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Hands off, a voice whispers in my head. That easy smile is supposed to be directed at me.
I blink. Where the fuck did that come from?
No. Fucking hell, no. He’s free to smile at whoever he wants to. He’s free to date whoever he wants to. Not my business, not my circus, not my monkeys.
I jump at the waitress’s voice right behind me.
“Here you go.” She holds out a paper bag over the counter.
“Thanks.” I grab the food and get up.
It’s one of those moments of impressively terrible timing that when I turn around, Ryker’s eyes are on me.
I don’t know why I’m so startled. Of course he sees me. Because that’s what we do—see each other at inopportune moments.
I lift my chin toward him in wordless greeting.
I don’t know what I expect. For him to look uncomfortable? He doesn’t. Instead, he meets my gaze head-on.
It’s almost as if he’s defiant. Yes, I kissed the fuck out of you mere days ago. So what?
The moment stretches between us like a rubber band. Him on one end, me on the other, pulling and tugging, neither willing to just let go, neither willing to look away first.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
The only certainty right now is the blinding lust that wells up inside me when I look at Ryker. And the strange, strange desire to look beneath the surface. Behind all that polite, good-natured charm. I want to see the ugly parts. The ones he doesn’t show everybody else.
His eyes stay on mine.
It was a game up until now. Mainly because I was winning.
Now I’m not so sure.
Am I winning?
Was I ever winning?
I try to sort through the wild surge of emotions that passes through me, but I come out of it with nothing.
There are no answers.
So I do the only remotely reasonable thing I’ve done since I stepped foot in this place.
I withdraw my name from the game.
It goes superbly well for a minute. I even manage to make it outside.
I’ve just start to walk when I hear my name.
There’s no point pretending I didn’t hear him, so I skip that part, turn around, and watch Ryker jog toward me.
RYKER
“Fun evening?” Lake asks once I come to a stop in front of him. I follow his gaze to the restaurant and the group of people I just ditched to chase after him, even though I have no plan about what to do, what to say. I just saw him leaving and reacted. Threw some money on the table, made a feeble excuse, and took off after him.
He tilts his head to the side.
“She was hot,” he continues, eyes still on the restaurant behind me before he turns his attention back to me. “Do you have a type?”
