“Yeah, of course,” he said, dryly. He scratched at the back of his neck, and twisted his lips like he had more to say.
“What?” I asked, impatiently. “Whatever you need to say, spit it out.”
He tilted his head at me, suspiciously, giving me a nasty smirk. “I guess it’s good to be in close with the captain huh? Paid vacation and all.” I didn’t like the implication, but I ignored it, even when the words burned hot across my chest and made my heart beat faster.
I shrugged it off like his words didn’t just knock me on my ass. “So,” I said, clearing my throat. “Why is your brother here?”
“Because I had no other place to put him; it’sSaturday,” he said dryly, walking past me. “Unlike some people, I can’t just shake my ass and get days off with full pay.” He yanked over a chair next to his brother and sat down, pulling out a file from under all the drawings.
A few desks away, Lydia snorted out a laugh.
I continued to stare at Ryan blankly, not wanting to let his words sink in—not wanting to let Lydia’s laugh affect me. Yet, I was barely holding it together. A sharp ache ripped through my throat, and I gulped back hot shame. I tried to smile, as if it were nothing more than a joke—but my chin quivered, betraying me—and my cheeks burned red, displaying all my secrets.
Ryan didn’t say anything. He just watched me trying desperately not to crumple in front of everyone.
I cleared my throat, and leaned against the nearest desk for support. “Well,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. “It looks like I have nothing to do for a few days. Why don’t I take him while you work.”
Lydia blew out her breath loudly.What the hell was up her ass?
“Why would you do that for me?” Ryan quietly asked, standing up slowly. “Don’t you hate me?”
“No,” I said, my eyes blurring with tears. “I don’t hate you at all.”
His eyebrow quirked up, and his features softened. “So, you like me?”
I shook my head and pinched my lips together trying not to scream or laugh or show any of the crazy emotions that were spinning through my head at the moment.
I was saved from utter humiliation when Cameron jumped out of his chair and shoved a picture against my face. He leaned on me, unaware of any personal space, and mumbled words I couldn’t make out. He shook the paper in his hand until I took it from him.
The picture left me breathless.
It was a pencil sketch of me and Ryan, looking at each other—there was passion in our eyes, fire and feelings. In just a handful of shapes and lines, Cameron had captured every emotion I had.
My fingers trembled when I handed the picture to Ryan, who tightened his lips and spoke through gritted teeth. “Looks liked he nailed us.”
He looked at me over the top of the paper, brows knitted closely together, probably wondering what the hell was going on in my head.
“Let me see what Mr. Picasso drew,” Lydia squealed, cutting between us.
“Here, look at the one of you,” Ryan said, pulling the picture of us away from her before she could catch a glimpse. He threw the sketch of her into her hands and folded the one of us together and stuffed it in his back pocket.
He lifted his head back toward me and asked, “You’d really hang out with him today?”
“Of course, I would,” I whispered.
His shoulders slumped in relief, and he nodded, breathing in deeply. “That would be a life saver. I’ll bring back dinner.”
“Okay,” I said, cheeks burning.
He looked down and laughed, “Okay, then.”
Ryan stayed unusually quiet as I packed Cameron’s belongings up. Every once in a while, I would look back toward him and see him watching me from the corner of his eye. I wanted him to look at me. I liked his attention, and I acknowledged that to myself. I liked his smile when it was pointed in my direction. I liked the way his gaze roamed my body. I liked the way he flirted with me. I just plain liked him. The problem was I didn’t want to. Because I seemed to have this stupid, stupid thing where a man smiling at me felt like a future, and I fell so easily and blindly into love—when all the guy was doing was simply smiling.
Cameron was quiet on the ride home. He sat in the passenger seat, belted in, rocking back and forth. He only became vocal when I drove past a fast food restaurant, and repeated over and over the word fries. Smiling at him, I slowly said, “I want fries.”
“I want fries,” he yelled.
So, that’s what I got him.
