Charisma and I sit inside a booth at Sugar’s. It’s my dinner break, and she popped in to keep me company. We eat burgers and fries as we strategize on how I’m going to figure out how to play pool.
I take a long drag from my soda and rub my forehead. “Why did I lie to him?”
She shrugs. “I assume because you like him and wanted to impress him?”
I nod, but there’s a niggling in my head, a small voice that’s beginning to grow stronger. Is Connor what I want? I’m not an advocate of lying, ever, and yet I started us off that way. It doesn’t feel right.
She narrows her eyes at me as she stuffs a fry in her mouth. “What about Ryker? He’s hot.”
“There is no me and Ryker.” She looks at me.
“What?” I say. “I don’t do football players.”
She thinks on this, her finger tapping her chin. “What I find interesting is that Ryker chose to kiss you to make Connor jealous. There are a dozen other things he could have done, like told Connor how nice and sweet you are.”
I shrug. “He had a gut feeling and just went with it, I guess.”
She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Listen, I have gut feelings too, and mine is telling me Ryker has his eye on you. He watches you.” Her gaze darts over to the football table in the back. “In fact, don’t turn your head, but he’s looking right now. And his face is so dang serious.”
I stiffen, and it’s everything I can do to not turn my head. It’s been a couple of days since we had our talk in calculus, and it feels as if he’s giving me space.
I lean in over the table. “What’s he doing?”
Charisma’s gaze brushes across the restaurant, lingers in their direction, and then comes back to me.
“Well?” I ask
She shrugs. “Looking hot and cocky as usual. Definitely a PILF.” Player I’d Like to Fuck. “Not me,” she adds, “but you know…the rest of the world.”
“Who’s next to him? Jersey chaser?”
She grimaces. “There is a jersey chaser there, but he’s not into her. I’ve been scoping him out periodically and he’s barely looked at her. Blaze is on the other side talking his ear off.”
“He didn’t ask for me to be his waitress tonight,” I say, almost to myself. “Interesting. No more garçon?”
I shrug. Honestly, I was a little disappointed.
She looks at me. “By the way, remember the guy I hooked up with at the toga party last year?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty sure it was Blaze.”
I snort and nearly choke on a fry. After taking a long drink from my soda, I say, “How do you know?”
A sheepish grin crosses her face. “Just something he said. Apparently, he was also at that party and can’t remember much of it.” She gets a faraway look on her face. “All I can recall about him is this thing he did with his tongue—”
I hold my hand up. “Just stop right there. I want to be able to talk to him in the future without picturing what you’re about to describe.”
She giggles.
“And back to Ryker…I’m not his type, so nope. You’re wrong.”
Charisma thinks. “Hmmm, if you say so. But you did just bring him up again.”
I tuck more fries in my mouth.
She sighs and smirks down at her curves. “I wish I could eat like you do.” “At least you have boobs.” I wave at my chest area. “Underneath this vintage Buffy the Vampire Slayer shirt is a sixty dollar push-up bra. Thank you, magic brassiere.” I look around the room and lean in. “With the cutlets
stuffed in this contraption, everyone thinks I’m at least a solid B cup.” “Stop it. You have tits,” she says.
“Correction. I have titlets.”
She giggles. “That’s not even a word! How do you come up with this stuff?”
I tap my head. “But in my stories, the heroine always has big boobs.” I twist my lips. “Maybe I should get a boob job.”
She shakes her head at me. “Do it for you, but no one else.”
I nod. “Of course. The man who falls for me will love my titlets.” “Please stop saying titlets.”
We both laugh.
I shrug and check my phone for the time—my break is almost over—and eat a few more bites of my burger. “Will you feed Vampire Bill for me when you get home?”
“No. He hates me.”
I wave her off. “The pellets are in the pantry, and if you can chop up some kale, maybe some banana, he’ll be all set.” I give her a grin. “Also, if you can tell him the word of the day again. We’ve been working on llama. Tell him I
love him, too.”
She glares at me. “Seriously. Anything else? He’ll try to peck me. And
llama? Ryker inspired?” I shrug.
“It was!” A gleam grows in her hazel eyes. “I’m going to teach him something good, something that will definitely make him a cool bird.”
I give her a look. “He already has enough dirty words. I know he learned ‘shit’ from you.”
“I know nothing.”
I sigh. “Just give him a little head scratch before you put him in my room, okay? Maybe turn on some music so he doesn’t get lonely. Backstreet Boys is his favorite.”
