by A. S. Teague
Sighing, I turn on my heel and head for the locker room.
Poor Mickey.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to be on the receiving end of my frustrations for the rest of the day.
It was a long, miserable week filled with Ryker annoying the shit out of me. He asked me out every day, sometimes multiple times, and each time, I told him no. When a simple no wouldn’t cut it, I tried different tactics.
Being bitchy only seemed to excite him.
Telling him I was swamped only encouraged him to offer his assistance.
Reminding him that we worked together and it would be unprofessional caused him to ask Tripp for permission.
Permission Tripp readily gave, the asshole.
As if the constant harassment at work wasn’t bad enough, he developed a knack for texting me in the evenings after I’d had some wine. It was like he knew when I’d poured that third glass, because like clockwork, the messages would start. I’ve actually become paranoid that he is watching me and started keeping my curtains shut at night. In my wine-laced state of mind, I am powerless to ignore the messages. Instead, I find myself engaging him.
And, to my horror, I’ve realized I like it.
After the drama of the week, I turned down the invitation to hit the clubs with some of my girlfriends, instead opting to watch a movie and snuggle on my oversized couch with Prince. I’ve just started watching my favorite Christmas movie, The Holiday, giggling at Cameron Diaz’s inability to cry, when my doorbell rings.
I push off the couch and glance at the clock. I’m surprised to see that it’s only seven p.m. It feels much later.
“You expecting someone, Prince?” I ask my dog, who’s still half-asleep on the couch. When he doesn’t respond, I give him a quick pat on the head and grumble, “Some guard dog you are. Can’t even be bothered to see who’s at the door.” I walk toward my entryway, still talking to him over my shoulder. “What if it were a masked murderer?”
Cracking the door open, I peer out, and my jaw falls open.
“I’d almost prefer the murderer,” I mumble through the crack.
“Not here to kill ya, Reb,” Ryker says right before he holds up a crumbled brown paper bag, his face splitting in a wide grin.
I’ve had several glasses of wine already, but I’m almost positive I didn’t invite him to my house tonight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, refusing to open the door any farther. I glance down, and my cheeks heat when I realize I’m wearing my flannel Christmas pajamas.
“Dinner,” he says, holding the bag up before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
I stand in the doorway, my mouth gaping at his brazenness.
He glances around the room before turning his attention back to me. “You trying to catch flies?” he asks, using his thumb and forefinger to gently close my mouth.
His fingers linger at my chin, and he gently runs his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. The pad of his thumb is rough, but it feels incredible. All too soon, his hand is gone and he’s turning to shut the door.
I’m still in a state of shock as he flips the deadbolt and then makes a beeline for the kitchen.
“I’ve got sushi,” he calls over his shoulder.
At the words, my stomach grumbles.
Sushi does sound good. But, then again, sushi always sounds good.
Shaking my head, I try to snap myself out of it. I don’t care if he has Dom Pérignon and a hundred-dollar filet—I’m not having dinner with him. If he thinks he can march in here with my favorite food and run his sexy, callused thumb over my lip and I’ll just fall to my knees, he’s wrong.
“What are you doing here?” I snap. “Better yet: How do you know where I live?”
His head is buried in my fridge, but he stands up straight to answer me. “I told you. Dinner.” He pops a shoulder. “And Tripp told me.”
My head comes close to exploding at that bit of news, and I immediately march over to the living room and snatch my phone from the coffee table.
I’m in the middle of typing out a scathing text to my traitor of a brother when Ryker reaches around me from behind and yanks the phone from my hand.
“Hey! What the hell? Give that back!” I shout while spinning to face him.
Like we’re in elementary school, playing a game of keep away, he holds the phone high over his head. Despite being tall, I’m still unable to reach it, and I make a fool of myself while jumping up and down in a feeble attempt.
“Tripp also told me that your favorite is the California salad roll. I got two.” He holds two fingers up.
I stop jumping. And my stomach rumbles again. Loudly.
