I feel my mattress sink down at my feet and realize that that jerk is sitting on my bed! I scrunch my legs up to my chest, because I’m an armadillo now—rolling up into a protective little ball. How dare he invade my house before I’ve had a chance to brush my hair and put my makeup on. No one sees me without it. No one.
“Come on, get up. We’ve got a lot to do this morning.” He’s trying to yank the covers off my face, but I have a Ms.-Dorothy-tight grip on them, and they don’t even budge.
“Stop it. Leave me alone.” I take off one of my socks and peek my hand out from under the covers to throw it across the room. “Fetch, boy!”
He chuckles. “Why are you hiding under there? Are you naked again or something?”
“You wish.” I inch the covers off my face and clutch them over my braless chest. I’m wearing a yellow camisole and sleep shorts. Not too inappropriate but also not something I feel like letting Ryan get a peek at.
It’s then that I’m hit with the full force of Ryan’s attractiveness. It’s not fair. Not one bit. I don’t see even a hint of sleep crud in his eyes. No bedhead. He’s wearing a crisp, navy-blue T-shirt, and his hair is nicely tousled with some kind of matte hair product. Even worse, he smells incredible. Like, make-you-want-to-sell-all-your-belongings-and-run-off-into-the-sunset-together incredible. He’s gorgeous. Evil people shouldn’t be gorgeous.
I, in comparison, have drool crusted on my mouth.
He doesn’t notice the drool, though. I watch his dark eyes fall to my shoulder and stop. The corner of his mouth quirks into a grin. “You have a tattoo.” His voice is kind of gravelly, and it does things to my insides. “Can I see it?”
I don’t know why, but I nod my head in approval. And then, even worse, I twist around so he can see my shoulder better. He leans forward a little, and I stay still—completely frozen—because Ryan Henderson is sitting on my bed with me, and I can’t fully bring myself to hate it.
My body and my mind are bickering. They don’t agree on a single thing right now.
Ryan doesn’t touch my sunflower-covered shoulder, but I feel the heat of his gaze across my skin as if it were his fingers. My toes curl. His nearness is too much. Too loaded. Too intense. I shoot out of bed faster than a bottle rocket, race into my bathroom, and shut the door. I’m breathing fast, and my eyes are wide like a deer who barely made it across traffic without getting hit.
What’s happening to me?
“You said we have a lot to do today?” I yell through the door, and it’s ridiculous how squeaky my voice sounds. “I don’t remember signing up to be your assistant.” I throw on my (Stacy’s) olive-green cotton jumper before I remember I DID technically agree to be his assistant.
Wonderful. I should have just let Stacy tell him I peed my pants on a roller coaster. Big whoop. I’m sure women in their twenties pee themselves on a double loop-de-loop coaster all the time. Well, maybe not so much a roller coaster and more like a scrambler…with my niece…who had no problems controlling her bladder. So, never mind, spending the morning with Ryan is probably a better outcome.
“Right,” says Ryan, sounding as if he’s wandering around my room. “Think of it less like assisting and more like grunt work.”
I finish tying the straps of my jumper over each of my shoulders, throw my hair into a bun, and swipe on a base layer of makeup before opening the door. Ryan is standing in front of my dresser, looking at the picture of me with Sam and Jonathan (my niece and nephew) at the beach. I’m not sure if he knows I’m watching him or not, but he smiles softly at the photo.
My brows pinch together because I’m not sure what to make of this Ryan. There’s a part of me that realizes it’s been a long time since high school. We’ve both grown up. We’ve both lived a lot of life and become completely new people since we were last sticking chewed gum to the bottom of the other’s desk. More than likely, Ryan is not the same teenager who sabotaged all my dates, toilet-papered my bedroom, and put a lizard in my backpack.
On second thought, I’m not quite ready to let go of my hatred yet.
“Quit snooping around my room,” I say, going to his side and laying the picture frame face down. He doesn’t get to know things about my life.
He turns that soft smile to me. “Do you have two secret children I don’t know about?”
“Yes, they live here and here.” I hold up both of my fists and raise my middle fingers.
He doesn’t look offended like I had hoped. He chuckles and gently folds down my birds until his big hands are covering mine. “I think you need some coffee.”
Why is he doing this? Being so touchy-feely? And doing that strange thing with his face? On most people, it’s called a smile. But on Ryan, I don’t trust that it’s something so nice.
