CHAPTER FIVE
I check my reflection in the elevator’s mirrored surface and smooth down the few flyaway hairs on top of my head. Yesterday Ryland worked for over an hour with me on how to use crutches. It’s difficult, but at least I’m not a total mess on them any longer. This morning as I prepped for my first day back to work, I dressed extra nice in my favorite black business suit with a slimming pink blouse. I didn’t dress nicely so Ryland would visualize me in clothes other than pajama pants with ponies on them. I did it for work.
It didn’t matter. I fumbled out my door and was met by a Post-it note stuck to the front of Ryland’s. The man loves his sticky notes. His chicken scratch scrawl on the bright yellow paper let me know he’d started a morning run but left the door unlocked. I wasn’t let down or anything. It’s better I wasn’t forced to deal with his attitude so early in the day.
Nine hours later and for unknown reasons, my nerves are ratcheted. I’m not sure what I’ll find in Ryland’s apartment. It looked normal the two other times I've been in it, but you never know with playboy athletes. What if there’s a girl with him tonight?
The elevator ride takes forever, longer than I remember, and as the doors open, I slam my eyes shut. Balancing a crutch under my arm I hold out a hand to stop the door from closing and listen. Nothing. I hold my breath and listen harder but still don’t pick up any sound. There’s no girly giggles or man grunting.
The Cubs have a better chance of winning the pennant than I have of making it home with crutches and my eyes closed, so with the expectation Ryland’s gone I peel them open. I blink to adjust and jerk back, but I catch myself before I fall. Ryland, in nothing but a bright blue towel, leans against the wall at the end of the hallway.
His body glistens with drops of water on his exposed chest and thick arms. Holy crap. My lower lip falls a fraction as my eyes roam over his muscled torso. I try to count abs, but the towel disrupts my view and I’m forced to stop at six.
Ryland laughs and I jerk my head to meet his bright blue eyes.
“See something you like, Kitten?”
“What?” I sputter and hobble down the hallway past him.
He follows two steps behind me even though he could easily catch up. “Why are you flustered?” The man won’t leave well enough alone and let me leave with dignity.
I refuse to be embarrassed by him. With my head held high, I stop before I answer. “This.” With a raised hand I indicate his toweled self. “Or there'd be a girl here, and I’d walk in on your freaky business.”
He laughs. More with the damn laughing. What’s funny about this situation?
“Marissa, I have no intention of having any woman but you here.”
Ryland reaches his door before me and holds it open so I’m not forced to stop. My movements may be jerky, but they get me closer and closer to the safety of my apartment.
I steal one last look at his chiseled chest before stopping in the hallway to yell out, “And don’t call me Kitten!” seconds before his door clicks closed. But he heard me.
My steps slow the closer I get to my door as fatigue sets in. No one tells you how much coordination goes into using crutches. I’m exhausted from the small amount of walking I used them for today.
I’m tired and my underarms hurt almost as much as my foot. But against the odds, there’s a smile stretched across my face by the time I unlock my apartment. The sight of my flower and swirl mat helps as it sits proudly right in front of my door in the hallway. It's been there since Sunday night. Neither of us has acknowledged it, and I refuse to ask Ryland why he moved it back.
Maybe Ryland Bates isn’t such a playboy jerk face after all.
**
I balance a crutch on the wall and push the escaped hairs back into my loose bun using the elevator mirror. The entire scene reminds me of my trip upstairs yesterday. I haven’t seen Ryland today — he'd already left for another run this morning — and I can’t decide if I’d prefer a repeat performance with his almost naked body or if it’d be better for him to be clothed this time. Clothed probably; although, naked towel sounds more fun.
Arrogant.
Playboy.
Too tall.
Jerk face.
I mentally list off Ryland’s undesirable qualities as the elevator climbs floors. It helps to remind myself of the reasons I am not sporting a crush on Ryland Bates. He’s my landlord, and even if there’s a small part of me in the pro-Ryland camp, there are rules I must follow. One rule in particular. Number nine.
I’m comfortable enough to step off the elevator with my eyes open today. It’s quiet as I walk into the large open area. As was the case when I assumed things about Ryland before, I’m wrong again. What I’m met with today is worse than yesterday.
Smack dab in the middle of the area Ryland’s stretched out on a yoga mat in the downward facing dog position, his ass in my direction. I stop and gape at him unsure what comment’s appropriate in this situation. Is there one?
His eyes open and he looks at me through his legs. They’re a nice frame to his pretty face, but I wouldn’t complain if his grey track pants were tighter.
“What in the hell are you doing, Ryland?”
