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“Bree does.”
Ryder opens the door, and I get closer to him. I don’t want to miss this exchange between them.
I stop halfway when I catch a glimpse of Bree. She looks completely different today. Well-rested, happier. Her hair isn’t in a bun at the top of her head but let down in dark waves that fall over her shoulders. For the first time since I’ve met her, she’s wearing skinny jeans that hug her legs in all the right places, along with a tight black shirt. Her feet are covered by black combat boots that make her look tougher than she usually does. It suits her, though.
I find myself gawking like a complete idiot. She looks hot and stunning. Sheispretty with her unkempt style, but today her beauty is on a whole different level.
“Why are you knocking like you are part of the FBI, woman? There’s a fucking doorbell right there.” Ryder points at the corner of the door as he scolds her.
I’ve been staring at her longer than I should’ve. I’m not used to seeing her like this. It’s different, but I’d be lying if I said that I don’t enjoy it.
“It’s more fun that way,” Bree replies and holds up a bottle. “I brought wine. Is that okay?”
Ryder grabs the bottle from her, examining it.
“We invite you over, and you bring us alcohol? I think I might marry you,” he comments, turning on his heels to leave the bottle on the kitchen island. “Although we have to discuss your knocking problem.”
Bree giggles.
I notice that Ryder goes back to his position on the couch, but he doesn’t press play to what he was watching. He’s waiting to hear our conversation. I know that Ryder wants to prove his point that there’s tension between the little devil and I. Sadly, he’s not going to get it.
Bree’s still standing in front of the door, waiting for me to let her in. Quickly, I move to the side, making a gesture with my head to invite her in. Her eyes travel the apartment as she steps inside, taking in everything that’s in her sight.
My eyes fall on her ass for a split second before I do my best to keep them at shoulder length.I don’t know if I prefer her ass in leggings or that pair of jeans.
“This is nice,” she mumbles, nodding in approval.
“Thanks. Honestly, this is all thanks to Ryder’s stepmom,” I say, tilting my head.
I wish that I was lying, but it’s the truth. If it wasn’t for Pat, our place would be a mess. She took care of all the decorations, the furniture, and that the colors matched. I think she did it for her mental health than for our peace.
“My apartment is a total disaster,” Bree confesses, wrinkling her nose. “We tried to decorate it, but it was awful. We have different styles.”
That catches my interest.
“With how many people do you live with?”
I know that she’s close to Ash Moore. That’s not a secret since Ash is featured in a lot of her photos. It’s an excellent combination that works for both of them: a model and a photographer. However, Bree’s always talking about her roommates as if there was more than one.
“Three. They were all at the party,” Bree replies with an unbothered shrug. “Anyway, I’m starving, and I was offered a gourmet pasta.”
“I gotta warn you. This is something that you’ve never tasted. It’s probably going to ruin pasta for you.”
I was expecting an amused reaction, but instead, she laughs with skepticism. My mom cooks like the gods, and I’m a decent student when it’s not a chemistry-related topic.
“You have competition, Stanley,” she warns. “My mom is a chef.”
Panic jolts through me as I walk to the kitchen to serve her. Her mom is a chef? How am I supposed to beat that? If I had been trying to impress her, I would’ve failed with this. I lost the game before I even had the opportunity to make a move.
Not that I’m trying anything with her, so it shouldn’t matter if I impress her with my culinary abilities or not. Although, there’s still a bitter taste in my mouth thinking about it.
“Do you have glasses?”
“No, Bree. We drink from our hands,” I reply sarcastically. From the corner of my eye, I can see how she shows me her middle finger. “Yeah, they’re in the upper shelf.”
Bree groans.
“Of course. The upper shelf.”
