We chat throughout, mostly commenting on the show. The unexpected laughter is like medicine for my soul. Dare I say we are actually bonding? It’s so natural, honestly.
As the bakers enter their final round for the episode, I ask, “So, how’s it going with you and Andrew? I haven’t really asked, I don’t think. I know you said it’s fine, but can I do anything to help?”
“Not bad, to be frank. He takes his work very fucking seriously. Lowers is willing to help every now and then, too, just to be friendly. I’m happy with it.”
I feel him look my way, but I keep my gaze on the TV.
He asks, “So, how long did you mean to stay at the gym before I showed up? You and Andrew are like oil and water.”
“I don’t know. Don’t think I actuallyhada plan.”
Sure, it’s easy to think about next month. Or two months after that. But what about five years from now? Ten? The thought of working at a gym that’s nothing but a memory feels empty. It’s like being a painter, and your model was a dear friend, only for them to die, and now painting with other models is just... meaningless.
I tilt my head his way, maintaining my eyes on the screen. “Honestly, I was on autopilot for the last six months. I’m slowly understanding that this all goes on beyond another six. Especially with my house falling into a damn sinkhole.”
I connect my gaze with his, and he’s chewing on his plump bottom lip. I almost want to tell him not to do that when he’s so close to me, as that man—no matter what—is fine as hell. “Anyway, you excited to be back in the ring? You punch like you are.”
“Yeah, in a way, it itches a scratch I’ll probably always have. I just love the energy of a fight, but not beating up some jackass at a bar. I enjoy having a real competitor. Just two very skilled dudes beating the shit out of each other. There’s no fun in easy shots.”
I smile at the honest answer. “I wish more chicks were at the gym. I’d probably be more interested, then.”
“Yeah, it’s a real sausage fest there.”
I laugh, pulling my legs toward me, running a hand through my hair. “You ever get nervous about being punched in the face? I know, real specific, but it’s what I always think about. Happened to me once when some girl in high school thought I stole her boyfriend, and she came out of left field. That shithurts.”
He relaxes into his chair, and that’s just as inviting as him playing with his lip.
A cold reminder sinks in that this crush will probably douse itself the first time Ryder brings a chick to Andrew’s house, or goes to an after-party and fucks his way through the entire night.
As soon as I consider that, invasive thoughts morph Ryder from the neutral co-worker who tries to ignore me, to a man who gives his undivided sexual attention to another, all walls removed… that fantasy fiercely festers inside of me.
He continues to speak as if there isn’t a maelstrom of hormones and lingering crushes battling inside of me.
“Yeah, there’s nothing quite like being knocked out. Especially with the way it lingers when you wake up. But I guess you get used to that shit after a while. It’s being choked out that I hate.”
“Really?” I ask, trying my hardest to ground myself. “I don’t know—being punched really sucked.”
“I’d say I could show you what being choked out feels like, but not sure we’d be talking about the same thing,” he effortlessly adds.
My heart skips multiple beats. He seems almost surprised, like he didn’t mean for that to slip out, but he also doesn’t shy away from the statement. I have no clue what to do with myself, other than gawk at him. Was that flirting? But he can’t do that—since when does he do that with me?Don’t think about it.Recover.
Giving an awkward laugh as my heart nearly pounds through my ribcage, I scratch my face and stare at my lap. Then I shake my head and laugh even more.
Fuck. I can’t come up with a reply.
I bashfully glance his way again, and he’s watching me with something in his eyes that I haven’t seen yet. Extended silence thickens the tension of the room. I’m painfully attracted to him, his smells, his grin, his humor, that body... he wins. I can’t think straight when near him.
I turn my head when that area between my thighs heats to an alarming degree. I need to say that I’m going to bed because I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with any of this today. All I achieve is wordlessly opening my mouth. Out of my peripheral, he doesn’t remove his gaze, like he’s carefully observing me; making decisions.
When I face him again, his chest rises with a deep inhale before languidly blinking and slowly focusing on the TV. He roughly rubs his jaw in contemplation, those hands so powerful he could hold me in whatever position he wanted.
Those hard, pale eyes flash with a carnal depth before the expression is immediately removed.
I breathe out, “I should go to bed.”
He doesn’t respond, the cords of muscle in his forearm continuing to ripple, still not facing me. With a gravelly voice, he mutters, “Yeah.” He sighs, speaking with more disappointment than command, “Go to bed, Julie. It’s for the best.”
Holy crap—he just admitted to something, right? Did I make up the look he gave me? No, surely not…
