleaded. "I'm just looking for some background info here. A little exposition, the whys and hows and wherefores--"
Ryan paused, considering, as he poured Cap'n Crunch into a bowl. "Why and wherefore mean the same thing, Seth."
"Not the point, buddy! And don't try to change the subject. I will not be distracted here. First, how about official confirmation for the press release? Are you or are you not escorting Taylor to the auction?"
Ryan stirred his dry cereal, apparently oblivious to the question.
Squirming, Seth watched in frustration as the spoon circled the bowl. "Come on, man," he prompted. "All I want is a simple yes or no. And I'll find out tonight anyway, so you might as well just confess now. Are you and Taylor going to the auction together?"
Defeated, Ryan bobbed his head once.
That gesture, slight as it was, seemed to send seismic waves rippling across the kitchen floor. Seth toppled onto a stool. Momentarily speechless, he simply stared, his eyes wide and glazed. He didn't rouse until Ryan sat down beside him and began to eat with slow, precise bites. Then Seth cleared his throat. He opened his mouth twice in fish-like o's before any sound emerged.
"Wow," he breathed. "You really are. That's . . . that's amazing, really." He almost added a remark about Superman emerging from the Fortress of Solitude, but at the last moment, he reconsidered. Instead, he settled for observing cautiously, "I thought you weren't going. What made you change your mind?"
Ryan hunched one shoulder. "Your mom. She asked me to."
"Asked you to what, sweetie?" Kirsten padded, yawning, into the kitchen and directly over to the coffee maker.
"To go to the art auction tonight," Seth announced before Ryan could shape a reply. "It seems Mr. Atwood has decided to attend after all."
Kirsten dropped her spoon. She swiveled around, her eyes bright with delighted surprise. "Is that true? You're coming?" Impulsively, she put down her mug, leaned over and kissed Ryan's forehead. "I'm so glad," she whispered. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."
Ryan flushed. "It's for a good cause," he explained awkwardly.
"What's a good cause?" Sandy asked as he entered from outdoors, his skin ruddy from surfing. Crossing the room in two strides, he nuzzled Kirsten's neck and pilfered her untouched cup of coffee at the same time.
"The women's shelter Mom wants Newport to build," Seth reported. "And--wait for it, Dad. There's breaking news here at Casa Cohen." He paused to beat a drum roll on the countertop. "Ryan is coming to the art auction tonight."
Sandy's eyebrows climbed until they vanished into a thatch of damp hair. "Really?" With a nod of approval, he raised his drink in an impromptu toast.
"Well, cheers! I'm glad to hear that, kid."
"It's not a big deal," Ryan demurred. His downcast gaze remained fixed on his cereal.
Over his head, Sandy glanced at Kirsten and Seth, silently warning them not to argue, not to mention the invitations Ryan had declined, all the time he had spent sequestered alone in the poolhouse since Marissa's death.
"Of course it's not," he agreed mildly. "I'm just glad we'll have your company. Hey, the more friendly faces at one of these events, the better." Leaning close, he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "Although my lovely wife swears this won't be the usual, stuffy Newpsie affair. She tells me they're even serving real food—none of those ridiculous air-and-crunch appetizers."
"Sandy! Some people love those crab meat and brie hors d'oeuvres," Kirsten reclaimed her coffee, smiling over the brim at Seth and Ryan. "But it is true that we want this evening to be more—well, relaxed—than most of our parties. You boys don't even have to wear ties." A flicker of anxiety crossed her face. "And Ryan," she added, "please don't feel obligated to stay until the end. It's enough that you're coming. I won't be offended if you decide to leave early."
Seth laced his fingers behind his neck. Craning his head, he directed an angelic grin at the ceiling. "Maybe you won't mind, Mom," he observed artlessly, "but Ryan's date might."
There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Ryan. He froze, lips parted for a bite of cereal, looking intently at his suspended spoon. A drop of milk quivered on the rim.
"Ryan's . . . date?" Sandy repeated. His eyebrows jumped up down, furrowing in confusion.
