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fun—that the sensation of speed was wonderful, not unlike the rush of falling through the air. And he was right—she wasn’t alone. She was with him, he was in control, and she trusted him.
     
    She threw her head back and laughed. He laughed, then, too—she could feel it on her hands, his hard belly shaking.
     
    Feeling liberated and exhilarated, she wanted to mark this moment for her movie. And she realized that she hadn’t taken any footage of her failure to learn to ride. So now, she carefully let go of Nolan with one hand and fished in her jacket for her phone. He noticed, his head turning a couple of degrees, but his attention was on the road, where it should be.
     
    With one hand, she set up the video function and then held the phone out as they rode between the cars, getting several seconds of her and Nolan and the wind and the roar on the freeway on a California autumn afternoon.
     
    She laughed and laughed and held on with her other hand for her dear, short life.
     
     
    ~oOo~
     
     
    Nolan set his helmet on the bike. Analisa had bought hers, so she had it dangling from her hand. He looked up at the front of her house—well, her dad’s house, whatever—and just stood there.
     
    Donovan Winter was a big star. He had been since before Tristan and Analisa were born, since before he’d met their mom. They’d met on a movie, in fact. Donovan was the kind of actor who was both gorgeous and talented. He was strong and graceful, and he was smart and intuitive. The complete package. So he was one of those rare A-listers who had been headlining summer action blockbusters and awards-season think pieces for three decades.
     
    He’d made a whole lot of money. Stella, Analisa’s mother, had, too. Her movies were still making money in streaming and syndication.
     
    Their house in Malibu was pretty awesome. It had been designed by a big-deal architect, and had made the cover of a couple of different lifestyle magazines.
     
    It looked now like Nolan was feeling a little intimidated.
     
    She was, too, actually. She’d invited him in—her dad had texted and told her she’d better—but now she felt weird about it. She didn’t want Nolan to feel weird meeting her dad, and she didn’t know what they were going to do with him once she got him inside. She could feel awkwardness looming just inside the door.
     
    Also, since she wasn’t going to take riding lessons from him, after all, this was probably the first and last time she’d ever see him. She didn’t like that, she wanted to see more of him, get to know him, but she didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t exactly have a lot in common. As evidenced by his gaping silence standing here in front of her house. Her dad’s house. Whatever.
     
    She reached out, meaning to take his hand, but chickened out at the last second. Today was not a day high on the brave scale for Analisa, no sir. “We should go in.”
     
    At her words, he turned and smiled—the kind of smile a condemned man sends his family on the way to the gallows. “Okay. Lead the way.”
     
    And then he took her hand.
     
    As they got to the front door, it opened, and her father was there, smiling his press-junket smile. “You’re back! How’d it go?” He held out his hand. “And you’re Nolan, right?”
     
    To his great credit, Nolan didn’t act like a starstruck goof. He shook her dad’s hand and said, “Yes, sir. Good to meet you.”
     
    That obviously impressed her dad, because his smile became a real one. “Well, get in here, both of you. Marica has dinner just about ready, I think.” He leaned over and kissed Analisa’s cheek, lingering an extra second.
     
    “Is Tris home?” His Nissan wasn’t in the drive, but he might have parked in the garage.
     
    “No. He went out with Paige this evening.”
     
    Tristan didn’t have a girlfriend, he had girlfriends in the plural, three or four girls, in some kind of rotation, whom he enjoyed for different reasons. He