I glare daggers at my cousin. I’d like to squeeze her small head in a vise.
“I don’t think—” Ryan begins.
“Or you can stand in the rain and ruin those dry-clean-only clothes,” Shanthi says.
He looks to me and I raise my eyebrows as if to say,It’s up to you. He presses his lips together and, as Maral yells for us to hurry, folds himself gracefully into the backseat, closing his umbrella and dropping it into the footwell along with the others. I do the same but I’m nowhere near as elegant, given that there’s almost no seat left and I have to practically climb on top of him.
If anyone had asked me a few days ago whether I ever envisioned so much as touching Ryan Grant, I’d have laughed. Never in a million years did I think I’d be perching half an ass cheek on his lap.
I’m careful to balance most of my weight on the door console so I’m sitting as gingerly as possible on the very edge of his thigh, which is rock-solid with muscle beneath the soft flesh of my butt. The driver apologizes again, saying it’s a busy night and gesturing vaguely at the windshield getting pummeled by rain.
The car feels so unbelievably small, every sound amplified within its confines. The shush of my pants against Ryan’s as I adjust my position. His audible swallow. When the driver pulls a sharp corner and I fly fully into his lap, my back against his chest (again, no goddamn give whatsoever), his harsh exhale rings so loud it fills all my mental space.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Don’t be.” His voice sounds strained. It takes some maneuvering to peek at his face in my peripheral vision, to see if I can read his expression, but his eyes are clenched shut. I feel bad that he’s uncomfortable, but the guilt becomes hazy when his warm breath rustles strands of my hair against my neck and a shiver courses through me. Hazier still when another turn almost sends me flying off him before large, warm hands splay across my rib cage for the splittest of seconds to secure me, keep me right where I am, before they curl into fists at his sides.
Maral and Shanthi are cool as anything, discussing impressions garnered from the conference like nothing untoward is happening back here. Meanwhile, I am trying to steady my breathing, engulfed in Eau de Ryan. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol yet, but I already feel intoxicated.
Blessedly, the car pulls up to the bar a few minutes later. You’d think all the HIIT workouts I do would mean I’m somewhat agile, but climbing off someone’s lap from the back of a sports sedan tests that theory. I have the brief impression of hands at my waist again, giving me a gentle boost, and need to brace myself against the car for balance when I’m finally standing.
Ryan emerges behind me, sweeping an umbrella over the bothof us, obscuring his expression momentarily. Am I imagining things or does his breathing seem deeper and…measured? I know I’m not imagining what I glimpse in his eyes before he schools it away, or the quivery, melty sensation it inspires in my belly.
As soon as we’re inside, I beeline to the bar and order four draft pints. We walk our drinks to a high-top table, me downing a sizable gulp on the way.
Maral raises her glass into the air. “A toast—”
“Yes!” I say. “To all of you, the finest team a girl could ask for.”
I don’t miss the annoyed expression on Mar’s face at my interruption. “And to Ana,” she insists on finishing, “who killed it today.”
Everyone clinks to that, and I mouthboyid mernemat her.
Conversation flows smoothly. When we first brought Shanthi on, Mar and I were amazed at how seamlessly she fit into our dynamic. Although her family is Sri Lankan and not Armenian, we’ve had similar experiences with being raised in relatively progressive immigrant households. Being almost ten years my junior, she was still living with her parents on Long Island when we first met, but has since moved into a studio in Brooklyn. We all work mostly remote from our own places, but there’s no small amount of travel involved in the gig, and we mesh well as we schlep around the country.
Ryan, gradually emerging from his taciturn shell, is drawn into the conversation tonight. Maral and Shanthi are full of questions about famous authors he’s worked with, and he’s irritatingly respectful in his answers. Shanthi orders another round in the hopes of getting him to loosen his lips, but he remains steadfast in his integrity.
“What’s the fun of drinking with someone who doesn’t want to gossip?” Shanthi asks.
Ryan shrugs. “A couple of beers aren’t worth jeopardizing my job.”
“How many beers will it take, then?” asks Maral.
He smiles. It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding my breath. Or just forgetting to breathe. It’s not fair how the movement of a mere seventeen tiny muscles can transform his face from broody and handsome to dazzling and handsome. “It’d take something a lot more enticing than alcohol,” he says, throwing an almost imperceptible glance my way.
“Bet we can find some coke in this bar,” Shanthi says.
“Jeopardize your jobis kind of dramatic,” Maral puts in. “You think we’re going to tell anyone at Woodsworth what you say about people who’ve probably had worse juice spilled about them on social media?”
“So go ask social media,” he says. “I wouldn’t cross that line even if you weren’t public figures with devices glued to your palms.” He nods at Shanthi, who, sure enough, is typing into her phone as we speak.
“I’m not a public figure,” she says. “Although I might seem like one to someone who has zero online presence.”
“I’m online,” he says.
“You’re not on Instagram,” I say, and everyone turns to me.
“Yes, I am,” he says.
