He gave me a long, unreadable look before his eyes shifted to something just past my shoulder. Absently, he said, "Good to know."
Like a chick in a monster flick, I turned slowly to see what was catching his eye. But I saw nothing – just the usual coffee goods and the door to the back.
Had Ryder spotted someone?
It wasn't completely impossible. At least ten times today, Skip had poked his head out of that same door, not to help, but to mock, monitor, and micromanage.
In the end, the only thing he'd "managed" was to make me even more twitchy.
Like, right now – as I stared at that connecting door – the sensation that I was being monitored from the frontandthe back was sending a tiny tingle down my spine.
When I whirled to look, sure enough, Ryder was staring – not at that door, but at me, likeIwas the one acting fishy.
Oh, please.He was acting so fishy, he could've had gills. As our eyes locked, I considered everything I knew.
Number one.Ryder Vaughn ran in the same Chicago circles as the source of my trouble.
Number two.Everywhere I went, there he was – Ryder, not Evan Carver.Obviously.
Number three.Ryder's associate – Griff, no last name, no paycheck – was haunting my roommate's shop.
And number four?Well, I was facing him now.
Finally, my nerves got the best of me, and I blurted out, "What are you looking at?"
Calm as ever, he replied, "I'm not looking. I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to take my order."
I gave him an exasperated look. "Well, Iwouldif you'd just give it to me." I held up a hand. "And before you ask, we don't have any T-bones lying around either."
Was I being rude?Probably. But after a sleepless night and this impromptu visit, my nerves were just about shot.
But Ryder? His nerves looked perfectly fine. As if to prove it, he shrugged, slow and easy, like we had all the time in the world. "Alright. Then how about a dozen pastries?"
Finally."Terrific. What kind?"
With another look past my shoulder, he asked, "Do you have anything special in the back?"
Special? Like a secret cheesecake I'd been hoarding for myself?
I was still trying to make sense of it when he added, "If you want, I could check." And then, he gave me a significant look, like he was sending a hidden message.
But what kind of message?
A warning? A threat? The rules to a game I didn't know I was playing?
Belatedly, his statement hit home. "Wait…youcould check?"
"Why not?" A new edge crept into his voice. "Could be fun."
For a brief moment, I half-wondered if "fun" was code for a quickie in the back – which, just for the record, would've beenreallyawkward, considering that Skip's ass had formed a taproot into that stupid recliner.
I hadn't even begun to reply when Ryder strode forward as if preparing to hop over the counter. "Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back."
Seriously?
