CHAPTER SEVEN
What sweet hell is this? Today, the first time this week I’ve felt comfortable walking into Ryland’s condo and I'm greeted with this? I wasn’t prepared for this.
“Hey.” The man in question raises one hand to wave at me while I stand at the end of his hallway gaping. He’s positioned between me and the door in a bright orange kayak wearing a life vest and using a matching orange oar to fake paddle on his hardwood floors.
Ryland’s gone insane. Do I laugh, cry, or call an institution for him?
Back to his rowing, he leans forward in the seat and paddles with short quick strokes. Fake waves? Rapids?
“What are you doing, Ryland?”
My question interrupts his stroke and he straightens, slowing his paddle motion. “Practicing my rowing,” he answers over a shrug like I’m weird for asking and this is a normal everyday occurrence around here. Hell, maybe it is.
“Where are you planning to kayak in San Francisco?”
This time he puts the oar down on the side of his vessel. “The bay,” he answers as if it’s the obvious answer.
“Is that legal?” Granted I haven’t spent a ton of time out on the water these past few years, but I haven’t seen anyone in kayaks out there either.
He shrugs again. “What else am I going to do? The media and soccer conferences are waiting for me to fuck up. I’m doing my best to avoid any more drama.”
His words come off flippant and unworried, but there’s tension underneath. The last time Ryland talked about soccer, he admitted to trying to get kicked off his team. I didn’t press it then, but now I wish I had. If he wanted off his team, why would he be concerned about keeping a low profile now? The question burns through me, but I don’t want to cross over the landlord-tenant line any more than we already have.
He must be bored sitting around his condo with little to do all day. Besides his early morning run, I’m not sure what Ryland does with his time. Maybe he needs a hobby. But not living room boating.
Ryland stands from his Kayak and throws the life vest in the hole when he steps out. “Where are you coming from?”
“Work.” I scan his black track pants, white shirt, and bare feet and decide Ryland is the definition of casual. My jeans and simple blue blouse are at least a level above. “Friday's casual day.”
“The jeans are nice. You look stuffy in your suits.” He makes the comment with his back to me while walking to the kitchen making it impossible for me to read his expression.
Was the jean comment a compliment or the stuffy suits an insult? I follow him and absentmindedly sit on the same stool I used the other day.
“Are you hungry? Do you have plans for dinner?” he asks with his head stuck in the refrigerator. His rows of Post-it notes flicker from the door being opened. I’ve never counted, but it feels like there’s fewer square little notes on there today.
It’s a simple question and I should be quick to answer, but I process exactly what he’s asked for a long moment. In the end, I answer with a long overdue shrug. “I could eat."
He turns from the fridge door with a weird look in his eyes and I tense worried he’s on to me. But then a large red and white pizza box skids on the counter in front of me, my hand stopping it.
“Pizza?” He opens the lid to reveal half a pizza with mushrooms and sausage. “Grant and I ordered it last night. You want a piece?"
I release the breath I’d been holding. “Sure.” I smile as he turns to grab plates and selects a few pieces.
It’s not a dinner invite, but there’s an intimacy to it. We’re not out in public where I’d be forced to share him with hundreds of eyes, but personal. I like it… probably too much. My heart should not flutter over Ryland warming up two pieces of left-over pizza for me. He’s my landlord.
“What did you and Grant do? Play poker or some other manly man pursuits while grunting at one another?” I need to get my mind off how nice his back looks from this angle. The white shirts he prefers don’t do enough to cover up the muscle definition.
He presses a few buttons on the microwave and turns back to face me. “Dragons Reborn. We get together a few times a week at someone’s place or online. In England the time difference killed my ability to play with the guys. It’s nice being close now.”
At least I know what he does at night. Video games with Grant. It’s such a typical single guy answer I catch myself almost giggling out loud. I wonder if before Simone and Aspen there’d be four guys to share pizza with on game night?
“Have you played before?” he asks sliding a plate with two pieces of pizza on the counter toward me.
The one time I picked up Aspen and she’d been playing rather than getting dressed for our lunch date probably doesn’t count. “No."
“Eat your dinner and then we’ll play.”
“Now?” I lift up the first piece of pizza but stop an inch from my mouth. I’m not overly interested in playing his online game, but it's not like I have anything better to do in my apartment.