Screw it.
Rolling my eyes, I huff, “He’s a dead man. But I can kill him once I’ve finished eating.”
His face splits in a smile wider than I’ve ever seen, and he’s so damn handsome that it takes my breath away. Before I can lose myself in the green eyes that are sparkling at me, I step around him. I snag my empty wine glass from the coffee table and stroll to the kitchen.
I skid to a stop when I see the feast laid out on my kitchen table. There are at least five different types of rolls along with a plate of tempura and a side of veggie fried rice. There’s even a large bowl of white sauce––my favorite. Even though I’m still going to kill Tripp later, I’ve decided that I’ll make it quick and painless since he told Ryker all of my favorites.
Ryker’s also already pulled my bottle of wine out of the fridge and placed it in the center of the table. Looking over the food, I notice there’s no beer.
“Funny, I wouldn’t have guessed you were a wine guy,” I say over my shoulder, settling into a chair.
Ryker takes the seat opposite of mine and tosses me a pair of chopsticks. “I’m not. I’m a beer guy. But, if I’m driving, I’m not drinking.” He takes my wine glass and fills it to the brim.
The perfect pour.
I smile at him and then dig into the food in front of me. Not one to shy away from the fact that I like to eat, I pile my plate high and say a silent prayer of thanks when he does the same.
Prince settles himself under the table and places his head in Ryker’s lap. Instead of complaining, Ryker reaches down and gives his head a quick pat before picking his chopsticks up and getting to work.
My heart squeezes a little at the simple gesture. Most people would be annoyed at a hundred-pound dog begging for food under the table. Eager to get my mind off all the sweet things he’s done in the last ten minutes, I engage him in conversation.
We talk about nothing at all, but it’s a comfortable chat, and before I know it, we’ve eaten almost everything on the table.
I stand and begin clearing the plates, but then Ryker slowly pushes to his feet.
“I’ll take care of that.” He pulls the stack from my hands and throws it in the trash can.
“You brought dinner. The least I can do is clean it up,” I protest. “You okay?”
My argument falls on deaf ears however, and he continues to clear the table.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He rolls his neck. “Just a little sore from my workout earlier.”
“Oh. Need some ibuprofen?” I offer.
“No, but thanks. I don’t like taking that stuff,” he replies, scraping a plate off and then placing it in the sink.
“Okaaaaay,” I drawl, confused as to why he would rather be sore than take some medicine.
He better not ask me for a back rub!
Freaked at the thought, I check my watch and see that it’s a little after nine p.m. Faking a yawn, I stretch my arms out to the side. “Thanks for dinner, Ryker,” I tell his back.
He’s still cleaning up the mess we made, and I realize he probably didn’t even notice my pathetic attempt to get rid of him.
I grumble to myself, “Even though I didn’t expect it. Or invite you.”
He throws the last of the trash away. Then he refills my wine glass again and hands it to me. “So, what are
we watching?” he asks, grabbing his water bottle off the table before sauntering over to the couch. He flops down in my spot and takes the remote from the table.
Prince trots over and jumps up next to him onto the couch before settling his head into Ryker’s lap. Ryker pushes play and my long-forgotten movie springs to life.
“Christmas movie, huh?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.
I’m standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, rooted in place by shock yet again.
What is it with this guy?
Not only is he acting like he owns the place, but apparently, my dog has been taking lessons from Tripp on how to be a sellout.
“Why, yes, you can stay and hang out. Make yourself at home,” I smart. Deciding I’m going to need more than a buzz to survive the rest of the night, I take a long swallow of my wine before stomping over to the couch. I come to a stop in front of him and tell him, “You’re in my spot.” I point to the love seat. “Move over there.”
He tilts his head back to look at me and whispers, “Why don’t you sit with me, Rebecca?” Reaching up, he grips my hips and pulls me into his lap.
