Sure, he’s a prickly type. In the words of my fellow wild-haired woman and general feminist badass, Hermione Granger, he routinely demonstrates “the emotional range of a teaspoon.” But at the end of the day, I’d bet my cleat collection Ryder would run into a burning building to save a kitten.
Between my two options for his driving motivation to wear that hearing aid in stealth last night, I’m going with door number two. I think, just maybe, Ryder Bergman doesn’t totally hate me.
And frankly, even though he pisses me the hell off at least half the time I’m with him, I think I might not totally hate Ryder Bergman, either. At least, enough not to bicker constantly, but instead fifty percent of the time. At least enough to smile a little more at each other, back off the unrelenting, busting one-liners. Enough to maybe share an exploratory kiss if he wanted to shave that wild animal covering the lower half of his face.
Simply for exploratory purposes of course. Nothing serious. Certainly nothing emotional.
Because if I were to act on my emotions, I’d slap him first. Maybe yank his beard a little and give his good ear a tug. Remind him that spying on people—even if it’s because you’re intrigued by them—is invasive bullshit.
I could be truly wrathful in my revenge, but at some point, violence gets boring.
This tactic is way more fun.
My arrival to class is prompt for once, and I drop in the seat that I’m starting to suspect Ryder actually saves for me. Once again it’s on his right, and when I sit and softly clear my throat, it earns his attention immediately.
Carefully, I unravel the knit scarf I wore so nobody on campus got a Hooters hello as I walked to class. When I peel away the last spool of fabric, Ryder’s eyes widen, before a furious blush peeks from the top of his scruffy beard. He blinks rapidly as his eyes struggle not to dip as they did at first. I can hardly blame him. With her blessing of my retributive tactic, I’m wearing one of Rooney’s wrap tops, in a saffron yellow that makes my eyes glow. Significant detail: Rooney is two cup sizes smaller than me. This shirt barely covers my nipples.
Ryder’s mouth works, before he’s pulling out his phone, typing furiously. Sutter, what the fuck are you wearing?
I unlock my phone. Clothes, I write. Why do you ask, Lumberjack?
His angry huff as he types sends a frisson of delight up my spine. You know what I mean.
I really don’t, I type back.
I give him a once-over. Yet another flannel from the rotation. Very autumnal. It would look idiotic on most guys I know. Annoyingly, Ryder wears it like a hot-as-hell L.L.Bean model. Don’t even give me that attitude and try to deny it—you know you’re not looking for slippers when you open that catalog. You ogle those sexy DILFs in the L.L.Bean men’s section, too. Any hotblooded woman does.
The flannel of the day is burgundy and navy blue plaid, with a faint gold line woven through that matches my shirt. I take a deep breath, get my libido locked down, and type, Hey look! We match.
Ryder huffs again as he stares at me. He’s exasperated, which is insanely gratifying. There’s an intense and delicious upside to our little tiffs. Always has been. Every time we start bickering, electricity crackles, generating a surging tug between us. Our circuitry keeps intensifying, and after last night, I feel like we’re one high-voltage spat away from blowing a massive fuse.
Ryder’s eyes are on my lips but it feels like they’re everywhere, absorbing so much more of me than just the words I say. It’s always like that with him. When I’m with Ryder, I never question whether he’s present or listening intently. I never doubt that he’s taking pains to understand me, that he’s observing everything I do and say, even if it’s pissing him off. The irony is not lost on me, that he’s the first man who’s ever truly made me feel heard in my life and he can’t hear a word I’m saying.
Or so I thought, Mr. Rogue Hearing Aid.
On a third angry huff, Ryder’s eyes dart my way, then back to his phone. Your tits are one millimeter away from telling the classroom good morning.
His eyes go to my mouth and I smile. “Tits don’t talk, Bergman.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a long, slow breath. When his hand falls, and I feel his eyes are on me again, I peer down, playfully sliding my finger along the edge of my shirt. Ryder swallows so loudly the students in back can hear him.
I glance up at him and watch his eyes dip to my mouth. “Besides, they’re fine. I have boob tape that keeps them stuck.” My finger still idles along my shirt, not far from my rapidly hardening nipple. This is getting a little out of hand. Ryder’s breaths are deep, husky tugs of air. I take a shuddering inhale, and I sound just as twisted up as him. Clearing my throat, I remind myself of the point of this.
Pausing, I flip the edge of the fabric, showing Ryder a peek of the double-stick adherent and probably a sliver of nip, if I’m being honest. Not like I care. I’m an athlete. Spend ten minutes in a pre-game locker room and you’ll get it—I’ve been consensually stripping down in front of others for a solid decade at this point. It makes no difference to me.
Apparently, it makes a difference to Ryder. His jaw drops. I have to turn away so he doesn’t catch the gigantic grin of satisfaction painting my face. It’s just too good to pass up, so I open my phone and type. Bonus of this sticky stuff? I don’t even need a bra.
Ryder’s head drops as his fist lands heavy on the desk.
For once, when Mac starts the lecture, it’s me who’s studiously noting away. Ryder’s a stone statue to my left. I’m not even sure he ever lifts his pen. But when the lights go up and class ends, I sure as heck don’t stick around to find out.
The following forty-eight hours prove beneficial for both parties involved. I remember that the last thing I have time for in my life is seducing surly mountain men, and Ryder probably remembers why he prefers me in head-to-toe sweatpants.
I don’t really know what I was thinking, wearing that revealing shirt, except that my temper is its own living, breathing thing inside my brain. It just kept telling me that trying to make the guy’s eyeballs fall out of his head was an infinitely more proportional response than, say, dropping a laxative in his giant stainless steel water canteen or, I don’t know, dousing his boxers with pepper spray. By comparison, a well-timed titty tease felt practically docile.
But now, with a few days to cool off, I realize that if Ryder upped the ante with the hearing aid stealth move, I just went all in with my little peep show. As I wait for him to arrive at my apartment, I’m left wondering, Now what?
I don’t have time to think any longer, because there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, I’m met with Ryder, holding a hand over his eyes. My phone dings.
You wearing actual clothes this time?
I smack his stomach. It earns a soft oof from Ryder, as his hand falls. His green eyes are dark with mischief and he tips the brim of his ball cap in greeting, then walks past me.
As I spin on my heel, my eyes narrow. He’s up to something. I can feel it. Perhaps I didn’t consider my strategy as longitudinally as I should have. I didn’t really think that Ryder would take my sartorial provocation and be vindictive—there’s some bookstore vocabulary for you—I kind of expected him to choke on his tongue in class and leave it at that.