Kirsten edged closer to Ryan. "Sweetie," she prompted carefully. "You're taking someone to the auction?"
A blush singed Ryan's cheeks. His lashes fell, shadowing his eyes, and he rubbed an invisible smudge on the countertop. "Taylor," he replied. When the others waited, their silence humming with questions, he took a deep breath. "I, um, I met her at the restaurant when I went to pick up dinner last night," he explained reluctantly. "She just got back to town, and we started talking . . ."
"Translation: Taylor started talking," Seth conjectured. Kirsten shushed him with a glare, and he clamped his lips shut. Even so, he couldn't hide his persistent grin.
Ignoring the interruption, Ryan continued. "Taylor mentioned the auction. Her mother wants her to be there, but she didn't have a, um . . . didn't have anyone to go with. So she . . . suggested . . . that we go together. That's all." Embarrassed, he glanced at the Cohens and then back down again.
"Oh," Kirsten breathed. Even though Ryan wasn't looking, she smiled tenderly. "And one of your mothers wants you there too. So it worked out perfectly for everyone."
Ryan busied himself pouring a glass of orange juice. "I guess," he murmured.
"Ah. So, in point of fact, Taylor actually invited you." Seth tented his fingers and nodded sagely. "That explains a lot." Ryan darted an icy glare sideways, but Seth simply gave a blithe shrug in response. "Hey, I just mean . . . Taylor's persuasive, you're a gentleman . . . I can see how it all played out."
"There's no play involved, Seth," Ryan hissed. "Let it go."
"Go, Ryan?" Seth's eyes glinted wickedly. "Go where exactly?"
"Well, I think it's very sweet of you to keep Taylor company," Kirsten declared, deflecting Ryan's retort. Patting his shoulder, she inserted herself hastily between the boys. "And I'm thrilled that I'll have the support of all my men tonight. This fundraiser means a great deal to me."
Mollified, Ryan managed to eke out a thin smile. Still, as he stood up to clear his breakfast dishes he jiggled the glass, sloshing several sticky drops of juice onto Seth's head.
"Oops. Sorry, man" he claimed. He tossed a towel from the sink, his expression the smug antithesis of apology.
Seth spluttered, swabbing at his hair. "Dude!" he protested. "You just destroyed twenty minutes of careful grooming! Now I have to rework my fro and I won't have time to finish the Arts & Leisure section."
He maintained a show of righteous indignation until the French doors closed behind Ryan. Then Seth swiveled to face his parents. A Cheshire grin carved dimples deep into his cheeks.
"Okay, I don't want to jinx it or anything," he whispered. "But did anyone else detect a glimmer of the old Ryan Atwood here this morning? I mean, the guy didn't behave like some polite stranger. He actually seemed, well, like himself, all mock-threatening and acting like I was getting on his nerves."
"I don't think that part was an act, son," Sandy commented wryly. "But you're right, Ryan did seem to be less distant and, I don't know. . ."
"Melancholy?" Kirsten suggested, slipping her arms around her husband's waist.
Sandy nodded. "Melancholy," he agreed. He rubbed his cheek against Kirsten's hair as they both gazed toward the poolhouse, where Ryan was starting to pull the blinds up.
"I thought so." Seth sighed happily. "And hey, it's about time. I mean I don't expect him to be over what happened, but Ryan's been stuck at ebony on the RA color-coded depression chart forever. This morning, though? I'd definitely put him at purple, veering toward cobalt blue. But who would have thought Taylor would be the one to get through to him?"
"That's what you're wearing, Atwood?"
Ryan spun around, dropping the wallet he'd started to slip into his back pocket. Summer stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, her mouth pursed in a critical frown. In back of her, Seth bounced on his toes, miming contrition.
Ryan glared at both of them as he retrieved his wallet. "Kirsten said we didn't have to wear suits tonight," he grumbled. "So . . ." He shrugged, and plucked at the sleeves of his charcoal gray sweater.
"Well . . ." Summer cocked her head, considering. "It is an art auction and gallery-type people do tend to be fashion-defiant and monochrome. Maybe you're all right." She spun her finger in the air. "Turn."