I consider telling Ryan I gave coffee up just to spite him, but he’s right. I do need coffee. I need it funneling into my mouth from one of those beer hats at all times.
A grunt is the only snarky reply I can think of until I get a hit of that aforementioned coffee. I jerk my hands out of his hold and head toward the kitchen, wishing I didn’t feel so annoying. I’ve never treated anyone like I treat Ryan. Even when I broke things off with Ben, I never acted snarky and disagreeable.
I turn my head and find Ryan opening my fridge.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making eggs.” He reaches in and pulls out the carton.
“No, you are not.” I cross the kitchen and take the eggs from him and put the carton back in the fridge. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
It’s true. I don’t even sneak one of our own donuts until after lunch.
He shakes his head at me and reaches in for the eggs again. “You should. Maybe you’d be less angry all the time.” I grind my teeth into dust as Ryan sets the eggs on the counter and starts looking in all my cabinets. He pauses with his hands on the handles of the open upper cabinets and looks at me over his large shoulder. “Do you not own a mixing bowl?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do.” I push him out of the way with my hip. I won’t let my hands touch him. They have a mind of their own, and I’m afraid that if they feel his hard body, I won’t be able to pull them back off. From then on, I would have to go with him everywhere, my hands plastered to the six-pack that, no doubt, lives under his shirt. “But I’m not a million feet tall like you, so I keep everything down here.” I open a lower cabinet and wave my hands in front of it, making the classic ta-da gesture.
Once the mixing bowl situation is settled, I pour my cup of coffee and hop up onto the counter to watch closely (because I’m keeping a steady eye on the enemy, not because I think he’s sexy) as Ryan goes to work making us breakfast. He takes out an egg, taps it on the counter, and cracks it open with one hand. He does this with five eggs before washing his hands and going back to my fridge to pull out a bell pepper and cheese. My eyes follow him around like the head of the CIA has assigned me to investigate his every move. Like they are suddenly concerned chefs making morning omelets might be starting a nuclear war.
Ryan makes himself at home. He’s forgotten I exist and that this is my kitchen he’s taking over. I sip my coffee while Ryan pulls out a knife I’ve only ever used to wield as a weapon and starts chopping the bell pepper at a frightening speed. He’s humming, and his tan forearms are flexing as the knife continues to slice and dice. Finally, he lays down the knife and scoops the veggies up to pour into the egg mixture and dumps it all into the hot skillet on the stove.
Now he’s got a hand towel draped over his shoulder and is flipping an omelet, and the veins down his arms are popping, and my mouth is watering, but it has absolutely nothing to do with breakfast.
After Ryan tosses our omelets onto plates, it occurs to me that I have a three-star Michelin chef making me breakfast in my kitchen. “What are you really doing here, Ryan?”
He hasn’t spoken to me or even glanced in my direction since he started cooking, so I sort of just thought he forgot I was here. But when his eyes find me right away, I realize he never lost track of me once. He’s been just as aware of me as I am of him.
“Making you breakfast before we plan the menu for Friday night.”
I shake my head and set down my coffee beside me. “You don’t need me for that. You’re a chef.”
He folds his arms and leans back against the counter, keeping his eyes fixed on me. “You’re right.”
“So, why then? I want the truth. Is this some kind of trap or way for you to mess with me like you used to?”
He gives me a sad tilted smile and shakes his head. “After all this time, you still don’t see the real reason I messed with you back then?” The string connecting us pulls tight.
I force myself to swallow. “Because you hated me.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward me, one slow agonizing step at a time, until he’s close enough to pin me in. His hands land on the counter beside my hips, and I forget how to breathe. “Has it never occurred to you that the only reason I picked on you in high school is because I was into you? Or that messing with you was the only way I could get you to look at me?”
My heart is beating so hard right now I’m afraid if I open my mouth, it will leap right out. I settle with slowly shaking my head.
He smiles, and his eyes fall and settle on my mouth. “June, I’m not your enemy.” Those dark eyes hold my mouth for five heartbeats before they pop back up to meet my gaze. “I never was.”
For a minute, I think we’re going to kiss. But then he pulls away, picks up our plates, and carries them to the table.
I, however, can’t move. I’m numb—inside and out.
His words seep into me like a dry, brittle sponge slowly being dipped in water.
I’m not your enemy. I never was.
