“Are we going to study, Ryder?”
His typing slows even further. Now it’s a lingering drip. Those green eyes swivel to my face and down to my mouth, then back up. Standing abruptly, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a massive pile of notecards, then walks over to his couch.
“O…kay?” I glance over my shoulder. Ryder’s spreading the cards on his coffee table in some system I have no understanding of. I try not to stare but fail. He’s unfortunately mesmerizing, mountain man forearms poking out of his flannel. Tonight it’s white with hunter green, gold, and blue plaid. It makes his hair blonder, his eyes greener, and his worn blue jeans pop as they hug his muscly legs.
Tonight, unfortunately, he’s not just an asshole lumberjack. He’s a sexy, strong and silent-type lumberjack, and he’s driving me up the goddamn wall with this shutdown act. I miss the zingers, the banter, the repartee. He’s just…quiet. And in a way, yes, technically Ryder’s always quiet, but tonight, it’s like he’s not even here.
“What’s up with you?”
He picks up his head, having heard something, but what, he can’t tell. I say it again, slowly and clearly, leading Ryder to frown at me and pull out his phone.
Nothing, Willa. We just have a shit ton of work to do. Are we studying or not?
Scowling, I stand and sweep up my phone, then my notebook as I walk his way. I don’t miss how he averts his eyes rather than holding mine, like usual. I don’t miss how he falls into the sofa with a soft but not inaudible sigh.
“Ryder, what’s up?”
His groan is a hoarse crack in his throat as he scrubs his face. When his hands fall, I see what I missed earlier. Dark smudges under his eyes. A pale cast to his skin. Kneeling gently onto the sofa next to him, I sit back on my heels.
“Do you feel okay?”
He starts by nodding, but when his eyes lock with mine, he stops. The nod becomes a shake.
No, he mouths.
Worry drops like a stone in my gut. “What’s wrong, Lumberjack?”
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands, then pulls out his phone and types, Headache. It happens sometimes. No big deal. As soon as it sends, he shuts his eyes like the dim light from the nearby lamp is offensive.
Scooching closer to him, I pat his hand. He opens one eye and looks me over.
What? he signs.
“Sit on the floor, in front of the sofa.”
His brow furrows. He signs, Why?
“I’ll rub your neck and temples a little bit. My…” I catch myself before I blurt the truth. My mom, I almost said, gets horrible headaches and nausea from her cancer treatment. I scoured the internet when nothing the hospital gave her worked. I read about homeopathy and peppermint’s role in alleviating nausea, tension, and headaches. I’ve since learned the art of peppermint diffused in a carrier oil, rubbed on her stomach. For her headaches, I dab it right on her temples. I’ve mastered massaging all the right spots to give her relief.
Clearing my throat, I shrug. “I’m well-acquainted with headaches.” It’s not a lie. I am well-acquainted with headaches, just not mine. “I use peppermint oil to work out the kinks.”
Ryder’s eyebrows wiggle, and I smack his shoulder. “Pervert.”
He glances down at his phone as he types. We’re supposed to be studying. And I don’t have peppermint oil.
“That’s okay. I do.” Springing up, I jog over to my bag. I keep a vial in there for when I visit Mama in the hospital. A few of the nurses think it’s hocus pocus and always confiscate it when I leave it there, so now I keep it on my person at all times.
Ryder stares at me with a look I can’t read. Is he repulsed by the idea of my touch if it’s not pokes or smacks but gentleness? Is the thought of a friendly gesture instead of biting off his head so terrible? Jesus. If so, he’s a bigger headcase than me when it comes to being vulnerable with others.
“It’s just a head rub, Brawny. Chill. I need your brain sharp for this project.”
Something in his expression relaxes. I don’t exactly know how to take that, so like all disquieting thoughts I have, I shelve it to obsess over at a later date. “Sit on the floor, Ryder.”
A long-suffering sigh leaves him as he slips to the ground and leans his back against the sofa. I settle behind him and straddle his shoulders. Gently coaxing his head back, I pour a drop of peppermint on each pointer, then rub the oil into his temples, staring down at his damn perfect nose. Straight and long, it’s practically elegant, something you’d see in a sculpture. His cheekbones catch the light and on a soft groan, his head’s weight increases in my hands. He’s actually relaxing.
“See? That’s not so hard. You’re uptight, Mountain Man.”
He sighs again, a long, weary exhale. A few minutes of silence pass between us as I study Ryder from above, listening, observing what unknots a tense point and what makes him wince. Pausing me, he pulls away, sweeps the cards together and gathers them into his hands. When he leans back again, he lifts one. It’s an equation. A handwritten equation.
I tap him to earn his eyes. “What is that, Ryder?”
He gives me a look like, Are you serious?
I pinch his shoulder, making him scowl. “You know what I mean. You wrote these? All of these?”
He shrugs, then turns back to his lap and opens up his phone. How else would I quiz you? I can’t exactly ask you out loud.
“Ryder…” My voice falters. He had to have spent hours on these. There are at least a hundred.
He ignores me. Tapping the equation, he stares back at my mouth.
“That’s the break-even point formula. Fixed costs over the difference between sales price per unit and variable costs per unit.”
He pats my foot, then squeezes. Somehow I know it means good job. He flips over the card, showing me my answer was right.
We continue in that same vein—me unknotting his muscles, Ryder holding those cards high for me to see. When I get it right, I earn a soft squeeze to the foot, when it’s wrong, a finger jabs the notecard. After I get quite a few right and Ryder’s head doesn’t seem like it’s locked in a vise anymore, I pause with my fingers tangled in his hair.
“Why aren’t I quizzing you?” Ryder lifts a hand and guides mine to keep massaging. “Greedy asshole.”
Picking up his phone, he writes, You’re not quizzing me because I know this shit, and my time’s much better spent getting my head rubbed than repeating what I know.
I tug his hair, but feel a smile pulling at my lips. There’s the cranky lumberjack I know.
“Twenty bucks says you don’t know this quite so well as you’re boasting, Ryder.”
He cocks his eyebrows while shuffling the cards in his hands. When he has a card, he pauses and picks up his phone.
Twenty bucks says I’ll get this right AND you owe me head massages every time we study.
I scowl. That’s a rough one. But I don’t back down from bets. I blame my competitive nature.
A thought springs into my head. Ryder’s still looking at me, as I slide my fingers through his hair, but this time, I make it different. This time, I scrape my nails along his scalp.
It’s like a flipped switch. His eyelids droop before snapping wide again, as if he’s been hit by a tranq dart and is trying to stay alert. I graze my fingertips down the side of his neck and sweep them to his collarbones. His breath hitches and I watch his hands grip the carpet. I drift one single finger from the base of his skull, down his neck, and watch his lips part.