A warm body presses into my back, as the scent of a pine forest wraps around me. I turn back and have to glance up considerably to see Ryder. His jaw is tense, his eyes locked on Luke.
Luke glances from Ryder to me. “Who’s this guy?”
I’ve never been in this situation with Ryder, in which people don’t know how he communicates. I don’t want to speak for him, but he clearly won’t speak, either. The two are locked in a stare-down.
“This is Ryder Bergman, Luke. He doesn’t hear well and he doesn’t speak but he lip-reads like a beast. I’m guessing he saw you call me a bitch and decided that if you say that again, your face is going to meet his lumberjack fist.”
Ryder’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He’s wearing my favorite flannel, the blue and green one that makes his eyes pop. I had to throw in the lumberjack part.
Luke’s eyes finally travel Ryder critically. “Deaf and mute. Sounds like the only kind of person who’d be your friend, Willa. He can’t hear all the stupid shit you say and he can’t tell you what a bitch you are for saying it.”
Ryder starts to launch past me, but I manage to step in his way, spinning and facing him. “Look at me, Ryder.”
Ryder’s jaw ticks, anger darkening his eyes.
“Ryder Bergman. Look. At. Me.”
Finally, he lowers his eyes. His chest still heaves, his entire body poised to spring and beat the shit out of Luke. And it would be a shit beating. Luke’s muscular but lanky compared to the lumberjack. He has nothing on Ryder’s build.
Our eyes meet until his gaze dips to my mouth. I slowly interlace my hand with his. “Don’t waste yourself on someone like that, okay? Especially not for me.”
My back pointedly toward Luke, I squeeze Ryder’s hand. His eyes dance between mine. His calloused, rough grip squeezes back, too.
I smile as relief loosens my tense shoulders. “Come on, Brawny. Lunch is on me.”
I never knew I had a sandwich kink, but it seems I do. Ryder eats a big-ass Italian submarine sandwich, sleeves rolled up his forearms, as the December sun beams down on him. It is straight-up pornographic. I can see every tendon and muscle flexing under that fine dusting of blond hair on his arms. His fingers are elegantly long but rough at the knuckles, and he’s missing a bit from the pad of his left index finger. How did I never notice that? Even after our questionnaire at the falls, how are there still so many things I still don’t know about Ryder Bergman?
Okay, pot, and what the hell does the kettle know about you?
Shit. Those are advanced metaphors, even for me. My wily subconscious is one hundred percent right. I keep stuff from Ryder big-time. Barring the extensive effort that I make both to burn and bust him, I treat him like every other guy I know. I hold him at a distance, keeping him far from anything to do with my heart. Well, for the most part. There was that little slip-up on the waterfall ledge. I might have let him a little closer then.
I watch him lick mayonnaise off this thumb, and feel myself smile. His lashes fan over his cheekbones and despite the beard’s growing volume, he at least combs it now, revealing the faintest hint of his cheekbones. When he leans for his water, I catch a glimpse down his flannel shirt, undone a sexy two buttons. I can see the shadow of his pecs, a faint glistening of hair. My mind wanders, imagining if I unbuttoned his shirt, shoved it off his shoulders, then pushed Ryder until he lay on his back. I’d straddle his waist and run my hands down the warm, taut skin of his stomach.
A cyclist whizzes by and startles me out of my filthy fantasy. My fists are clenched, my nipples scraping against the thin material of my bra. I’m painfully aware of every inch of Ryder’s body, of how much I think about sex when I’m with him. It’s probably just all this pent-up aggravation, like static energy that’s snapped and sparked between us so long, it needs somewhere to go, something to ground it. We’ve tacitly agreed not to murder each other, so what other cathartic activity does that leave? What can exorcise this hellish energy pulsing between us?
Sex is the only answer.
If he knows I’m watching him, Ryder doesn’t say anything. He’s been quiet, even for him, since we ordered our food and sat down outside. He put a hand low on my back when we walked out and held the door for me. Before the door shut behind us, he gave Luke a death glare that made my knees wobble a little.
Setting down his sandwich, Ryder dusts off his hands and picks up his phone. Mine dings seconds later.
Who was that douche?
I unlock my phone and type, An old unfortunate conquest.
Ryder’s hand tightens around his phone as he reads my message. His jaw clenches. He swallows like he’s tasted something unpalatable, and warmth fizzes inside me. Is Ryder jealous?
Interesting.
I swipe open my phone again and type, I have lots of those.
Ryder reads the text. His knuckles turn white as he glances up at me and holds my eyes for a long minute. When he peers back down at his phone and types, my stomach knots with anticipation.
You’re a terrible liar, Sunshine.
I bite my lip, trying to hide my smile. Okay, so I haven’t had that many, but the ones I did were unfortunate.
Why unfortunate? he types.
I answer Ryder reflexively. Because they were uneventful, if you catch my drift.
My ears burn. A blush heats my cheeks. Why the hell did I just tell him that?
His body stills as he reads. Ryder’s empty hand drums all five fingers along his thigh as he texts back. Then they were imbeciles. Imbeciles who have no idea what they missed out on.
An inexplicable wad of emotion catches in my throat. I clear it. Then for some idiotic reason, I type and send, Apparently, I’m hard to please.
Jesus Christ. Apparently, I’m also devoid of a filter. My blush darkens tenfold.
Ryder’s brow furrows. A scowl tightens his face. Bullshit.
An indecorous snort slips out as I reply. Nope. It’s the party line of your gender when it comes to sexy times with Willa Sutter.
Ryder shakes his head, his thumbs flying. Guys say shit like that when they don’t know the first fucking thing about pleasing a woman. All it takes is a little time and a willingness to learn. Believe me, Willa, it has nothing to do with you.
I sniffle as I read his message. My grinch heart grows twice as large. But my evil grinch grin makes an appearance, too. If my hair could curl in wicked delight like that Christmas-wrecking monster, it would. I think I need proof, I write. I’m a skeptic at heart.
Ryder’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing at me. Dropping his gaze, he sends a brief text. Is this your ass-backward way of seducing me, Sunshine?
Arrogant mountain man. I want to say yes, but now he just made me look like a sex-starved hussy, begging him to whip out that lumberjack wood and logjam me into next week.
That’s because you are a sex-starved hussy, begging him to whip out that lumberjack wood and logjam you into next week.
“Shut it, choo-cha.” It’s most certainly my choo-cha talking. She feels empty and tortured every time she’s around Ryder. I will not be steered by my personified vagina.
I swipe open my phone. Please, I type. I’ve heard lumberjacks are notoriously clumsy when they’re out of the woods and in the bush.
Ryder reads my message and rolls his eyes. He has the audacity to shove the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and chew, like some hypersexual hungry woodsman. My thighs rub instinctively. The wind picks up and my already tight nipples pinch, poking into my shirt. Undeterred by layers of bra and tank top, they make themselves glaringly obvious. Ryder looks up from his sandwich and gives me a calculating once-over. His gaze snags on my chest, but he recovers quickly. Reaching into his crossbody bag, he pulls out a UCLA hoodie and tosses it at me.