(NOW)
It’s three days later, and I have to admit that Taylor’s idea of faking a twisted ankle was the perfect plan.
Or it would have been if I were really just faking it and hadn’t ended up with the real thing.
Ryder has taken over all my pet-sitting duties.
I hobbled out of my new bedroom on the ground floor this morning to find him spooning a pan of rice, eggs, and what looks like sweet potato into Archie’s dog bowl.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He jumps, spilling some of the egg mixture, which Archie dives to eat.
“You shouldn’t be walking around. Even with a crutch. Sit down. I’m making breakfast,” Ryder says. Is that pink tingeing his cheeks?
I make myself comfortable on a stool at the island. “Making breakfast for the dog?” I ask, as if appalled.
I’m just teasing him. In Mrs. Halle’s long list of instructions, she explained Archie doesn’t like dog food. I thankfully haven’t had to cook for him because she left a freezer full of already prepared gourmet doggy meals. All I have to do is take them out of the freezer and heat them up. Which is a good thing because I’m pretty sure my cooking would poison the pup.
“Um. Yes,” Ryder says, looking sheepish. “When he was on tour with us, everyone gave him treats, so he got used to it. Whenever we tried to feed him dog food, he refused. So…”
“So your dog trained you to cook for him.” I laugh. I debate whether I should tell him about Mrs. Halle’s meals. But then decide against it. It’s too much fun to see the man whom millions of women lust after, including me, cooking for a little corgi.
“You’ve always been good with a frying pan, Mr. Rock Star. You never told me how you learned to cook. Did you and the rest of Future Shock take turns in the kitchen? Did you watch cooking tutorials together?”
“I got tired of eating out. I moved in with my manager and his wife for a short time when the band got really popular. His wife was nice. She taught me to cook.” He slants me a look. “It wasn’t all groupies and partying.”
I grin. “Just sometimes.”
“Just sometimes,” he agrees. “But the real question isn’t why I can cook, it’s why you can’t. Chase told me that your fridge contained olives for martinis and that was about it.”
“I mostly avoid it. I had cooking trauma when I was younger,” I say lightly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Cooking trauma?”
“I started a fire in the kitchen when I was younger, and I was by myself. I tried to make a grilled cheese sandwich but got distracted, as usual, and forgot about it on the stove. It went up in flames. Cue the drapes burning and me freaking. A neighbor helped put the fire out.” I shrug. “I can make a few basic things. I can boil noodles. And you’d be surprised how far a girl can go on peanut-butter sandwiches and a takeout menu.”
Ryder’s gaze is stern. “How old were you when that happened?” he asks tightly.
“Hmm. I’m not sure. Maybe seven.”
“And you were cooking alone in the house?” he asks, looking visibly shaken. He swears. “How were your parents allowed to have foster kids when they weren’t even fit enough to take care of you? You deserved so much better, Daisy.” He looks like he wants to break something.
“It’s pretty simple. They wanted the money they got from social services. And when my dad was around, they were able to cheat the system, so long as the social workers didn’t look too closely.”
Archie interrupts us with a bark, probably tired of waiting for his breakfast. I’m grateful because the conversation had turned to uncomfortable directions. I meant the story to be funny, not a commentary on childhood neglect.
Ryder’s mouth relaxes a little when he sets down the dog bowl, and Archie descends on it like he’s more wolf than pup.
I shift and accidentally hit my foot on the stool. I wince.
He moves toward me. “Shit. Your ankle. You should be on the couch.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble and attempt to get down from the stool, but he sweeps me into his arms.
I don’t argue. Instead, I bury my face into his T-shirt-clad chest. The shirt is as soft as cashmere. Probably because itiscashmere. He doesn’t smell like cologne. Or aftershave. All I detect is the fresh scent of detergent and something indefinably him.
I should be used to being in his arms by now. He’s taken to carrying me around the house since I hurt my ankle. And each time, I hold on tight and enjoy the feel of his solid chest, the ropey strength in his arms, the way my breasts brush against him.
