"I like watching you," I confess with a grin. "It's like watching a giant work with miniatures. It's kind of cute."
Ryker's smile reaches his eyes and sets them to sparkling. It's like a punch to my wild libido, to have him look at me like that. I want to set my sleeping baby in the bassinet, drag the riding leather off of his tall, gorgeous frame and drag him to the nearest bedroom. Or hell, I'll even take the floor at this point. Just so long as that muscled body twines around mine.
"You think I'm cute?"
"I suppose you have your charms," I say as lightly as I can. No need to let him read too deeply into the statement. Even if I want his attention, I'm not stealing another woman's boyfriend. I've caused enough trouble without becoming a homewrecker.
Ryker completes the bassinet and sets it in the bedroom nearby, laying a sleeping Bryan inside it. I let out a sigh of relief and sink lower into the couch cushions. "Thank God. I thought he'd never go back to sleep."
"Don't jinx it," Ryker says with a soft laugh.
"Thank you so much," I say, the gratitude trumping my irritation with him. "You're right. This place is cleaner and easier to babyproof. I promise we won't trouble you for too long. Just until I can get back to work."
Ryker frowns at me. "You know you can stay longer than that. It's not a burden. I like having you around, Cleo."
There's something behind those words. It's a rasp of frustration, and I cringe away from it. He's just lying to make me feel better. Big, overbearing Ryker is only doing this out of a sense of club duty. I'm a woman and therefore fall under rule number one. Protect your women. I doubt he'd be as eager to help if I wasn't a new mother.
"I should probably get to bed," I say, my eyes pricking with the beginnings of shame. I'm just a freaking parasite, clinging to the next strong man who'll put up with me. I wish I didn't need the help so damn bad.
"Cleo, don't cry," he pleads, eyes flying wide with panic. "What did I say?"
"Nothing," I blurt, staggering to my feet. "Hormones. I'm sorry."
He reaches for me, but I flinch away from the touch, all but sprinting for the next room. It's dimly lit, and I have to extend a hand in the gloom to keep myself from bumping into furniture or, God forbid, the bassinet. When I find the queen sized bed, I burrow under the heavy duvet and bury my face in a pillow to stifle the sobs I can feel building.
Soon,I promise myself.Soon I'll leave him to his peace. I'll find a counselor and figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
And until then, I'll keep my distance from Ryker. I'll keep my twitchy hands to myself. I won't make the same mistake I made with Cruz. This time, I'll let go quietly. I must be strong for Bryan.
And someday, maybe I'll learn to be strong for me too.
6
Ryker
Between work, running interference between Cruz and Trent, and the baby, I'm beat. It feels like fucking heaven to sit on my couch, Cleo tucked beneath my arm as we watch a sitcom. I'm more of a slasher film and shoot-'em-up kind of guy, but for Cleo, I'll watch paint dry on the wall. I'm not really watching the scripted comedy play out on the screen, too focused on the press of Cleo's body next to mine.
My God is she warm. Everywhere my body touches hers, my skin burns with the need to pull her closer. She smells like fucking ambrosia too. I don't know what she uses to wash her hair, but I just want to bury my face into it and breathe it for the rest of my life. It's a warm, homey scent like cinnamon or sugar. With her, I feel like I've found home again.
She nuzzles closer to me, head falling from my shoulder to my chest. After several sleepless nights, we're both exhausted. But it doesn't stop me from envisioning what it might be like to tip her chin up, watch her sleepy eyes flutter open, and press my lips to hers. A soft glide of the tongue across the seam of her mouth and I could taste what I've been daydreaming about for months. Would she gasp? Go still and accept it? Or would she press closer, hand tracing the line of my jaw as she returned the kiss?
Or maybe, I thought sardonically, she'll slap me and call me an ass, like she should. I know fucking better by now. Cleo isn't mine. She will never be. This brief little interlude is just torturing me with a taste of what I'll never have.
Still, I can't stop myself from leaning over to take another whiff of that glorious scent. She's my fucking Kryptonite. She'll probably be the death of me, and I don't even care.
I press my lips to her hair in the ghost of a kiss. Surely no one can fault me for this little indulgence?
"I love you, Cleo," I whisper. "God help me, but I do."
She shifts and a small frown crosses her face. Her lips move, and the word that tumbles from them breaks my damn heart.
"Cruz..."
I want to punch my best friend. He's too handsome and too damn good a person. Of course, Cleo is in love with the bastard. If I was a woman, I probably would have been too. But I can't stand here and listen to her dreaming about him while she's inmyarms. It's too much.
Extricating myself from her grip, I seize my jacket from one of the pegs in the front hall, slinging my jacket over my shoulders. I produce a packet of cigarettes from one of the inside pockets and flick one out of the pack before I'm outside. It's raining and I'm forced to sit my ass down beneath the overhang over my porch to keep the rain off of the cig.
The night is calm outside my home, aside from the ever-present patter of rain. I can barely make out the shapes of the neighboring houses through the sheets falling onto the ground just feet away. I light the cigarette with a deft flick of the Zippo I keep in my pocket. I shouldn't be doing this. It's been several days since I lit up, vowing to keep the stuff away from Cleo. But damn it, if I don't do something, I'll say something I regret. Like how none of the crummy bastards deserve her.