She takes a sip of her soda. “I don’t mind. I just hate that you work so much. You know your dad would pay your bills, right? All you’d have to do is ask.”
I exhale. He has offered to pay what my academic scholarship doesn’t cover, but I refuse. Mom left me the house and some insurance money when she passed. I’m not destitute.
“I don’t mind working. It keeps me busy.” It keeps my mind occupied, too, and I’ve always been one who needs that.
The door chimes as customers enter. I glance up at the door and stop, eyes widening.
It’s as if I conjured them.
I exhale. My dad, Carson, and his wife, Cora, waltz in with their new baby, Cyan. Yes, all their names begin with C.
“Ah, the new family,” Charisma murmurs as we watch them talk to the hostess for a few minutes. They’re probably up there requesting my section. I’m glad I still have a few minutes on my break.
“Looks like your dad is hunting you down,” Charisma says, arching her eyebrow at me. “You probably should have said yes to dinner.”
I sigh.
We watch as the hostess talks to them, and I study Cora. She’s pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with straight blonde hair and an oval face with high cheekbones. Her frame is small with a soft middle from being pregnant. She hides it with flowy tunic-style shirts, wearing them with style and confidence.
The hostess points over at me, and my dad tosses a hand up then Cora does the same. She’s holding Cyan on her hip, and my gaze lingers there.
Perhaps he sees the trepidation on my face because he says something to the hostess and she leads them over to someone else’s section.
Charisma’s voice brings me back. “I’m heading home and crashing. You good?”
I give her a nod, and she takes off after leaving me cash for her check. I linger around the booth, taking my time, but eventually the laws of Southern etiquette demand I face them.
With a sigh, I clock back in and make my way to their table. It’s on the far right side in an alcove that’s rather secluded.
My dad is feeding Cyan orange baby food as I approach—something he never did for me. He looks up, sees me, and gets to his feet. “Hey, you,” he says, brushing his hands with a napkin.
“Hey.”
He towers over me, about six three, a handsome guy with auburn hair and gray eyes. He takes the few steps over and attempts to hug me, and I let him. It’s this dance we do. He wants to make everything right between us; I’m not sure it ever will be.
I play with the gold chain around my neck, fingering the locket.
“I took that picture at the hospital the day after you were born,” he says, indicating the necklace.
What? I blink up at him, my equilibrium thrown. I think about the faded picture inside the pendant. Mom is smiling down at me, wearing a white nightgown with tiny rosebuds on it. I’m mostly a blob, just a baby in a pink dress. My eyes are open and they gaze right up at her. It was always us, since the beginning.
I shrug. “I assumed you ran out of town before the big day. Was it the offseason?”
His face doesn’t change, taking my shit well.
With a deep breath, he continues. “You were a C-section, and I was terrified when they wheeled your mom into surgery. The blood, the smell of the hospital, the scrubs we put on—but once they pulled you out and put you in my arms…” He stops and studies his hands for a moment then looks back at me. “It was the offseason, but that wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have missed seeing you born.”
I frown at the emotion his words carry, my face tight. I don’t want to feel soft toward him. “And then I didn’t see you for ten years. Nice.”
He pauses. “I took care of you.” “Child support.”
His lips flatten—because he knows I’m right. “It’s been three years since your mom passed. Maybe we should try to talk—”
“Her name is Vivien.”
He nods his head in accord. “I cared for her too, you know.” “She never told me you were at the hospital when I was born.”
He nods and looks away. “We didn’t leave on the best of terms. I had a team to get back to, and she had her doctorate degree to work on here.”
My jaw tenses, and I flick my gaze over to Cora, who I know can
probably hear us but is pretending not to. I sigh.
“Some people just aren’t meant to be together,” he tells me. “Your mom… she knew we were too young, and she only wanted the best for you. That was her.”
Because he was busy living the baller lifestyle. Women. Parties. “I made mistakes, Penelope. Having Cyan has made me see that.” “Now you see. How fortunate.”
He watches me. “Just because there’s a new baby doesn’t mean we don’t want to see you.”
I frown. I don’t know what to say.
“How are you doing?” Cora says brightly after that, standing to join him. She picks up Cyan from her high chair and places her on her hip. This close up I can see Cora’s peach lipstick when Mom wore pink…how short she is when Mom was tall.
“Fine,” I murmur. Cora is nice.
