He hasn’t moved.
He’s just watching me with the oddest look on his face.
“Ry?”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
His brows pinch together as he descends the stairs. He pats my back as he walks by and then leads me toward the kitchen. “I’m fine. We have turkey and roast beef. Out of ham.”
Gideon is in the kitchen, already eating his sandwich, and offers me a closed smile when he sees me because his mouth is full.
“Hey, Wills.”
“Hey, handsome.” I kiss his cheek and ruffle his dark hair, the way I always do. NowthisI can do. This is easy. “You’re sweaty.”
“I’m working,” he says, his voice as dry as the Sahara. He’s in his typical black tactical pants and T-shirt. I don’t remember the last time I saw this man in jeans. He’s such a military guy.
And honestly, it looks hot on him.
I also don’t remember the last time I was in the same room with the two of them together, before our world fell apart and Ray left us.
Ryker didn’t even make it home for Aunt Debbie’s funeral roughly two years ago, which is something he truly beat himself up over, but he was in the middle of the playoffs, and no one judged him for that. He ended up winning the Stanley Cup that year, and I think he channeled all his grief onto the ice.
But last week, when Ry confided in us that he’s retiring from hockey and taking over the ranch full-time, I had a moment of panic. Because that means that I’ll see him often. Part of me, the best friend part, is excited at the thought of him being nearby.
The other part?
Well, she’s been in love with this sexy hockey player since the day he climbed out of that car when he was fifteen and stole the breath from her lungs. He and Gid are both beyond handsome men. Tall, dark, and stupidly hot. Muscles for days. Gideon is my intense, gruff, quiet guy. The one who will kick someone’s ass and burn the world to the ground for anyone he loves without blinking an eye, and will do it all while maintaining a straight face and without breaking a sweat.
Ryker is funny. A smidge arrogant, but that comes with being a super-famous, rich professional hockey player. Over the years, he’s added an entire sleeve of tattoos to his left arm—his muscle definition should be illegal in all fifty states—and his chocolate-brown eyes ... well, don’t even get me started.
I love these two guys more than just about anyone, except Aiden. They are my family. My heroes. And I think of Gideon as my brother.
Ryker, on the other hand, I don’t feel particularly sisterly toward.
I don’t want to climb Gideon like a tree. The thought makes me slightly nauseated.
But Ryker? I would free solo that man in a heartbeat.
“Why do you have that weird look on your face?” Gideon asks, catching my attention.
“I don’t have a look.”
“You look like you just smelled something like rotting flesh,” he continues.
“I wouldn’t know what rotting flesh smells like, serial killer,” I reply and get to work building my own sandwich. Ry’s standing next to me, making his own as well, and he passes me the mayonnaise. Our fingers brush, and I swallow hard at the zing that shoots up my arm.
Ry pauses, and I feel his gaze on me, but I don’t look up.
I need to have a serious talk with myself later. This isRyker. My best friend. I need to get over this stupid crush. He admitted himself that he has all kinds of gorgeous women fawning all over him.
I am sonota puck bunny.
“I found this picture,” Gideon says, tossing a photo on the counter. I cut my sandwich in half and set it on a plate before reaching for the picture, and I feel my smile spread all over my face.
“Oh, look at us.”
