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Well.
This should make things interesting.
LAKE
My problem is that I’m an overthinker, which means I’ve never been able to just let things go like some people seem to. Instead, I replay every experience, moment, and conversation in my head, over and over again.
I go through facial expressions, words, tone, moments of silence. I give them meaning that might never have been there in the first place.
And I hold a mean grudge.
Usually as a result of overthinking.
Come Sunday night, I’m still busy frowning at my ceiling, trying to figure out how and why last night happened.
I was supposed to spend the day in the library, studying. Instead, I was restless the whole day. Unable to concentrate on anything but Ryker’s face when he saw me with Kelly. I probably wouldn’t have made anything of it if Rachel hadn’t gotten in my fucking head with her, “He’s been watching you the whole night.”
And now I’m not sure what’s real and what I imagined. Was he touching me more than usual last night?
Or was I imagining it?
Was it curiosity in his eyes when he saw me with Kelly?
Or was I imagining it?
Did his eyes glaze over when he watched me come all over Kelly’s hand?
Or did I imagine it?
There’s something about Ryker that makes me decidedly stupid. Something that makes me feel like my skin is a size too small.
But most of all, this situation irritates me. He irritates me. I’m not supposed to think of Ryker James at all. I’m not supposed to be confused because of him. I’m not supposed to wonder.
The knock is so soft that I think I’m imagining it at first.
But then it happens again.
I throw the covers off and pad to the front door, feet bare on cool parquet. I throw the door open with too much force, so the hinges let out a groan of protest.
I frown.
“Did I look in the mirror and chant your name three times?” I ask.
Ryker blinks.
“What?”
I cross my arms over my chest and frown. “What are you doing here?”
He just looks at me for a moment before he drags his hand through his hair and shakes his head. He looks down the hallway. To the left. Then to the right. His suspicious gaze moves over the closed doors of my two neighbors like we’re spies at a clandestine meeting.
“Ask me inside?” he says.
My frown deepens. “Why?”
“Or don’t,” he backtracks immediately, nice and polite as he is. The hand goes through the hair again. He paces, but the hallway in front of my door is more a tiny landing than a proper hallway, so there’s not much pacing to be done before you inevitably hit a wall. He tries, though. Makes two short journeys, almost walking into walls on either side of him both times.
“Fuck’s sake!” he eventually snaps, glaring at me like the size of the hallway is somehow my fault.
