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He shoves the door open with his shoulder and then waits for me, keeping it propped open until I’ve walked outside. Then he falls into step beside me, one bag’s handle gripped in each hand.
He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, and colorful, intricate tattoos creep out from under each sleeve, cascading all the way down his arms and over the backs of his hands. He’s got tattoos on his neck too. They frame his jawline in a way that’s oddly beautiful.
It’s weird. He’s often the least casually dressed of the three men, wearing button-up shirts and slacks while Marcus and Theo seem to prefer jeans and casual tops. But he’s the most tatted up of the three of them. I haven’t seen the rest of his body, but I’d bet anything that the tattoos on his forearms travel up his arms and over his shoulders to connect to others on his chest and back.
When we reach the corner, it occurs to me that I’ve been staring at him for an entire block, and I drag my gaze away.
I cross the street, passing the bus stop. For some reason, I don’t want to wait for the bus right now. I don’t want to stand in one place with this man so close. It feels better to keep moving. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk anyway.
Ryland’s forearms flex as he adjusts his grip on the bags, and I press my lips together as I cut him a glance out of the side of my eyes. “I hope you enjoy the food.”
“What?”
“Well, you bought it all. It’s yours now. So I hope you like noodles.”
He glances at me like I’m an idiot. “You know I didn’t buy this shit for myself, right?”
I shrug. “Too bad. I don’t accept charity.”
He blows out another breath, a snort that’s almost a laugh. “You’re so goddamn stubborn.”
“Says the man who won’t quit stalking me.”
He pivots on his heel suddenly, stepping ahead of me and cutting me off mid-stride. I almost bump into him, and I stumble to a stop as he glares down at me.
My heart jumps at the look on his face. I’ve never had an interaction with Ryland that wasn’t fraught with angry tension, but for a second back there, things seemed different. He didn’t seem to hate me quite so much.
I must’ve fucking imagined it.
“You think I want to be doing this?” he asks, his voice low and intense. “That I want to be following you around like a fucking dog? I don’t. I don’t want Marcus following you. I don’t want Theo following you. I don’t want any of this.”
Shock fills me at the vehemence in his words. “Then why are you—”
“Because he’s my friend, and I owe him everything. Because I’d do anything for him, including this. But he knows how I feel about it. About all of this. He knows I think it’s a fucking mistake.”
Hope rises in my chest, along with something else I can’t quite identify. Something that makes my chest ache and tastes bitter on my tongue. “Then stop him! Tell him to leave me alone! Tell him to—”
“You don’t think I have?” He exhales sharply through his nose. “We’ve fought about this a dozen times since the night you got shot. As far as I’m concerned, we should’ve stayed the hell out of your life after that night. Never seen you again.” He shakes his head. “But he can’t fucking let it go. He can’t let you go. He’s kept tabs on you for two and a half years, obsessed with understanding you, with getting inside your goddamn head.” He drops his chin, catching my gaze with his fierce hazel eyes. “But I don’t want to be inside your head, Ayla. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
My mouth goes dry. It’s never been a secret that Ryland doesn’t like me, but I don’t think I realized until this moment quite how much he dislikes me. How much he dislikes all of this.
It… hurts.
I can’t explain why it affects me at all, but the way his face contorts into a grimace as he talks, the way he glares down at me like he wishes he could scrape me off the bottom of his fucking shoe—it makes me feel like I’m everything my worst foster parents ever called me.
Stupid.
Disgusting.
Worthless.
The flash of pain that burns through me leaves hot anger in its wake. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to the hurt I feel, and also to the fact that I feel anything at all. I hate that this man has any power over my emotions. I hate that what he thinks means anything to me, especially considering I clearly mean so little to him.
“Then stop.” My voice is hard. “Tell Marcus you’re done and leave me the fuck alone. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted my life invaded like this?”
He lets out a breath, looking away. “It doesn’t matter what you want. Or what I want.”
I sneer up at him. “Right. Because Marcus is the one running this show. He texts Theo, and five minutes later, Theo chauffeurs me home. He tells you to follow me, and whether you want to or not, you fucking do it.”
