“I think I’m going to throw up,” I mutter.
“Nonsense. Take a deep breath. It’s Christmas dinner, not the Last Supper.”
“Could have fooled me.”
When we round the corner, my heart jumps into my throat. It’s an explosion of Christmas. Fresh garland, candles burning on every possible surface. Acoustic guitar playing Christmas music is a soft backdrop to the starlit wall of glass windows and doors of their great room. A Christmas tree is covered in handmade ornaments and sparkling lights. People snuggle on a massive sofa in front of the fire, hands cupping steaming mugs, reaching for pieces of a board game, laughing, talking, mingling.
It’s sickeningly cheery.
But then, away from the cozy chaos, Ryder stands next to his mom in the kitchen, talking. She speaks in a language I can’t understand, but Ryder seems to follow, nodding his head as she points to a massive ham on the counter. Following her instructions, Ryder is poised to cut into it. But then he sets down the knife.
I watch his hands grip and wipe the towel, then unbutton his cuffs and slowly fold the fabric along his arms. It’s another damn forearm striptease as he rolls up soft, worn flannel. This one’s Christmas tree green, checkered with white and wine red. It’s festive as hell. He looks like a yuletide wet dream.
I swallow so loud, Santa hears me in the North Pole.
Ryder must hear it, too, with his newfound auditory contraptions, because his eyes snap up and lock with mine. Those grass green eyes crinkle with what seems like a smile, but who knows, the bushy beard hides it. When he picks up the towel again, I gulp, watching his hand work the fabric.
I need to get laid. This is not right. I’m eroticizing hand-drying.
“Hi,” I manage.
Mama practically yanks herself out of my grip and wheels herself forward, as Dr. B guides her to a space at the table that they’ve cleared for her wheelchair.
Ryder steps close as he tucks the towel in his back pocket. Even that’s hot. There’s no mercy in this world.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His eyes hold mine, and the room gets twice as hot. “Willa, about last night. About everything…I’m sorry. I wish…” He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. His fingers snag on the strands, reminding him they’re pulled back. I have to suffer through him retying his hair, watching those damn muscles bunch under his shirt, his long, calloused fingers pulling each blond streak back into a tight bun. “I wish I would have told you more. I was scared of what would happen if I laid it all out. Holding my cards close felt necessary because we were playing a pretty brutal game. The stakes were high.”
I nod. “I get it. Me too.” I should say more. I should own my part more fully, but I can barely talk.
Ryder doesn’t seem to mind my paltry answer. He grins. “Forgiven?”
“Forgiven.” I swallow thickly. “And me?”
He frowns and steps closer, then wraps his hand around my shoulder. “Of course.”
His touch completes the circuit that I’ve missed. Electricity snaps and sparks between us. I sway toward him, then pull myself out of it.
“You look incredible.” His hand gently seeks a curl of mine and winds it around his finger. “You and this color. Reminds me of the infamous red napkin.”
I swat his hand away. “I don’t remember you disliking that napkin at the time.”
Ryder smirks, but his eyes bore into my skin. I feel their heat, their weight as they travel my body. “I never said I did.”
“Your eyes are kind of scary, right now, Ryder.” His pupils are so wide, I only know his eye color because I’ve seen it before. He bears that same thigh-clenching intensity as when I first met him.
He swallows and blinks, snapping himself out of it. “Sorry. Caveman moment.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Caveman moment?”
“You’re beautiful. I have four brothers about to see you. I’m feeling a little possessive.”
Those words roll off his tongue and dance across my skin. “Oh,” I say dumbly.
Scrubbing his face, he then drops his hands. “Ignore me.” His eyes hold mine for a long minute, before he leans and places a soft kiss to my temple. “Merry Christmas, Sunshine.”
I stand in place after his lips leave me, after his steps fade away. I’m rooted to the spot, my eyes shut, the world condensed to the echo of his kiss, burning with significance.
24
Willa
Playlist: “River,” Joni Mitchell
MacCormack’s on his best non-professorial behavior, and when he catches me after dinner, he looks like a dog with his tail between his legs.
“Willa, I want to apologize.”
“What for, Mac?”
He clears his throat, his eyes sliding over to Freya, who sits nestled on the couch. She gives a tiny wave as her eyes glint menacingly at her husband. If I didn’t find it such an admirable look in a fellow badass female, I’d be scared shitless for him.
“Well, it’s come to my attention, after some thought and reflection, and of course the very wise insight of my lovely wife—”
“Mac, I’m not going to go report to Freya about your behavior.”
“Maybe not.” He wipes his forehead. “But she’s watching, trust me. She has ears everywhere.”
I snort a laugh. “Dude, you are freaking out.”
He clears his throat. “To the point: I blurred professional and personal lines. My intentions at the outset were good. I saw a struggling student and a thriving person in you, and a disciplined student and a dwindling person in Ryder. I knew he’d be able to give you all the help you needed academically, and you’d be persistent enough to pursue what you wanted, and hopefully lurch him out of his rut. It seemed like a good character-building exercise.”
“Oh, it built character, all right. Also shaved five years off of my life, easily.”
He nods. “Yeah, like I said, I let it get out of hand. I got invested in what I saw between you two. I saw your potential, and I…well, I played God a little bit and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. If you decide to take this to my superiors, I will completely understand.”
“Mac.” A grin tilts my mouth. “As much as I fantasized about many ways to murder you in your sleep, I’m grateful. After all is said and done, I did well in that class, much in thanks to Ryder and to the fact that working with him required I get my shit together. No, you weren’t always nice, or sane, or professional, but you gave me what I needed.”
My eyes drift to Ryder. He stands, arms crossed, talking to the Irish twins, Viggo and Oliver. My heart flip-flops as I watch all three of them explode in laughter, as his head tips back with a smile. “I wouldn’t change that for the world,” I tell Mac.
Once Mac returns to Freya on the couch, she raises her glass to me. I cheers her in the air, and soak up the moment alone, taking stock of the evening. It’s been stunningly pleasant. Ryder’s family is beyond warm. His sisters are conversational and kind, Freya chatting with me about the women’s soccer program at UCLA—she played, too, “a lifetime ago,” as she said—and Ziggy fangirled over me because she wants to follow in her sister’s and my footsteps.