I’m not complaining.
Archie barks and circles Ryder, delirious at the mere sight of him.
I totally understand the dog.
Ryder bends down and pets him. “Hey, boy,” he croons.
“Archie,” I scold, trying hard not to salivate at all of his muscles on display or the way his hair looks as if it was combed by his fingers and nothing else. “Have more self-respect. Ryder totally dissed you last night, and here you are this morning, all licks and tail wags.”
The man stands and putters around the kitchen, opening drawers, pulling out a bag of coffee and fiddling with a fancy espresso machine. Oh, bless him. The coffee pods I’ve been using get the job done, but it’s not the same.
“And how did I diss the dog?” he asks in a sleep-roughened voice.
“He was pining for you. All night. He wouldn’t sleep in my bed. Instead, he curled up in front of the door and then woke me with his whining. When I let him out, he ran straight here.”
Last night, Archie wasn’t the only one who had hoped to see Ryder. But he locked himself away in the music room and didn’t emerge for the pasta dinner I made for the two of us. Okay, I boiled soggy noodles and opened a jar of sauce. That’s the extent of my culinary talents.
But what I lack in gourmet cuisine, I make up for in presentation. I found Ryder’s grandmother’s linens and china, picked fresh flowers from the garden, and set up a beautiful table on the patio. When Ryder didn’t show after an hour, I finally gave up and took Archie with me to the pool house.
“So. Are you going for a swim? Or did you forget to pack shirts?” My eyes keep sliding back over his biceps and chest and down his firm abs.
He smirks and fills the espresso thingamajig with coffee, locking it into place.
“I need to think,” he says simply. Our eyes meet. And just like that, I’m back to our first summer.
Whenever Ryder was stressed, he swam. Luckily, Sebastian’s estate had a large pool. Ryder logged miles. I’d lie out and sunbathe while he did lap after lap.
Back then, there was only one thing that got him so tense that he needed to hit the pool.
“Writer’s block again?” I hazard a guess, leaning against the large kitchen table.
He doesn’t answer, just focuses on foaming milk.
I know I’m right. “Come on, talk to me. You know you want to.”
His lips curve, but he doesn’t answer. His focus stays on making a cappuccino with precision.
When he’s done, he hands me a cup. “Oh, thank God,” I say and take a sip. I moan, just a little.
He flashes me an amused look and turns back to make a second cup. Watching him handle the espresso maker with such deft concentration is competence porn.
When I’m done swooning over his forearms and my drink, I return to my subject. “You never answered.”
He sighs. “God. You’re relentless.”
“I know,” I say cheerfully.
“I have to write several love songs. And they’re proving…elusive.”
“Love songs? Do tell.”
“They’re for the new Max Thunder film.”
“Max Thunder?” I say. “Whoa. That’s big.”
Max Thunder is the biggest spy franchise in the world, and the theme song is a huge deal. It’s always slow and sophisticated and sexy as hell. Only the biggest names in music get this chance. I imagine Ryder singing something like that with his deep rasp of a voice, and it does something to my insides. Down low.
He nods. “I have to write the theme and three other songs. And they want them all yesterday.”
