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I search his face for the punch line, but the seriousness with which his firm gaze locks with mine forces my eyes to go wide. “Ryan, I—”
“Hold on, I know exactly what we need,” he says, releasing my shoulders to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. Not even ten seconds later, the opening beats of the Rocky theme song start to fill the silence of the warm Florida night air.
“C’mon, Carly!” he exclaims and starts hopping around in place like a boxer, occasionally tossing out a few jabs with his free hand. “Feel the music! Gather all that rage, and let’s get ready to rumble!”
Oh. Holy. Shit. His absurdity and the fact that he had me going for a minute there pushes me over the edge. My body jolts forward on a laugh, stopping only when my hands hit my knees. “Okay! Okay!” I exclaim through several snorts and giggles. “You can stop acting like a lunatic. I get it now. I was maybe, possibly, being a tad dramatic.”
Instantly, the music stops, and I glance up to find Ryan smirking down at me. “Just a tad dramatic?”
“Shut up,” I retort and reach out to shove him in his stomach. Although, I definitely don’t expect the rock-hard abs that sit beneath his sharp suit. Goodness. I can’t see them, but by the feel alone, I know I could grate cheese on those firm-as-hell fuckers.
“What’s that look for?” he questions when he searches my face.
This look? I think to myself. The one that’s a combination of shock and horny awe? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m now standing here wondering what you look like in a different kind of suit. A birthday suit, where your washboard abs and penis are on display just for me.
Though, I don’t tell him that.
I want to, of course. But I’m not sure Ryan Miller is ready to hear the kinds of things I want to do to him with my tongue.
“Nothing,” I eventually mutter and make a show of glancing around the street. “Are we going the right way?” I question, even though I have a pretty good idea of how to get back to our parents’ street.
“Yeah.” He nods and points toward the end, where a crosswalk sits at a stop sign. “The gym facility is just up there on the corner.”
I jerk my head back. “Gym facility?”
“Uh-huh,” he confirms. “It’s a pretty nice setup, if I’m being honest. I half expected an old treadmill and a single dumbbell the first time I visited, but it has a good variety of new equipment and a lap pool in the back. You haven’t been in there?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t even know it existed. You’ve worked out there before?”
“Actually, I work out there just about every morning. Well, if I can manage to get up before Sal’s cranky ass, that is.”
What the hell? When does he find the freaking time? I mean, now the washboard abs are making sense, but between the shenanigans Stella is constantly pushing my way and the mattress made of rocks that’s been giving me shitty sleep, I haven’t even had time to go for my usual off-season runs.
“Anyway,” he continues. “We are going the right way. Just need to take a right up there at that corner, and your mom’s place is only ten or so houses down.”
“Gotcha.” Back to walking, only at a slower, more normal pace this time, I try to focus on the simple things like the night sky and the houses and the way the moon reflects off the grass. Not Ryan’s sexy jawline or his insanely blue eyes. Or Ryan working out. Or if Ryan’s penis also likes to work out…
My God, why have I never pictured a penis pumping iron before? It’s surprisingly adorable.
“Guess whose house that is,” he says, his voice grabbing my attention, and I follow the direction of his finger when he points to the other side of the street.
“Who?”
“Betty Matthews.”
“No shit?” I stop dead in my tracks. “That’s Betty’s house?”
He grins and points to the house just beside it. “And that one right next door to it is Nan’s.”
“How do you know where they live?” I question. “Actually, how do you know any of this shit? I mean, I didn’t even know there was a gym this close to my mom’s place.”
“I don’t know, I guess it’s because I visit my dad pretty often. Probably every three months.” He shrugs. “He’s only been here for two years, but I guess you could say I’m starting to get the lay of the Sunny Creek land.”
“You visit Sal every three months?” I question, and I can’t deny the inklings of guilt that start to stir around in my belly. I barely make it out here to see my mom once a year, much less four freaking times.
