“Have you done this before?” I ask. “I mean, is this what you do with women in your life? Pay their bills and . . .”
His brow furrows. “No.”
“My car is old. My parents covered my school. You got me a new phone. So there’s not much. I think I’m good. I can pay my own bills online when they come due.”
Honestly, I don’t have enough in my account to cover more than a month or two, having not found a job, and chasing Ryder’s tour around wasn’t cheap.
“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Ryder says, as if he knows my financial struggle.
I appreciate that he asked and didn’t order. I hate to do it, but I’d hate even more to have to ask Addison or my parents for money, so I simply nod and say, “Thank you.”
“Sure,” he says, reaching for my hand, but Maggie interrupts.
“I’ve got the housekeeper candidates narrowed down to two,” she says. “I’ll be by in the morning to discuss and talk about . . .”
“Tomorrow,” Ryder says, cutting her off.
Without so much as a glance my way, Maggie walks off.
“Good night!” I yell to her, but she doesn’t even bother to turn around.
“Fuck,” Ryder mutters under his breath before stomping in her direction.
I shouldn’t watch, but I want to see him rip her a new one for being so rude to me. I have no idea why he puts up with her. He is standing in front of her, his arms are crossed in front of his chest, his jaw is set, and I’m pretty sure I just heard her refer to me as his baby momma! What the hell?
She’s not wrong. Technically, that’s what I am, but the phrase has such a negative connotation. What I did to piss the woman off, I’ll never know. Is she jealous of the attention Ryder gives me? Does she feel threatened?
They separate, Maggie heading to her car, and Ryder walking over to me. I’m tempted to yell good night to her again, but it’s not worth it. “Why don’t you fire her? She’s rude and . . .”
“Very good at her job,” he says.
“I’m sure you could find someone else equally good.”
“I’m not so sure. Maggie knows me,” he says. “We understand each other.”
“Do you . . .” I start then stop, looking down at my feet. I mean, I want to know, but I also don’t. It’s not really my business, and perhaps I’m opening a can of worms I don’t want to, but I do it anyway. “Are you sleeping together?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ryder laugh so hard before. He’s usually very much in control, but he doubles over like it’s the most absurd question on the planet. It’s such an honest response from him that I know he’s not faking it.
“Fuck no!” he cries. “Why would you even think that?”
“Well, she’s attractive, and, you have a reputation of screwing anything in a skirt. So how is it she’s worked for you for this long, and you’ve never fallen into bed together?”
“First of all, I guess Maggie’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to her. Secondly, my reputation is in the past, so let’s leave it there. And lastly, we’ve never so much as kissed.”
“But you seem so loyal to each other. You accept each other’s bad habits. Isn’t that part of love, loving the other person, warts and all?”
“I thought we were talking about sex, not . . .”
“Love and sex go hand in hand,” I say, knowing that’s not true for him. “At least, for me.”
“Always?” he asks.
Crap! Okay, I know some people don’t believe in love at first sight or instalove. I didn’t either, until I met Ryder. The brief time we spent together, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I fell in love with him, but there was a promise of what could be—a promise of love.
I would’ve never slept with him if I didn’t believe it would lead to something more, something wonderful. I place my hands on my belly. The something wonderful just wasn’t what I expected.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, dodging his question.
“Sure, you should probably get off your feet,” he says, opening the front door and offering his hand to me.
I don’t take it, but move inside with him. His jaw tenses. Did he really think he could just hold my hand and things would be fine? He’s right, things will be easier if I forgive him, but I don’t know how to do that without also falling for him. Holding on to my anger is keeping me from grabbing onto him.
“A tour of the house, please, before I have to lay down again,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything but this front room, and I should at least know where my bedroom is.”
“Ten minutes and no stairs,” he says.
“You don’t want me to go upstairs in a house I’m living in?”
“It’s just my . . .”
“A whole floor of man cave?” I tease.
“No,” he says. “It’s a recording studio and music room.”
Immediately, I head toward the stairs, my hand landing on the banister. “I’ve never seen a recording studio.”
His hand lands on top of mine. “Later,” he says. “The drive was long and bumpy and . . .”
“One pothole,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re really overprotective.”
“There’s no such thing,” he says.
Slowly, I start to wander around. This place is like something out of a dream, even more so now that it’s furnished. The house is anchored by a huge living space and kitchen. One side of the house is devoted to the master bedroom and bathroom, and the other side contains the spare bedrooms.
He points out a security panel on the wall, giving me the code and explaining that there are cameras surrounding the house that can be checked anytime via an app on our cell phones or the televisions. I haven’t had an alarm since I lived with my mom and dad, and it was nothing like this.
Since he’s a musician, it makes sense that there’s also a sound system so music can be played in any room of the house. I follow him to a set of double doors, the only doors on one side of the house. As soon as he opens them, I know this is my room. The canopy bed is a dead giveaway. The room is huge, with its own fireplace, complete with a sofa parked in front. A chaise lounge by the window looks perfect for reading. In fact, he’s placed my sister’s housewarming gift on top. Wonder which will fill up faster—the shit or the shine? I run my hands over the fabric, calm, cool grays and whites.
“There’s a similar chair on the balcony off the den,” Ryder says. “I thought it would be a good spot to get fresh air, a change of scenery. I’m sure looking at the same four walls is going to get old pretty quick.”
“I don’t think I could ever get sick of this room,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
A nod of his head, and he’s stepping toward the master bathroom and closet, my clothes already hanging inside.
“I lied,” I say. “I may never leave the closet.”
There’s no way one person could possibly fill up the amount of space in here. There’s a whole wall just for shoes, another for handbags, a huge island in the center for lingerie and undergarments. It’s insane.