"What?"
Sliding out from behind her, Seth demonstrated by pivoting in a circle, his cheek muscles pinched in model-hauteur. For added effect, he flipped back his blazer to display its deep red lining.
Ryan squinted in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"
"Wrong," Summer insisted. "Turn."
"No."
"Aw, come on, buddy," Seth coaxed. "Give us a twirl."
"I will give you a . . . never mind. It's getting late. If we're going to do this thing, let's just go, all right?"
Grabbing his jacket, Ryan stalked out the door. Behind his back, Seth nudged Summer triumphantly. "See?" he demanded sotto voce. "I told you. Signs of life, Atwood-style."
Summer nodded, slipping her hand into his as they strolled across the patio. Her tremulous smile wavered between sorrow and relief. "Thank God," she whispered. "Marissa would never forgive us if we let him grieve forever. She'd want Ryan to be happy again."
Leaning down, Seth kissed the top of her head. "She'd want that for you too."
"I know," Summer sighed. "And I'm trying. At least I have you. That makes it easier." She paused, nestling against Seth for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, she tossed back her hair and straightened her shoulders brusquely. "Okay, Cohen, you heard Ryan. Let's get going, before he changes his mind."
"So . . . um, dude," Seth said warily. Peering at Ryan through the rearview mirror, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You rushed us out of the poolhouse, muttered about being late the whole way here, and now you're just . . . sitting? You are going to get out of the car, right?"
Summer glanced backwards. "Of course, he's getting out of the car," she declared, flashing Ryan an encouraging smile. "Aren't you, Atwood?"
There was no answer from the backseat.
"You know, if you want, you and Taylor could just ride with us," Seth suggested. "I don't mind playing chauffeur tonight. Besides, four people, one car—it would be much more fuel-efficient and environment-friendly. Plus, you wouldn't have to worry about any awkward pauses in the conversation."
The silence continued.
"Like, for example, this one. Ryan? Hello? How about it? We can all go together, me and Summer, you and Taylor, just like, um, like . . ." Summer gave a warning hiss and jabbed Seth's side with her elbow. "Like a car pool," he concluded weakly.
Ryan shook his head. Checking his watch, he unlatched his seatbelt. From what Seth could tell from his reflection, he looked pensive, and more than a little reluctant. "Thanks," he replied tersely. "But Taylor said that she wants to drive. Something about never getting the chance when she was in Korea. Besides, we may not stay the whole evening. So . . ."
"So," Summer remarked brightly. "We'll just see you both at the country club." She waved as Ryan got out, then swiveled back to Seth. "All right," she ordered the moment the door was closed. "Drive, Cohen! Now!"
Ryan waited until the car pulled away. Then he took a deep breath, raked his hand through his hair, walked up the broad marble stairs, and rang the bell. The door opened almost instantly.
"Ryan Atwood!" Taylor greeted him with a gratified nod. "You are precisely on time. That is very commendable. I do so appreciate punctuality. It shows that someone is not only reliable, but also respectful of other people's time. Don't you think so? And since time is an irreplaceable resource, that sort of consideration is not only rare but particularly welcome."
Ryan blinked, looking slightly dazed.
"Oh!" Taylor clapped her hands together. "And speaking of welcome, je vous en prie, rentrez!" Flushed and a little breathless, she stood aside so that Ryan could enter.
His lips twitched furtively. Inclining his head, he stepped into the cool, all-white foyer, appraising his surroundings and Taylor at the same time. "Merci," he murmured. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he commented, "Your home is very . . . Greek. I like the Doric columns."
Taylor's lashes fluttered in surprise. "You know about Doric columns? Well, obviously you do since you recognized ours, but it's just, well, not a subject I would have thought would interest you, since you're so, so . . ." Her voice trailed off in confusion. Blushing, she turned away and reached for her wrap.
Ryan's eyes lit with faint amusement as he settled the silk shawl around her shoulders.
"I'm so what?"
"What?" Taylor parroted.
