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Chapter 8
Danica
“Who wants pot brownies?”
“Well, that wasan easy move.” Ryan brushes his hands together after he rolls the last of my three suitcases into the spare bedroom.
My mother would be appalled if she saw the state of the pretentious Luis Vuitton luggage she got me for my birthday last year. She expected me to use it on a trip to Paris with Asher. But as soon as I opened the gift, all I could think about was packing them up and fleeing my life. So I did. And now that luggage is beat to hell, dirty and scuffed, and covered with stickers from the places I’ve gone since I left Chicago.
“I put my boxes of art supplies in the garage, if that’s okay.”
“Of course! If you need help setting anything up, just let me know. You’re welcome to use anything in there, like the tables folded up against the one wall, or the metal shelves.” Ryan shoves his hands in the pockets of another pair of basketball shorts he must have changed into after his bowling lesson.
“Thank you.” I smile politely at him.
“You’re welcome,” he replies just as courteously.
I start chewing on my thumb nail while he looks around the room. Awkward silence fills the air around us, until Ryan finally breaks it a full minute later.
“I vacuumed before you got here.”
“I see that. Nice, clean lines in the carpet.” I nod.
Jesus, you sound like an idiot.
“You must have a Dyson. Great suction.”
For the love of God, stop talking, Danny!
“It sucks harder than anything I’ve ever had in this house.”
A bark of laughter flies out of me, and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from cackling hysterically. Especially when sweet, innocent Ryan looks at me in confusion at my laughter, not even realizing what he just said.
We’ve been chatting easily since I got here a few minutes ago, going back and forth from the house to my golf cart in the driveway. Laughing and joking about whatever, without one second of silence between us. But now that we’re just standing here, alone in my bedroom, I suddenly don’t know what to say to him, and everything feels weird.
I’ve never lived with a guy before. I definitely spent plenty of nights at Asher’s place to know what selfish pigs guys can be, but Ryan isn’t like that. He’s clean and tidy, and nice and thoughtful. Under normal circumstances, I’d ask him if he wants to curl up on the couch and watch a movie together. But he’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t know what I’m doing here. Does he just want me to stay in my room so I don’t bother him? Do I need to ask him if I can take a shower? What about eating situations? Do we eat together and fight over who cooks, or do we just fend for ourselves?
I am not a nervous person. I should easily be able to ask him any of my questions, but now that I’m here, in the quiet stillness of his home that smells like him, I’m freaking out. Because all I can think about is kissing him again. And it’s not like the night he gave me the tour, where I could just leave and go back to the hotel when it got to be too much. I live here now.
I knew this was a bad idea.
“So, that’s everything you have then?” Ryan asks, rocking back on his heels.
“Yep. I mean, the rest of my stuff is in storage in Chicago, obviously. I don’t need any of those things right now, but I’ll need to have everything shipped to me soon.”
Ryan finally turns his head and looks at me for the first time since we stepped into the spare bedroom. “That doesn’t really seem necessary, does it? And probably a waste of time and money.” He chuckles. “I’m sure I have everything you’ll need while you’re on the island.”
I mean, he does, of course. But I’m not going to be living with him forever. As soon as a cottage opens up, I will definitely need my bed and all the rest of my furniture out of storage. He said something at the bowling alley earlier about me not needing to get a job while I’m here. He also had no idea I’m an artist, and now this. Why would he think I wouldn’t need any of my things?
Fucking Tristan…
“What exactly did—”
There’s a knock at the front door that makes me pause from asking him what all my idiot brother has told him about me. Or not told him, for that matter.
“Hold that thought,” Ryan says as he turns and leaves the room.
Not wanting to just stand here and wait until he comes back, I follow him out and down the hall. I move over to the kitchen island and lean against it as he answers the door.