His voice is husky, and the low way he says my name causes my body to heat. A coil of desire snakes through my belly. And, even though I’m awkwardly straddling his lap, my mind is screaming at me to move, but despite the warning bells clanging in my mind, I make no move to get up.
He flexes his fingers, pulling me closer until our chests meet. When he leans forward, my eyes flutter shut. My tongue darts out to moisten my lips, and I mentally prepare myself for his kiss. A kiss I realize I desperately want.
Even though I’ve told myself that I hate him, I can’t deny the attraction between us.
When his nose grazes my cheek, my arms break out in goose bumps and I suck in a breath of air.
Who knew such a light touch could cause that kind of reaction.
I’m still holding my breath when I feel his lips at my ear. A soft breath tickles my neck before he whispers, “You won’t be able to see the TV sitting like this.”
Fighting the urge to tell him, fuck the TV, I open my eyes, and the flush of my cheeks quickly changes from desire to embarrassment. I’m not used to being rejected, especially by a man who’s been pursuing me so hard, so an unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability washes over me.
His eyes sparkle with humor, and I have to use every ounce of restraint I own not to accidentally-on-purpose apply a little extra pressure with my knee to his balls as I climb from his lap. Irritated with myself for having let his charms overrule the logical part of my brain, I resume my position in front of him and toss him a saccharine smile.
“Move. Now.”
He doesn’t stand to go to the other couch. Instead, he pushes Prince off the couch and scoots over a mere six inches.
A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Not far enough, buddy.”
His gaze is heated when he rumbles, “Buddy, huh? I think maybe we’re moving past that, don’t you?” His gaze sweeps over my body, and suddenly, I’m self-conscious.
Never having felt this way before, I cross my arms over my chest and feign more attitude. “As a matter of fact, you should probably just go ahead and go home. It’s late, and I’m tired.” It’s a lie. I may have been tired earlier, but the moment Ryker’s fingers touched my face, I caught my second wind.
He leans to the side, peering around my body, to the clock. “It’s, like, nine thirty. On a Friday night.” He chuckles. “I know you. The night’s just getting started, Reb.”
I narrow my eyes in a glare. “You do not know me,” I seethe through clenched teeth. “And, for God’s sake, stop calling me that!”
His face softens as his lips split into a seductive grin. Damn it!
“Then sit down, doll,” he all but purrs.
My chest swells.
“Watch TV with me. Maybe you can let me get to know you. You can start with telling me why the hell you’re wearing Christmas pjs and watching a Christmas movie in July.” One corner of his mouth tips up, and he pointedly tugs on my pants.
Giving up the fight to get him out of my house—and my mind, for that matter—I wedge myself into the corner of the couch and then give him a good shove. This time, he obliges and moves down. It isn’t the love seat, but at least I can’t feel his body pressed against mine. Unfortunately.
Wait, no. I mean fortunately.
Damn it again!
After snagging the remote, he turns the movie off and pulls my Netflix account up.
“Hey! I was watching that!” I protest.
Groaning, he mutters, “Sorry, doll. I’m not watching a Christmas movie.”
“God. Are you always this damn stubborn?” I snap.
He doesn’t respond, just continues to scroll through my recently viewed shows. Stopping on my current obsession, he angles his body toward mine.
“No Full House?”
“Already finished it.” I shrug.
“Shameless? That’s a little more intense that Full house, yeah?”
“So? It’s good.”
“Yeah, I know it is. I’m on episode seven. You?”
Shit. “I, uh, yeah. Me, too, actually.” A thought pops in my head, and before I can stop myself, it flies from my mouth. “Are you stalking me?”
He roars in laughter. “Stalking you?”
“Yeah. You always text me at night after I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. It’s like you know when I’ve had enough to drink that I’ll actually respond to your ridiculous messages.” I wave my arm at the TV. “And, now, we just happen to be on the same episode of Shameless? A show that came out five years ago.” I laugh “It’s like you’ve been sitting outside my window, watching them with me. The only explanation is that you’re stalking me.”