"You said you were surprised I knew about Doric columns because I'm so . . .?"
"Oh." Taylor played with the fringe of her shawl. "I think I might have been, well, babbling," she confessed. "It's a nervous habit. Really, I have no idea what I was going to say, because of course you'd know Greek architecture. That's what you plan to study in college, isn't it? Well, not Greek architecture, of course. Just architecture."
A shadow crossed Ryan's face. "Maybe," he conceded curtly. Another lull in the conversation loomed, but he preempted it by remarking, "So . . . You look pretty tonight."
"I do?" Taylor spun around in surprise, almost knocking Ryan off-balance. Her auburn hair shimmered, and her full skirt flitted, bright as butterfly wings, around her legs. "Thank you! What a lovely thing to say!" She beamed with unreserved delight for an instant. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Ryan Atwood," she chided. "You know, I understand the social parameters of this evening."
"Social . . . parameters," he echoed dubiously.
"Exactly. This art auction is a charitable obligation that's important to both our families, and you and I are merely attending it together as—well, as friends. So you needn't feel compelled to compliment me."
One corner of Ryan's mouth lifted in a brief, lopsided smile. "Okay. But you still look great. And by the way," he added dryly, "you don't have to keep calling me Ryan Atwood. I already know my last name."
Taylor bridled, apparently offended. Her mouth popped open, and Ryan braced himself to withstand some caustic retort. To his surprise—maybe to Taylor's own—she laughed instead, a series of giggles popping like brightly colored balloons.
"You're funny!" she exclaimed. She gave his shoulder a playful swat and then let her palm slide down his arm. "I didn't expect funny, Ryan!"
"No?" Ryan's lips pursed thoughtfully. "What did you expect?"
"Honestly?" Taylor's expression dimmed. Suddenly shy, she fidgeted with a loose strand of hair. "I think I expected you to cancel," she admitted. "After all, you and I have never been, well, close, and out of nowhere, I ask you to escort me to this fundraiser. In fact, I practically bulldozed you into agreeing, because I'm sure you just felt sorry for me and couldn't come up with a polite way to decline. So if you've had second thoughts and you'd rather not go—or at least not go with me—it's fine. I completely understand, and I'll just drop you off at the auction so you can join Seth and Summer. Or I take you home or call a cab for you--"
"Taylor?"
"Hmm?"
Ryan covered Taylor's hand with his and tucked the errant curl she was twisting behind her ear. Her eyes widened and she made a small mewing sound when he stepped back.
"I haven't changed my mind," he said gently. "Unless you have?"
"Me? No. Definitely not. No. I mean, no, I haven't," Taylor stammered. "Just, um, just let me just get my bag and I'll be ready to go."
Ryan watched appreciatively as she twirled around to the sideboard in the foyer.
Taylor's strapless dress looked like an explosion of graffiti, dizzying swirls of color dancing over a dark blue background. She shook back her hair self-consciously as she packed an improbable number of items into a tiny purse. Ryan cocked his head. His eyes followed one golden line that swirled around her breast before disappearing around the curve of her waist like a comet's tail. He found himself wondering exactly where it went from there.
Taylor finished tucking her cell phone into her purse and looked up. Immediately, Ryan's gaze dropped, but not before she noticed his obvious interest.
"It's my homage to Jackson Pollack," she murmured, smoothing invisible wrinkles on her skirt.
"Uh-huh. Jackson Pollock. So . . . what? It's an action painting dress?"
"Exactly! I know it's a bold statement, but we are going to an art auction, so I thought it would be appropriate and—oh! Ryan Atwood! I mean, Ryan--you know Jackson Pollock?"
"Well," Ryan shrugged, biting back a grin. "Not personally."
Taylor burst into another froth of giggles. "You are funny, Ryan! Plus, you know architectural styles and modern art!" Planting her hands on her hips, she eyed Ryan with mock severity. "You are such an enigma! What other qualities have you been hiding from me?"
"Taylor!" an imperious voice called. "Taylor, where are you, young lady? It's almost time to go!"
