Thoughts of him in that towel with wet hair tousled like every teenage girl’s hot-lifeguard fantasy keep flashing in my mind. Do skillets weigh hundreds of pounds? They must for Ryan to have a body as sculpted as he does. His abs are like six perfect shelves. I could store things on them if I needed to.
And his mouth. So so perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever considered what makes a mouth perfect before, but Ryan’s is the standard. Full but not too full. A nice curve when he smiles that makes his eyes crinkle. Reddish, pinkish, brownish. Gah—I don’t even know what that means. It’s just good, okay? And I bet those lips would feel sooo good on mine.
When my palms start sweating at the thought of grabbing Ryan and pulling his mouth against mine, I decide it’s time to turn my mind to more productive tasks—like aimlessly scrolling through my phone.
I swipe it open and look down, but let’s be honest, I’m not really seeing what I’m looking at because I’ve trained my peripherals on the man in my kitchen.
Ryan’s voice makes me jump. “So, is there a reason you still follow your ex?”
“Huh?”
I look up in time to see him tilt his head toward my phone—eyes trained on the potato he’s chopping. “This morning you said your ex posted about his engagement. I was wondering why you still follow him on Instagram if he hurt you that much?”
“Oh.” I set my phone to the side. It wasn’t distracting me anyway. “I don’t. I just…” Oh gosh, I don’t want to admit this. To say it’s embarrassing is an understatement. But I’ve already told Ryan something about my life that no one else knows. Might as well get this off my chest too. “I occasionally go check his profile, hoping to see that maybe he’s grown a new mole on his face since I last saw him.” Please don’t make fun of me.
He grins. “I get it.”
“You do?” He has a quiet smile as he nods.
Chop, chop, chop.
His knife sails over the cutting board, and I get the feeling there’s more that he’s not saying, so I do a little digging. “You have an ex-girlfriend you stalk on Instagram or something?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes cut to me for a split second before training on the cutting board again. “Not an ex.”
I swallow, and my heart races from this new game we’re playing. “Hmm…interesting. So, it’s someone you don’t want anyone to know you follow?”
Ryan sets down his knife and walks toward me. My stomach tightens when his gaze fixes on mine before grabbing both my hips and sliding me to the side so he can open the drawer I was blocking and pulls out a ladle. But he’s not far enough in his cooking process yet to need a ladle. Busted. He sets the unneeded utensil down beside the cutting board and starts on another potato but doesn’t speak.
“So, this mysterious woman. Do you like her?”
“How long do you think this game is going to last? Because I need your help cooking.” He doesn’t need my help.
Ryan had come up with the most incredible menu for the rehearsal dinner. A Tuscan seared salmon with seasonal vegetables roasted in a red wine sauce and the most decadent chocolate cherry tart for dessert that Stacy immediately vetoed before slapping a worn-out, handwritten recipe into his hand. I’ve never seen Ryan so dejected as he read over Stacy’s desired rehearsal dinner menu: a dish I’d had many times at her mom’s house called potato-chipped chicken, old-fashioned mashed potatoes, green beans slathered in butter, and homestyle mac and cheese. I think Ryan wanted to cry. I enjoyed it too much.
“I just want to hear you admit it,” I say with a satisfied smirk.
He stops and levels me with a melting smolder. “Admit what?”
Under his attention, my confidence wavers. A minute ago, I was enjoying this game. Now, I see that, in classic Ryan style, he has turned the tables. The spotlight isn’t on him anymore. I’m the one who has to say the words out loud that my heart is hoping are true. But they might not be…this might all just be in my head.
“Never mind.”
“Admit what, June?”
“No, this was silly. Let’s move on.” I want him to quit looking at me, but he doesn’t. I’m angry at myself for pushing this game. I can’t take any more hits today, and I’ve set myself up for embarrassment.
“What do you want me to admit to you?”
You know what? Fine. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Here we go.
I pull on my fake courage and meet his blistering stare. “Admit that you’ve been pining away for me all these years.”
The dare floats between us, and the only evidence that he even heard me is when the corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. “June, I’ve been pining away for you all these years.”
His words tip me over. Spin me around. Disorient me until I can’t see straight. Ryan’s face is serious. He really means what he just said, and his admittance makes my stomach turn inside out. I can’t say anything. My tongue is tied up in a neat little bow.
At my silence, he grins and turns back to his work. I should take this opportunity to laugh in his face. I could finally win our war. Here and now, I could claim victory and plant a flag in the ground, staking my win. I should do that. I don’t. “Are you ever going to ask me out?”
I want Ryan to jump or startle at my words, but of course he doesn’t. His confidence is what makes him so attractive. “You just told me, about an hour ago, that you’re not ready. Something changed?”
Something has definitely changed, but because it feels safer to admit I’m attracted to Ryan than I have feelings for him, I tell a different truth. “Yeah. I saw your abs. It got me thinking that maybe one date won’t hurt.”
“No, thanks.”
“What?” I immediately start picking my shield back up. I should have known better than to think this wasn’t all some trick.
He must hear the edge to my voice, because he turns to me and looks me in the eyes. “June, I’m not interested in becoming the next guy in your long string of one and only dates. I like you—I have for a long time—and I’m done hiding it. I want to give us a chance, but one date is not gonna do it for me. So, are you ready to give up your rule?”
Yes.
“No.”
He nods but doesn’t get upset like most men would. “Okay, then.” He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. “Get over here and help me make some mashed potatoes.”
Part of me thinks we should keep talking about this. That I should empty my feelings out onto the counter like an adult and tell him I’m scared of him. I’m scared of loving him and him walking away from me. But I can’t. The words won’t budge.
I slide off the countertop and move to stand beside him as he hands me a big knife that I don’t think he would have given me if he knew how few times I’ve held it before. That fact is clear, though, when I grab hold of the slippery potato and inch the blade through it. Nice and slow. That’s it. Easy does it. ANNNNND one cut complete!
