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If there’s anything I want to complain about, it’s Ryker. He finally called me earlier. Four times. I didn’t answer. Why should I? He ignored me for four days. He was able to bear going through four days without hearing my voice, without making sure I was fine, without caring about me, while each moment, I was in agony because I missed him, because even though I hated him every second, I couldn’t keep myself from wanting to see him again, from hoping that maybe he’d want to see me.
Didn’t I tell him that if he didn’t want to be with me, he should just tell me? But he didn’t tell me. So I thought maybe he still wanted to be with me. But then he didn’t call me back to say anything else either, which tells me the opposite. So yeah, I’ve been feeling like I’m being torn in two.
Last night, I went out with Christy, got drunk and told her that I’d just forget about Ryker. Then this morning, he calls.
What the hell does he want now?
“I’m sorry. Did I just miss the class?”
I look up to see Ryker standing in the doorway in an unbuttoned denim jacket over a knitted, cream-colored top and jeans. What the freaking hell?
When the initial shock that has me frozen in place subsides, two courses of action immediately come to mind. One is to throw myself straight at him, grab the front of his jacket and kiss him. The other is to walk across the room so I can send my palm across his handsome face. I choose neither. Instead, I avert my gaze, stand up slowly and draw a deep breath to summon every ounce of composure in my body.
“Yes, you did, Mr. Hawthorne. If you want to learn how to cook, you’ll have to sign up for another class, preferably under a different teacher.”
“Are you saying you won’t teach me even though I’m already here?” he asks.
Oh. Now he’s being persistent?
I narrow my eyes at him as I try to figure out his intentions. I fail, so I decide to ask him directly.
“Why are you here, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Because I want to learn how to cook,” he replies as he starts walking toward me. “And I don’t want any other teacher.”
My eyebrows furrow. “You don’t?”
“No,” he answers, his serious expression sending a shiver down my spine.
Is he saying he’s serious about me? That he wants to be with me?
I want to think he is. I want to hope and be thrilled at the very thought. But I’ve hoped and I’ve been let down before. Too many times, in fact.
I turn my attention to my backpack as I start to pack my things.
“You should leave, Mr. Hawthorne, before my brother finds out you’re here. He can be very scary, you see.”
“I don’t care.”
Ryker stands in front of me, his gaze unwavering.
And now, I’m wavering. Now that he’s so close, I can feel this magnetic force pulling me towards him.
I step away. “Ryker…”
“Teach me how to cook,” he tells me. “I’ll pay for the lesson and your trouble, no matter how much it costs.”
I shake my head. He’s kidding, right? Surely he didn’t come to see me for a cooking lesson. I can’t even imagine him cooking.
But then I look at him again and I see his serious expression still there. Nope. He’s not kidding.
“Are you serious?” I ask him anyway.
“Yes.”
“About learning to cook?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “You don’t cook.”
“Actually, I do,” he tells me. “But even if I don’t, isn’t that all the more reason for you to teach me?”
So he really wants to learn how to cook, does he?
“Fine.” I toss an apron at him. “Let’s cook.”
As he dons the apron, I put mine back on, though I have a hard time tying it behind me because I find myself distracted by looking at him. I’ve seen many men in aprons, but damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so attractive in one. And I can’t help but imagine him in just the apron.
Why not? He’s imagined me that way. Still, I shrug the image off. He’s here to learn how to cook, remember? Not for any other reason.
“Have you ever made crepes before?” I ask Ryker after I finally manage to tie my apron.
“No,” he answers. “Is that what we’re making?”
“Yes. I’m going to teach you how to make savory crepes.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Savory crepes?”
“Yes. And I’m not talking about breakfast crepes. I’m talking about dinner crepes.”
“Okay. What do we do first?”
He’s even more eager than my students. For a moment, my imagination takes over again, conjuring an entirely different scenario where Ryker is asking me what I want him to do. Again, I push it away.
What is wrong with me? I’m usually not like this. In fact, I’ve never been this horny before. Is it because I’m all alone with Ryker? Is it because I haven’t seen him in days?
