Then, he’s gone. Swallowed by the crowds.
Only when I turn and catch Griffin’s wink, do I breathe again.
Ava
My palms growsweaty the longer I cling to the steering wheel. The instant Charlie told Drake he was finished trick-or-treating and my brother went home so they could watch the cartoon version ofSleepy Hollow, I drove to the field house lot.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out here. A minute, ten? I keep staring at the lone light in the upper window, a few shadows cascading across the window are the only hints there is life inside.
This tension is going to break me.
Either I need to confess that having Ryder back is confusing, intoxicating, and roll with it, or I need to put distance between us.
I’ve never cut the ties to him. It’s my fault, really. I kept the relationships with his parents, I casually found excuses to go to sports bars for dinner on baseball nights. I was the one who told Charlie about the sport. Drake doesn’t need to know, but I’m wondering if it’s always been because I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted our paths to collide again, I’ve wanted to keep the connection as a way to find our way back.
The trouble is, Ryder has had the same amount of time away from me. I think he feels something, but the depth of his feelings, I don’t know.
I swallow hard, lift my chin, and release the steering wheel. Whatever he’s feeling doesn’t really matter right now. I need to see this job through. I’ve been hired to do something incredible, and I plan to do it the best way I can.
Outside, the air is crisp and perfect. I lock my mom’s car, since Celia is still in the shop, and hurry into the field house.
The moment I step through the door, I laugh.
He’s friends with a metal rock band, but blasting through the hallways is Idina Menzel as she beltsGravityfromWicked.
I love his connection with musicals. I love how no one really knows except his parents, me, and Drake. It’s like a piece of him he trusted me with, and I’ve always cherished those layers he gave to so few.
I’ve kept them close, never giving any away to anyone else, like a secret badge of honor.
The upper room is still under construction, but the walls are free for painting since baseboards and carpeting are being installed in a couple days. Right now, it’s nothing but plywood floors and empty walls.
But I take a moment to appreciate the man in the room. His tight T-shirt shows off his shoulders and back muscles to a level of perfection that only exists in fantasy. The movement of rolling the paint on the walls doesn’t make my desire to gawk at his body any easier. Like a cliché, I’m pretty sure I lick my lips when his back flexes as the roller goes up . . . then down.
A prickle of heat teases my cheeks. I’ve never been one to objectify another human, but Ryder is practically edible. It’s not my fault.
His hair is messy and he’s barefoot; he’s free to simply be Ryder here.
I pick up an extra roller, then slip next to him. He’s focused enough he doesn’t notice me until I start rolling paint on the wall.
“Whoa. I didn’t see you.” Ryder jumps back, and a splatter of paint falls from his roller to the edge of my shirtsleeve. He curses and inspects the stain. “Sorry. Great, that’s going to stain.”
I laugh and roll up my sleeve. “I’m a master at stain removal; it’s fine.”
His face flushes a bit, but before he can go on an apologetic rant like he always used to do, I take a sponge paintbrush and dab it onto his cheek.
Ryder’s eyes widen. On instinct, he lifts his fingers to his cheek, smearing the paint and making it much worse. “What—”
He doesn’t get another chance to speak before I do it again. A strike to his arm, then his underarms when he tries to use them as shields.
A laugh breaks out of my throat when Ryder growls. Like a freaking bear, something deep in his chest emerges. His eyes are dark when he looks at me, paint splattered on his arms and cheek, then in another breath he’s on the attack.
I shriek when he snags one of my wrists, tugging me closer, and using a thick sponge brush, he starts attacking my hair, my face, my neck. The more I struggle, swatting at him, ducking his brush, the tighter his grip grows on my arms.
I get a few good hits in. His dark hair now looks like he spilled beige frosting over his head. The tattered T-shirt has a few marks. My black shirt is now forever a painting shirt. My thighs, knees, even my ears have paint.
Somewhere in the fight, Ryder managed to snatch the roller again and holds it close to my face.
“Ryder!” I shriek, laughing and pulling away from him.
