He tugged me to his side again, towing me down the hall to his door, before pausing with his key in the lock. “Go easy on me, okay?” His voice sounded strained.
It was both a plea and a warning, and even intoxicated I heard the subtext loud and clear: Ryder did not want to cross any lines with me tonight. He would not be ripping my clothes off and making a woman of me. We would not be losing ourselves to a fit of drunken passion. What I’d been not-so-secretly hoping would happen wasnotgoing to happen.
I disguised my disappointment by giving him the most innocentOf course I’m not planning to jump your bonesexpression I could muster up. I think it worked.
“What shall we do? The night is young,” I declared as I flounced into his apartment, then did a little pirouette as he lunged to save me from hitting the doorjamb.
“The night is ancient, actually, and you’re going directly to sleep. Go get into my bed, and I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in,” he said, heading for the kitchen. “If you want something to sleep in, you can grab a shirt from my dresser,” he added as an afterthought.
Since his apartment’s floorplan matched my own, I headedtoward his bedroom with familiarity, making a pit stop at the bathroom. I was immediately traumatized by my reflection in the mirror. The humidity had wreaked havoc on my hair, wild curls winging out on both sides, like I’d been plugged into an electrical socket. I looked feral. There was nothing to be done, so I sighed and flicked off the light—but not before hunting down the source of his forest-fresh scent, the one that had been driving me half-crazy with lust, and let out a deranged laugh when I saw it was plain old Irish Spring.Simple and classic, just like him.
I decided to take him up on his offer, helping myself to one of his T-shirts. Pawing through his clothing felt illicit, like I was a stalker who’d breached security and finally reached the promised land. If he knew the kind of dirty thoughts swirling around in my head, he might have thought twice before giving me unfettered access to his underwear drawer. I chose one of my favorite shirts of his, a soft, well-loved forest-green tee with a Salty Dog Café logo on the chest that hugged his bicepsjustso, then climbed into his bed.
I curled up under the covers and took a deep inhale of his sheets. They smelled like him: fresh, masculine, faintly woodsy.Eau de Ryder.I took an inventory of his room, cataloguing the clutter on his nightstand: His worn paperback copy (complete with cracked spine,shudder) ofThe Lost Letter,along with his annotated, dogeared script. A Kindle resting atop a field guide of the native birds of South Carolina. A pot of lip balm. A phone charger, along with an old-school, Riverview-supplied clock radio.I liked using mine as a backup alarm so I wouldn’t sleep through an early call time. I wondered if he had the same fear.
He knocked once, and when I confirmed I was decent, he came in and sat down on the edge of the bed, passing me a glass of water. “Drink this, then take these.” He pressed two pills into my hand.
“Look how nice you’re being. Not at all the brooding grump you pretend to be,” I said with a glassy-eyed yawn, knocking the pills back with a slug of water.
When the snappy comeback I expected didn’t immediately materialize, I followed his sightline and saw his gaze was glued to the sundress I’d thrown haphazardly across the foot of the bed. He sat transfixed, his eyes lingering over it like a starving man who’d been offered forbidden fruit. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch it—or fold it, perhaps he was a neat freak—but I watched his hand slowly close around the cotton coverlet of the bedspread instead, bunching the fabric in his fist.Interesting behavior indeed.
It appeared he really wasn’t going to climb in and sleep here with me.Boo. I had to admire this man’s restraint; I was giving him bedroom eyesinhis own bed, for crying out loud. But seriously, would a few minutes of cuddling really kill him? Frankly, I failed to see what the big deal was. It was my birthday, and all I wanted was to make some bad decisions and blame it on the booze.Is that too much to ask?
“Brooding grump, huh?” he said faintly. His voice was a hollowed-out husk.
“Or cranky killjoy, if you prefer.” I smiled sweetly at him.
He hummed once in acknowledgment. “I’m still that guy, I just don’t need you blaming me for your hangover.” He took the glass back from me to place on his nightstand, and I caught his sleeve.
“You’re not fooling me. You’re an undercover softie and this prickly shell of yours is just meant to scare people off.”
His already dark irises looked pitch black in the dim lamplight. “Is that right?”
“That’s right. But I have a secret,” I told him, motioning for him to come closer with the crook of my finger.
“What’s that?” he asked, leaning forward only a fraction of an inch. I tried to tug him closer, but it was like trying to budge a brick wall. He seemed determined to keep a healthy distance between us, which was a real pity. My “horny drunk” comment must have put him on high alert. I cursed myself for the unforced error.
“You don’t scare me,” I whispered.
He stared down at me, his eyes appearing to both sharpen and soften simultaneously. His pupils were blown, his eyes fiercely dark, and yet the heat in his gaze was palpable, like a blowtorch singeing my skin. The air between us felt flammable; one drop of kerosene and a lit match and we’d burn the whole place down. Despite his resistance, I knew with sudden clarity that my feelings for him weren’t one-sided. He may not have wanted to act on them, may have known we were playing with fire, but the tension between us wasn’t all in my head. Of that, I was sure.
He reached a hand up to smooth some wayward curls away from my face. “And you terrify me,” he said quietly.
I didn’t get the chance to ask what he meant before he was up and moving, tucking the sheets around me like a burrito. He was in a big hurry.Such a pity.I buried my nose in his pillow and breathed him deep into my lungs. If this was all I could get of him, it would have to be enough.
He leaned down and kissed my temple, featherlight. A whisper of a touch, gone before I could blink. “Happy birthday, Scarlett,” he murmured into the darkness as he switched off the lamp, shutting the door softly behind him.
I fell asleep to the smell of him wrapped around me.
13
Now
“Why are youfidgeting?” Ryder finally asks, casting me a sideways glance as he changes lanes, and I congratulate myself for winning our game of verbal chicken.
He’s right, of course, but I can’t help it. I have ants in my proverbial pants, although in lieu of pants, I’m actually wearing a poppy-red romper with fluttery straps and a ruffled hem that’s a little shorter than I’d like—not that Ryder seems to mind, if the way his eyes have been lingering on my legs is any indication. It felt cute and weather appropriate when I put it on, but now I just feel exposed and conspicuous, the opposite of what I should’ve chosen if we’re trying to go unnoticed.
We’ve been locked in a stalemate ever since he picked me up, the awkward silence saturating the car almost as thick as the humidity outside. He’s clearly waiting me out in the hopes I’ll crack first, as evidenced by the smile he’s biting back as I fiddle with the Bronco’s radio controls in a blatant effort to avoid conversation. Meanwhile, I’m getting more and more agitated with each minute that passes.