He crosses his legs knee to ankle and fights a grin back.
I fight the urge to lick the side of his mouth back as it twitches deliciously.
“No. I am not stalking you,” he says. “I just text you when I finish my workout. The TV show is just a coincidence.” He smirks. “Or is it? Maybe it’s proof that we’re soul mates.”
It’s my turn to howl in laughter. The thought of being soul mates with anyone is a bit of a stretch. Much less with a guy I’ve only recently come to like.
Holy shit, do I actually like him?
Once I finally get my laughter under control, I tell him, “I think it’s more likely you’re stalking me than we’re soul mates.”
He settles into the couch. “So, Shameless it is.”
I cut my gaze to him. “One episode.”
He smiles and nods, turning the show on and ending our conversation.
I use the silence between us to try and figure out what the hell happened tonight. I am attracted to him in a way I haven’t been with any other man. When I embarrassingly thought he was leaning in to kiss me, I wanted it. Craved it, even. And, when he whispered in my ear instead, the disappointment I felt was greater than even the embarrassment.
Somehow, I let my guard down with him and let him charm his way into my house. I promise myself that I’ll hold him to our one-episode agreement and then politely ask him to leave. I also decide to stop answering his texts. Obviously, I’ve been giving him the wrong idea.
And maybe even giving myself the wrong idea, too.
***
My eyelids flutter open as sunlight filters through the curtains. I squint at the brightness.
Sitting up, I push the blanket off me and glance around. I’m still in my living room. Checking the clock, I see that it’s six a.m.
With a yawn, I stretch, accidentally kicking Prince in the process. “Sorry, buddy,” I tell him.
He lets out a sigh before closing his eyes and going back to snoring.
A tumbler of ice water has replaced my wine glass, and a bottle of ibuprofen is next to it.
“I don’t remember putting that there,” I say aloud to no one. I’m still trying to figure out why I slept on the couch last night when it all co
mes rushing back to me.
Ryker.
Sushi.
TV.
“Ugh!” I let out a loud groan and cover my face with my hands.
Wine is not always your friend, Rebecca!
I stand up and snatch the water from the table, both irritated and grateful that Ryker left it for me. Woozy from the change in position, I orient myself for a minute before popping the lid off the ibuprofen and dumping a couple in my mouth.
I pad into the kitchen and freeze when I notice that the empty wine bottle’s been put in the recycle bin and my wine glass is clean, drying on the counter.
My kitchen is pristine, in better shape than I usually keep it. I shuffle to the front door only to find that both the knob and the deadbolt are already locked.
How the hell did he manage that?
My phone sounds, so I make my way back to the living room to see what I missed while I was asleep.
I’m not the least bit surprised that it’s a text from Ryker. Forgetting my vow from the night before, I quickly open the thread.
Ryker: Morning, doll. Hope you’re feeling okay. You didn’t even make it through a whole episode. Looks like we’ll have to finish it tonight. Didn’t want to leave without locking up though, so your key’s under the blue flowerpot. You’re cute when you sleep. Especially when you say my name.
I’m horrified at the thought of having been caught talking in my sleep. There’s no way I’m letting him back in my house tonight. I read the message one more time before sending him a short response.
Me: Thanks. See you Monday.
Groaning at Old Man Hangover splitting my head, I toss my phone on the couch and then shuffle to my room. I need to crawl into bed and recover from what was supposed to have been my quiet night in.
“You’ve got a goofy grin on your face this morning, Barney,” Gram says, squeezing my shoulder before coming to sit in the chair across from me.
The table, designed to seat six, is too big for the kitchen, but it was a family heirloom, so I lugged the fucker with us when we moved. Twice.
I stand up once she’s settled in her chair and fix her bowl of Cream of Wheat. After adding a teaspoon of brown sugar and a splash of milk, I set it, her spoon, and her pillbox in front of her. She taps her cheek in the familiar request, so I oblige her and lean over, pressing my lips to her wrinkled skin.
