Page 87 of No Good Fight

I look down at the articles again. “I mean, I’m trying to know. In the way that I’ve got the evidence, and I know the truth, and now I’m sharing it with the only person who doesn’t make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Ryder pulls out the chair slowly and sits, leaving the mess of papers untouched. That restraint is becoming its own language between us. He could take over. He wants to. I can see it in the way his attention moves across the dates, locations, and notes, but he folds his hands around his mug and lets me keep the table and control of the situation.

“You’re good at this,” he says.

“Being stalked?”

“Finding patterns in things.” Ryder nods toward the articles collected. “It’s got to be what makes you a good journalist.”

The compliment should feel simple. It doesn’t. Nothing between us feels simple now that I know he saved pictures of me, bought creamer for me, kept my articles, and still somehow spent last night holding me like the safest place for his hands was exactly where I put them instead of trying to cop a feel or make a move.

Even when I woke up to use the bathroom and felt his massive dick pressing against my ass.

Rain presses against the windows while the morning drags into afternoon while I sit at the table and peck away at the keyboard on my laptop. Ryder makes lunch and burns the first grilled cheese because he gets a call from Remy halfway through and tries to watch me, the stove, and his phone at the same time. I scrape the blackened side into the trash while he stands beside me looking personally betrayed by bread.

“This is what happens when you attempt surveillance and cooking at the same time,” I tell him.

“I was multitasking.”

“You were brooding with accessories and fire.”

He takes the spatula from my hand, but he does it slowly enough that I could refuse. “Sit down before you insult the next sandwich and I decide that feeding you isn’t in my wheelhouse.”

“The next sandwich has my full support unless it disappoints me.”

By early evening, the storm moves in hard enough to darken the whole house. Thunder rolls over the roof while Ryder checks the back door, then the front, then the panel by the garage. He does it casually at first, or what he thinks passes for casually. I almost feel bad watching him trying to hide his brand of crazy. But he’s doing it to keep me safe, so I don’t say anything. By the time he circles back to the living room, I finally close my laptop and move to the floor beside the coffee table with a deck of cards I found in the cabinet under the television.

“You’re pacing,” I say, shuffling badly.

He stares at my hands, where I proceed to drop all of the cards. “I’m walking.” Ryder takes another step just to prove his point.

“With dread.” I pick up the cards I scattered until they’re all facing the same way.

“Didn’t know dread had a specific walk or look to it.”

“Yours does.” I split the deck, fail to bridge the cards, and leave half of them crooked on the rug. “It’s very broad-shouldered.”

He checks the side-yard feed before sitting on the couch behind me. “You want to play cards?”

“No. I want to play truth or dare.”

Ryder looks down at me. “With a deck of cards?”

“I’m improvising. Red is truth, black is dare. That way we don’t have to go through the whole choice that isn’t really a choice thing that most people do.”

“That’s not how cards work.” He pulls the cards from my hand and shuffles them efficiently and effortlessly.

“It is in my house.” I swat his hand and try to take the cards back.

He laughs at that. “This is my house.”

I look over my shoulder. “Red is truth, black is dare.” And make it my job to ignore what he said about the house. Nope. Not touching it with a ten foot pole.

His mouth twitches, and he reaches down to take the top card from the messy pile. He flips it over on his knee. Eight of clubs.

I smile. “Dare.”

“I’m already concerned.” But he doesn’t look concerned.