Veronica Townsend swept down the stairs, her heels beating a martial cadence on the marble steps. Immediately the atmosphere in the room changed. Taylor tensed, and her fingers clutched her small bag as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat in a raging maelstrom.
"I'm right here, mother," she said tightly. "With Ryan. Remember? I told you about him."
"Oh?" Veronica's perfectly plucked brows arched in surprise as she entered the foyer. "So you actually do have an escort this evening? Quel étonnement. I thought perhaps that might be wishful thinking on your part, darling." She turned to Ryan, her expression frankly appraising. "Ryan, is it? I'm sorry. Do we know each other?"Before Taylor's eyes, Ryan transformed himself. In an instant, all trace of any remaining diffidence disappeared. He straightened his shoulders and inclined his head, his eyes smoldering. A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth, hinting at some delicious secret.
"We've met," he murmured. Taking Veronica's hand, he held it almost as though he were going to kiss it. "But never officially. I'm Ryan Atwood." As he pronounced his last name, he cast a mischievous glance at Taylor from under his lashes. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Townsend."
Veronica exhaled a tiny, charmed breath and arched her back. Her gaze raked down Ryan's body and then up again. "Indeed it is," she purred. "Please, Ryan. Call me Veronica."
"Veronica," Ryan repeated. His voice lingered over each syllable, as though tasting the name. When he relinquished her hand, she promptly raised it to her throat and began to stroke small circles on her bare skin.
Taylor's eyes whipped back and forth between the two of them. She looped a possessive arm through Ryan's, bridling just a bit. "Well. Now that you've met, we should go."
"Really? What's the rush?" Veronica demurred. Her earrings winked as she shook back her hair. "Ryan and I are just getting acquainted. And it's so seldom that I get to meet any of your friends." She pouted, appealing to Ryan. "Couldn't you keep me company until my date arrives?"
"We would," Ryan said smoothly. "But I promised the Cohens we'd be there as early as possible. Kirsten will be looking for us. So, Taylor, if you're ready?"
"Absolutely. See you later, mother." Deliberately, Taylor stressed the last word as she urged Ryan from the room and into the sultry twilight. "You're awfully good at that," she whispered the moment they were outside.
"Good at what?" Ryan sounded genuinely puzzled. He opened the car door for Taylor, even through she was driving, and waited for her to slide in.
She peered up at him, her eyes speculative as those of a diamond appraiser. "Being charming," she replied.
"Taylor, come on. I was polite, that's all."
"No," she argued. "Polite is saying 'It's good to meet you, Mrs. Townsend,' and shaking her hand."
Ryan frowned. "That's what I said. And did."
"No, no, you did much more than that. I can't explain it exactly, but it's something about your tone of voice, the way you carry yourself, your je ne sais quoi . . ." Taylor's brows creased as she considered the matter.
Watching her, Ryan caught his lower lip between his teeth. "You're being silly," he murmured, around a small smile.
"There!" Taylor exclaimed triumphantly.
"There . . . what?"
"You did it again! It's like some natural instinct, some kind of animal magnetism, you have around women. I suppose I never noticed before because you were . . . well, involved, so you didn't activate it. But I detect a definite talent, Ryan Atwood. And a very dangerous one. You spent two minutes with my mother, and now she thinks you're . . ."
Blushing furiously, Taylor broke off.
Ryan leaned on the doorframe. In the coppery light of the sunset, his hair shimmered like burnished gold and his eyes glinted a roguish blue. His fingers, calloused and capable, dangled close to her bare shoulders. "Thinks I'm what?" he prompted.
Taylor caught her breath. "Nothing," she claimed. Snapping her seatbelt, she sat up primly and put the key in the ignition. "We should get going, Ryan. Remember what I said about punctuality!"
Ryan raised his eyebrows. Then, with a quizzical shrug, he closed her door and crossed around the front of the car. As he did, Taylor shrank back on her seat with a tiny moan. "Sex on legs," she thought to herself. "And damn, for once my mother is right. This is going to be an interesting evening, Ryan Atwood."
TBC?