Page 72 of No Good Fight

“I can still be overbearing when you’re right. It happens all the time.”

“Thank God. I was worried we were losing your core values.”

He packs a muffin in a brown paper bag while I rinse my mug and pretend not to watch his hands. He adds a granola bar, then a banana, then pauses with his fingers on a second bar.

I lift one eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m preparing for winter?”

“You forget to eat when you’re upset, or working, or get distracted.”

“Ryder.”

He drops the second granola bar into the bag. “I care about your eating habits, Alex. Sue me.”

“I might. I work at a newspaper. I know people who use semicolons aggressively. My best friend is one of them”

“Terrifying.” He mock-shudders.

“Exactly.” I want to point a finger at him, but hold myself back. Barely. “You should be terrified.”

By the time he showers and changes into his department uniform, I have my laptop bag on one shoulder, my purse on the other, and the paper bag tucked beneath my arm. Ryder takes the laptop bag without asking, catches my look, and hands it back immediately.

“Sorry,” he says.

I blink.

He stands in the entry with his hand still half-extended, damp hair combed back, black department shirt stretched across his chest, and the kind of expression that says he’s braced for me to flinch away from him.

My irritation drains faster than I want it to.

“You can carry it,” I say, handing the bag over.

His fingers close around the strap. “You sure?”

“No, but I’m choosing to be generous before nine in the morning when I haven’t had enough caffeine to function. Don’t make it weird.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You absolutely would. You probably even dream weird.”

He opens the door and checks the porch with one quick glance before stepping aside for me. “You have no idea.”

I walk past him into the cold. “That sounded ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

The drive into town is mostly quiet. Ryder keeps the radio low, one hand on the wheel, his other resting near the gearshift. Not touching me. Close enough that I keep noticing the space between his hand and my knee. All I want is for him to touch me, but leave me alone with my thoughts at the same time. Is that so difficult?

When the building that houses the newspaper comes into view, my stomach tightens again.

Ryder parks across the street, engine running. “Text me if you need anything.”

I reach for my bag, and this time he lets me take it from the back seat myself. The restraint is small enough that another person might miss it.

I don’t.

Before I open the door, I look over at him. “Are you going to sit here and watch me go in?”

“Yes.”