“You should come to dinner soon,” she adds softly. “I’ve been itching to make a lasagna. I heard it’s your favorite.”
Cora doesn’t wait for an answer, just holds Cyan out to me, and I take her and settle her on my side. I’m not sure how to hold her, but I loop my arm around her waist and her legs seem to just know what to do as they straddle me. Red hair sprouts and swirls from odd places, mostly in the front and back of her head. And her eyes—they’re just like mine, the color of fog in the morning.
I can’t help it. I smile down at her.
“She’s six months today. We’re celebrating,” Dad says, watching me with Cyan. “We were hoping you were working, and here you are. Want to join us for a few minutes?”
I raise my head and meet his gaze. “I have to work, but thank you.”
He gives me a short nod. “Of course. I admire your work ethic. Vivien was the same when it came to teaching.” A brief smile crosses his face. “Everyone at Waylon adored her.”
“She is—was—the best art professor here,” I say, reminding him that she was part of Waylon before he came back.
Cyan blows a bubble with her spit, and I laugh just as the bell over the door jingles and Margo enters. She’s wearing yoga clothes, and I figure she’s popping in for one of our smoothies at the bar like she does sometimes. Our eyes meet over Cyan’s head, and she frowns, her eyes flashing around our group. I don’t think Cora and Dad see her and I’m about to wave—I’m not sure why, maybe because Cora is her mom and she’s nice. Is it possible Margo has it in her to be a human being?
But before I can say anything, Margo’s lips tighten as she hitches her bag up on her shoulder and marches back out the door.
I exhale. I don’t get her.
But I don’t understand life or people much since Mom passed away. “Here ya go,” I say, handing my half-sister back to her mom. “I need to
get back to work. Glad you guys could make it out to eat.”
Resignation sits on my dad’s face. “I take it that’s a no on dinner next week?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
Cora puts her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. School’s just started, and she’s busy. We’ll have her over another time. Margo too.”
I tell them goodbye and head in the other direction, my hand dipping into my apron as I grab a sucker.
 |
A few minutes later, I look over my shoulder to the football table.
Ryker’s watching me. He’s got this quizzical look on his face, and before I know it, he’s up and out of his seat and walking over to me. Blaze, who’s sitting next to him, watches with a sardonic expression on his face, as if he’s trying to figure him out. I also see the jersey chaser who was sitting next to Ryker—I don’t know her name, but it’s a different one than the last time he was here—watching him as well, a pout on her pink lips.
“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of me, taking me in. He’s wearing another button-up shirt, and part of me toys with the idea that he wore it for me. My eyes drift over his chest and move up to his face. He’s as gorgeous as ever, hair a tousled mess, eyes intense and searching.
I must look frazzled. My wavy hair is in low pigtails and drapes over my shoulders. It did look cute this morning when I fixed it, but it’s late and stray hairs are starting to poke out around my face. At least I’m wearing cute skinny jeans, a royal blue velvet designer pair I bought at a consignment store downtown. Soft and silky, they cling to my muscles and accentuate my long legs.
And points for not having any ketchup on my shirt. “You okay?” His voice is gruff as he watches me.
“Yeah. Why do you ask?” I pat my head. “Is my hair crazy?”
He flashes a smile. “No, it’s fine.” He looks past my shoulder to where my dad and Cora are. “I saw your dad talking to you and things looked tense. Just making sure you’re all right.”
“I’m good,” I say. “Thank you.”
We stand and…well, just stare at each other. It’s how we are, I think. We’ve done this in class a few times this week, neither of us quite knowing what to say to the other. There’s a tension between us, a tugging of sorts, and I can’t put my finger on exactly why. I blow out a little breath. Oh, screw this. I do know why. He’s hot as hell, and I keep picturing him having his way with me. And I have to stop. Just seeing my dad reinforces the fact that Ryker is dangerous.
Yet…
I can’t help this pull I feel toward him, as if I’m the moon and he’s the Earth.
“Hey, I have a question for you,” I say. “Do you really think I smell like rainbows, or was that all part of the bet?”
He smirks. “Been wondering, huh?” “Just curious.”
“You smell amazing.”
You do too, I want to say, but I don’t.
“So, just out of curiosity and for no other reason, when you said that part about us having a connection…” My voice drifts off when my phone pings with a text. I pull it out and read the message.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“Connor. He wants to have lunch tomorrow in between classes at the student center—the pizza place.” I stare down at the message for a beat then look up at Ryker. “Should I go?”
