The brothers…they all introduced themselves. But from every single one of them I had the distinct sense of cautious propriety, like they weren’t really being themselves, but on their best, most dignified behavior. It’s almost like Ryder told them to straighten up or else…
“That’s because he did.”
A voice close to Ryder’s but not quite as rough, less baritone, cuts through my thoughts. I sigh. “I have a regrettable inability to not think out loud.”
Ren smiles. “Ah, no worries. And trust me, be glad Ryder gave them a talking to. Ax is an otherwise prickly dickly and the man-cubs are still barely housebroken.”
“But, I mean eventually, they won’t act like that, right? They’ll talk to me without looking like they’re scared Ry’s going to break their thumbs?”
Ren pats my shoulder gently. “Trust me, you’ll get hazed soon enough. For now, you’re under Ryder’s protection.” His gray-blue eyes twinkle. “He’s crazy about you. He’d break my kneecaps if he knew I told you that, but it’s obvious. You’re obviously crazy about him, too. So what’s the hold-up?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Now, Renny Roo, we shouldn’t insinuate ourselves in other people’s business.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Renny Roo? My name’s Søren, Winifred.”
“Stop it. That doesn’t sound remotely like Willa.”
“It was off the cuff. I’m not smooth like Ryder. Take it easy on me.”
“I can’t. I’m an antagonist at heart.” I shrug and smirk as his eyes narrow in irritation. “Which is why I had to prod you about your name. Søren is badass, and Ryder says you don’t like it. Why?”
Ren’s expression shutters slightly before he rallies with a grin and a coy look of amusement. “I’ll answer to Ren, half-pint.” He dodges my attempt to poke him viciously. “You should be more afraid to provoke me. I’m a giant ginger Viking who skates on knives for a living—”
“Hey.” Ryder cuts in. He crosses himself. “We don’t talk about the fall of the prodigal son.” His voice is still new, yet somehow familiar. My stomach tightens, hearing its deep, gravelly notes.
Ren sighs wearily. “Hockey is not that terrible. I guarantee you Bergmans have been skating on ice much longer than they’ve been chasing a ball across a field of grass, looking like demented sheep.”
Ryder shoves him. “You were good at soccer, too. That’s what hurts.”
“Wait, you chose hockey over soccer?” I lean in and lock eyes with Ren. “And they still acknowledge you as family?”
Ren throws up his hands. “I’m a goddamn professional hockey player and you’d think I sold organs on the black market. Jesus. He didn’t even tell you?”
“Nope.” Ryder puts his arm around me and pulls me close before I shove him off. “I’m trying to protect her. She doesn’t need to know about the sordid world of smelly hockey gloves and playoff beards and puck bunnies.”
Dr. B calls Ren’s name as he laughs. “Saved by the Big B. I can’t take the persecution,” Ren says wryly. “See ya, mini Mia.”
“That’s a compliment!” I call after him. The Mia Hamm part. Not the mini part. I am not mini. I’m five foot six, thank you very much.
My eyes travel from Ren, across the room, then land on Mama. She’s nestled on the couch, playing a card game with Ryder’s parents and Axel.
“Hey,” Ryder says. I look up at him and my heart beats double time.
When he steps close to me, I nearly tumble into the Christmas tree. “Easy.” His eyes drift over me in assessment. “Did you hit the glogg a little hard at dinner?”
I shove him. “I’m sober, Sasquatch.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” His eyes on me are too much, so I turn and look at the tree.
“Little bit of national pride?” A hundred tiny Swedish flags pepper the branches. Gnomes, hard gingerbread cutouts, and braided straw designs. It’s perfect.
Ryder smiles as he sips his steaming cup of spiced wine and doesn’t say anything. I’m used to his quietness, but this feels different. This silence has a weight I’m uneasy with.
“Your house is the lovechild of West Elm and IKEA,” I blurt. “Your siblings are funny and smart and welcoming. Your family looks like a Swedish Christmas card. Your mom cooked the best food I’ve ever eaten. She’s a culinary genius and a supermodel. Julia Child meets Claudia Schiffer. I could slice cheese on her cheekbones.”
Ryder chokes on his drink, then brings a hand to his lips and dabs them. “Jesus, Willa. Where do you come up with half the shit that flies out of your mouth?”
“Blurting nonsense is my spiritual gift, Mama says.” My eyes search the tree, admiring it, as much as it tortures me. What a home they have, such close family. I know their abundance doesn’t equate to my lack, but it feels like a quart of lemon juice dumped in an open wound.
Ryder grips my elbow, making my breath stutter in my throat.
“Willa, I want to talk. Can we go somewhere private?”
My head snaps his way. “Why?”
His hand smooths his beard, a new habit that sprang up as the infernal facial hair grew to survivalist-deep-in-the-woods length. “Well, if I told you, that would defeat the purpose of speaking in private.”
“Then say it here and forget the private part.”
Ryder sighs, his eyes drifting shut before slowly opening. Once again, his bright, grass green irises aggravate me. They’re too beautiful. This whole night is one big, beautiful, juxtaposition to my reality.
“Fine.” He sets down his wine on a side table and steps closer, sliding his hands up my arms and locking them in when I try to back away. “I want a truce. A ceasefire.”
“A what?”
“I don’t want to be frenemies anymore.”
“W-what do you want?” My voice is husky. I sound like my panties are drenched and the lace of my bralette is about to curl off my burning skin because them’s the facts.
Ryder’s hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking along the bone. “I want you.”
“You have me.” I swallow. “I’m here.”
Ryder shakes his head. “Not how it’s been. I want more. I want everything.”
“I-I don’t do that.”
His brow furrows. “Don’t do what?”
“I don’t do relationships. Dating’s not for me. I have to focus on soccer and graduating, then going to whatever professional women’s team wants me. Getting attached to someone here is a recipe for disaster…” My voice trails off, as his thumb circles the skin behind my ear. My eyes nearly cross as it slides down my neck.
“Hm.” Ryder steps even closer, fusing our fronts. Every hard plane of his body, every dip and swell of mine. A small, pathetic noise squeaks out of me. The tailpipe’s at half-mast already, knocking against my stomach. “Too bad,” he says quietly.
He’s going to step back, I can feel it. I fist his shirt before he can, twisting that soft material inside my fingers, wishing I was wrapped in it. I wish it were torn off his body, a blanket beneath us as he filled me. “B-but, I might consider expanding the parameters of our frenemyship.”