CHAPTER SIX
Another day begins and ends with a ride in Ryland’s elevator. Except today I’m curious. Can I expect the abs to be on display? More yoga with his butt high in the air? Or maybe I'll find him in lederhosen dancing a jig. The endless possibilities raise my lips into a smile as the elevator doors slide open to reveal his white walled hallway.
“You’re back early.” A female voice stops me in my tracks.
I hesitate, but whoever the woman is doesn’t seem to notice as she keeps talking to a person she can’t see. “There are a few things left, but I'm almost finished.”
With a straight back and sure crutches, I walk down the hallway with deep breaths to prepare for whatever I’ll find.
The end of the hallway approaches and I stop at the edge. A tall woman in a light blue baby doll t-shirt leans over Ryland’s kitchen island counter wiping the surface down with a dishtowel. Her long blonde hair falls in front of her, obscuring my view of her face, but I bet she’s gorgeous.
She looks up and shocked green eyes stare at me. Yup a knockout. “Can I help you?” She examines me from top to bottom and her eyebrows raise with recognition. “Oh, you must be Marissa.”
“I must.” Avoiding eye contact, I continue toward Ryland’s door ready to escape my worst nightmare. Of course Ryland went back on his word. I'm not surprised. All the shit he said about not wanting another woman in his condo was just that… shit. This is why I hate men. Why did I allow myself to believe his half-hearted words?
Unaware of my internal freak out, she throws the dish towel behind her. It lands in the sink with a wet squish. “Ryland told me you might come home at this time. Do you need any help?”
“Help? No, um, thanks.” She can’t fix what’s breaking in my chest.
“I just…the crutches” She looks pointedly to the objects in question.
Guilt begins to form in the back of my conscience. I’m not a horrible person. It’s not her fault I recently admitted a crush on her boyfriend… or fuck buddy…… or whatever she is.
I mentally wave a hand to erase those thoughts. It’s not a crush. I merely like to see Ryland without his shirt on. Who could blame me? Ninety percent of the female population feels the same.
“Trust me, I’m much better with these than I used to be.” I stick a crutch out and don’t mention it’s thanks to the practice Ryland made me do Monday.
I start toward the door again, but she speed walks in front of me and opens it before I get there. It’s a thoughtful gesture and annoys me. Did she need to be niceandpretty?
“Okay, well if you change your mind about needing anything let me know. I’ll finish the bathroom and run the dishwasher before I leave. I try to be out of the way before a client comes home.”
I stare at her in question as I shuffle my way out of Ryland’s apartment. Client? What kind of sick shit’s going on in there? Realization hits me halfway across the hallway, but Ryland’s housekeeper’s already closed the door behind me.
Housekeeper. I slap a hand to my forehead at my own stupidity. Why would I jump to the worst conclusion possible? Oh right, that senseless crush I’ve developed on the giant and my previous history with men. I’m a walking definition of a crazy woman.
My purse almost slides off the side of the breakfast bar from the force I toss it with. Even though she’s the housekeeper, I’m still tense from the exchange at Ryland’s. Unreleased adrenaline or something. I haven’t decided why yet, but it’s all his fault. I mean why wouldn’t he warn me in advance?
Although while I’m angry with him, I need to direct a bit toward myself for being upset at all. Who am I to get freaked out even if Ryland had a woman over? I’m no one special to him.
I leave my crutches on the side of the couch, grab the remote and lay on the tan cushions, fluffing a pillow under my head. I realize I’m behaving like a crazy person. If I’d remained blissfully unaware, I’d carry on as if nothing was wrong. But now that I’ve labeled and claimed the crazy, I’m forced to try and stop it. Most importantly, I cannot for any reason allow Ryland to figure out my feelings toward him. Jumping in the sack with him would be fun for a night, but I wouldn't be smiling a few days later when I ran into his newest conquest.
A few calming breaths later, I flip on the television and turn it to a continuous music channel. I only need to survive for however long Ryland’s here — a week, maybe two at most — and then I’ll be back to my crutch-free lifestyle filled with flights of stairs. Before long Ryland will find himself a new soccer team, wherever they have those things. Probably England. Or South America. Soccer’s big there, right?
Regardless, he’ll be gone and my heart will be intact. Said heart speeds up at the thought of Ryland leaving, but I’ll thank myself later. My thighs can’t handle anymore Ben & Jerry’s therapy.
I scroll up another three channels to find one devoted to classic rock and turn it way up. As far as the TV lets me. The sounds shoot from the speakers and lose clarity at this volume. My skin vibrates in beat to the drummer, so I reluctantly reduce it a few decibels.
It’s not near nine so I’m not breaking one of Ryland’s ludicrous rules, but it feels daring and wrong. Which I like. An electric guitar solo starts and I smile, allowing the beat to saturate me. Let’s see Ryland do yoga to this. Acceptable payback for making me develop feelings for him? Yes.
I unwrap the bandage from around my ankle allowing the skin to breathe as the doctor suggested and prop it up on the edge of the couch. The deep purple bruising has begun to fade into a slightly less disturbing color. Well, if you consider green to be better.
Content to enjoy my loud music, I lie back, close my eyes and wait to get lost in the beat. At some point I’ll get up and feed myself, but until then this couch time is my plan for the night. The song switches and my eyelids feel heavier and heavier as I become more relaxed and sleep starts to take over.
“What the fuck?” My calm evaporates in a rush as a pillow lands on my stomach bouncing to the floor. I tense springing my eyes open as my foot connects with the end of the couch. “Oh shit.” I sit up and reach for it, my eyes watering from the stabbing pain.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Marissa I didn’t think you’d freak out." Aspen, my perpetrator, races to my side, concern etched on her face.
Once my tears are in check and I’m sure I won’t cry, I unclench my teeth and prop my swollen foot on the coffee table. Turning the music down, I finally respond, “It's fine, but what hell are you doing here?”