A muscle pops in his jaw. “If you want.” “Should I say no and play hard to get?”
He frowns. “If you want to go then go. Whatever.”
I scowl. Why is he being so touchy? “Isn’t this how normal people do dating, by asking their friends about how to respond to a text?”
“I do what I want and nothing else. You haven’t dated much, have you?” I shrug.
His gaze brushes over my lips, lingering. “Have you ever had a serious boyfriend, Red?”
“No. Have you?”
“No, I’ve never had a serious boyfriend.”
I laugh and he grins. “You know what I mean,” I say. He nods. “I’ve never dated a girl longer than a month.” A month? Holy cow. “You really are a player.”
He shrugs. “I’ve just never been in love.” “Ditto,” I say.
He arches a brow. “Connor?”
I frown. “That isn’t love. I-I’m just curious about him. He seems like he’d be a good fit for me.”
“A good fit?” He shakes his head. “Red, come on. It’s not an arranged marriage. You need chemistry and sexual attraction. You should be thinking about him all the time, and when he walks in the room, your entire body should get hot. Is that happening?”
No. I swallow. But I can’t tell him that. I just can’t. It would be revealing and would make me vulnerable.
My phone pings again and I look down. “It’s him again.” And even though Ryker hasn’t asked what he said, I tell him anyway. “He says if I’m busy tomorrow, I can come over to his place tonight and watch a movie. Oh, that sounds…interesting.”
Ryker shakes his head. “Do not do that. That is code for sex. It’s past seven and that’s a booty call.”
I rear back. “Really? Seven is the magic hour for a booty call? I thought that was more like midnight.”
“Nope. Think about it. It will take you a while to get over there—I’m assuming you still have an hour or so left on your shift—then you watch the movie. Voila, it’s midnight and he’s getting all handsy.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s exaggerating, but I play along. “Handsy. Damn.
He seems so nice.” “You never know.”
Another text. “He says he knows how to cook spaghetti and will make it for me if I come over. How sweet.” I glance up at Ryker, who isn’t smiling back. “I told him I like Italian.”
His eyes glitter. “Everybody knows how to open a jar of Prego, pour it over noodles, and sprinkle Parmesan on top. It’s a trick to get you to his place.”
Hmmm. I cock my hip. “I’ve already eaten, but I do love food. It’d be a good trick if he’d asked me for another time. Do you know how to make spaghetti?”
“Of course. And mine isn’t out of a jar. I did most of the cooking at my house growing up.”
Fascinating. “Why?”
He shrugs. “My mom took off when I was three. It was just my dad and me.”
I absorb that information. I always imagined him living in a white-picket- fence type of family with parents as athletic and beautiful as he is. Everything I know about him realigns. We’ve both lost our mothers, in a way. Then it dawns on me that I don’t think many people know this about him. “And you’d make me spaghetti? Not as a trick, but as a friend because I love it?”
His eyes meet mine. “Right now?”
I shake my head. “No, in your dorm room sometime. You make spaghetti and I’ll bring dessert. You do have a kitchen right?”
He looks bemused, as if this conversation hasn’t gone the way he expected. “I’ve never cooked for a girl before.”
“But you would for me?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “What’s for dessert?”
My body flushes, picturing us in a small kitchen. Pots and pans are everywhere. My ass is planted on the bar, and I’m reclining back with my knees up and my panties pushed to the side. He’s got his jeans shoved down to his hips, grinding into me—
My phone goes off again. Bless. I exhale. “It’s Connor again.” I type out a response.
Ryker’s lips tighten, and I think I see his fists curl. “What did you tell him?”
“Thank you for the offer but I’m working.”
“What about lunch tomorrow in the student center?” “You’re nosy.”
He shrugs. “I did help you get his interest. I want to know how my investment is going.”
“I’m still thinking.”
His lips compress, but his expression doesn’t change. “I see.”
There’s a lot of meaning in those words, but before I can explore the complexities, the hostess waves at me, indicating a table of five she just sat in my section. I sigh. “Dang it. I have customers.” I bite my lip. “I’m looking forward to my spaghetti soon. Just let me know when you’re ready. I did pretty much invite myself over.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have.
He scrubs at his face and gives me a tired look. “Okay, I need to go. Good night, Red. See you later.”
And he’s gone, heading for the exit with long strides.
