CHAPTER TWELVE
Soft music greets me as I step off Ryland’s elevator later in the day. Classical if I had to guess, but I’ve never been into the finer arts and couldn’t tell you who. Someone long dead probably.
Halfway down his short hallway, the smell of cooking meat and sauce mixes in with the notes from a piano solo from speakers positioned throughout the condo.
“Beethoven?” I give it my best guess.
He stands with his back turned in his kitchen. “No, Bach,” he answers and I shrug. I know a limited number of dead composers.
I toss my purse on the side table I’ve claimed as mine over the last few days and grab my mail. Ryland’s started picking it up for me since it saves me a trip to the lobby. Don’t give me any crap. It’s no big deal. Just Ryland’s way to make life easier on me. It’s not like I’ve grown to enjoy the almost couple-ish routine we’ve found ourselves in the past few days.Not at all.
This week’s been calm. I haven’t walked in on any more rowing, but on Tuesday I caught Ryland painting a bowl of fruit. It wasn’t what he painted, but how. The man doesn't do anything half way. I found him decked out in full painter’s gear including the white coat and little tray for mixing colors. He sat studying his fruit subjects with one hand on his chin, rubbing his stubble while his other held up his little painter’s pallet, more than one color already mixed together.
I pestered him for a good ten minutes before he finally let me have a glance at his canvas and…well… he’s better at soccer. At least I hope so, considering what they pay him.
“Are you cooking?” It’s a legitimate question even with the obvious smells. Ryland hasn’t done more than heat up leftovers. On the smooth surface of his stove a metal pot sits with a wooden spoon handle poking over the top. It circles around as if Ryland only finished stirring the contents moments ago.
He turns from the stove and I suck in a breath at the sight before me. “Yeah, I thought we’d celebrate your big news.”
If I found the man hot in his normal gym shorts and white t-shirts, he’s moved the bar up into smoking hot material with his choice today. His lower body’s hidden by the tall kitchen island, but his upper half is covered by a long sleeve white dress shirt. He's rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, the muscles of his lower arms on full display. Sitting on my stool next to his counter, I hold my hand back from reaching out to run a finger down the large vein tracking across the expanse of his arm. Why are veins hot on guys? I can’t be the only woman who thinks this, am I? A few pieces of chest hair peek through the opening created from his open top button. Throw in the clean shaven chin, and I could puddle on the floor at any moment. Thank God he never developed a strong British accent while in England or I’d be done for.
“I even dressed for the special occasion.” He tugs on his shirt collar until I nod in acknowledgment. Like any woman with a beating heart could have walked in the room and not noticed the upgraded attire.
Hot as Ryland is, I refuse to become one of those simpering women who drools over a man. With effort I avert my eyes and take on an unaffected demeanor. “You don’t know what the good news is yet. Maybe I met a very rich man and am moving out to a huge mansion on the water."
He laughs. “You’ve already met a very rich man and it doesn’t seem to matter. Plus, you wouldn’t consider moving away good news.”
My lips purse together, not exactly the response I expected. He still sucks at this banter thing. “Um… a mansion with servants. That’d be good news."
“It’s not your lifestyle. You’d hate the prim and proper life.”
I overdramatically roll my eyes, a move I’ve learned from Aspen over the years. “Trust me, I’d find a way to survive. The Mediterranean cruise he's promised me would help.”
“Oh so now you’re cruising too?” He turns back to the black pot on the stove stirring the hidden contents a few times.
“Of course.”
He laughs again, unable to let me have my dream. “You aren’t moving, Marissa. In fact, I think you’ve grown to like me." He quickly turns, winks, and then returns to his pot.
Holy shit. We haven’t had any hotter than hell kisses all week. There’s no way he’s figured out I think he’s the prettiest thing to walk the streets of San Francisco. Is there? Tack on his personality, which meshes with mine so well, and I’m completely screwed. If Ryland discovered my true feelings, it’d mess up the good thing we’ve got going on here. It’s bad enough Aspen suspects.
“Do you need any help?” I offer my assistance in cooking and try to get off our current topic of conversation.
He leans to the side of the stove, his back pressed against the counter. “Not from you. Now hurry up with this exciting news so we can eat your celebratory meal.” He motions me on with the wooden spoon, a few drops of water falling to the floor.
“It’s actually for you. We volunteered at the youth center today, you know. Well I met this girl there, Clare. She runs the place. She’s friendly. We talked for hours and she's kind of spunky like me, instant connection.”
Ryland’s face falls and he interrupts my ramble. “Marissa, are you trying to set me up with your new friend?”
“What? No.” My expression surely matches my horrified tone and I hurry to finish. “The center is short staffed and they lost the soccer volunteer." I pause and wait for him to make the connection.
He doesn’t. “Yeah and…” He waves me on with his spoon again.
“And… you could be their new coach. It’d be great.” I stretch my smile further so he’ll see what an awesome opportunity this is. It doesn’t appear he’ll figure it out on his own.
Rather than jump up and down in excitement like I would if I wasn’t sporting a twisted ankle, he puts his back to me and continues to stir whatever’s in the pot. “I don't think that’s such a great idea.”
“Ryland, it’s a fantastic idea. You love soccer. Now you could share that love with kids.”
