The pause stretches, and stretches, and stretches some more. As it does, hope seizes my mind, blooming against the odds. A lone orchid peeking between concrete pavement slabs.
Maybe he’s wondering how to renegotiate their shift swap? Maybe he wants to come with me? A few rogue butterflies dare flap their wings in my tummy.
“What time does the market open?” he asks.
“Um... not sure. Five, I think.”
“Arthur will take you. Plan your trip so he’s back by eight.”
There goes hope...
Disappointment flares behind my ribs as I shove a spoonful of creamy sauce into my mouth, hoping it’ll do its job and comfort me. It tastes as good as always but fails in the comfort department. If anything, my mood sours further when Ryder opens his mouth again.
“As you’re afraid I’ll perv on you all night, like I have nothing more important or better to do, I’m installing an alarm on your bedroom window. I’ll have to disengage it when you air the room, but it’s the best I can offer.”
Nothing better to do...
Why does that sting? Hell, it hurts. He could’ve slapped me and the pain would be indistinguishable from this.
“Okay,” is all I can manage while my throat’s constricting.
I busy myself serving food, pushing the unwanted weakness out of my system. I’m not weak. Men don’t make me weak. No one does.Nothingdoes.
I’m the only person I trust.
The only person I can count on.
I’m fucking bulletproof.
Once the pasta is served, I knock on Arthur’s door, then snatch a bowl, sinking into the recliner tucked in the corner of the living room.
We’re out of dining table options, given that the coffee table’s bending under the weight of Ryder’s equipment, and the breakfast bar is a mess thanks to my cooking.
“Food’s served,” I tell Ryder, motioning toward the bowls on the counter.
Arthur joins us and I curl in on myself, legs tucked under my butt, mouth full of pasta. Not letting my eyes roll back into my head in pure delight proves a struggle. Containing the moan that threatens to escape is even harder.
“That smells delicious,” Arthur comments, holding his bowl in both hands as he slides down the wall onto the floor. His long legs almost touch the coffee table, making the place look even smaller than it is.
Ryder sinks into the loveseat with his share, the end of his fork tapping his laptop’s keyboard a few times. He fills his mouth with pasta, and my stomach somersaults, sinks, then riots. He chews slowly as if savoring the bite. At least that’s my wishful thinking.Wrongthinking because while Arthur’s purring his compliments, Ryder’s impassive.
I don’t know why I want him to love my food. I don’t know why a simpleit’s goodwould mean the world.
Liar, liar.
Fine, I know why. Because cooking has always been my love language and the one thing I can share with others without fear of rejection.
I’m agreatcook.
Instead of a flower shop, I should own a restaurant. Even the people who aren’t good to me, like my adopted parents, always gush about the quality of the meals I prepare.
Earning a stupid smile from Ryder would unwind this growing ball of anxiety behind my ribs... but it doesn’t come.
What’s worse, he sets his half-eaten dinner aside and doesn’t touch it again, unknowingly rejecting my olive branch.
I bite my cheek until copper pennies dance along my tongue. The self-inflicted pain chases away the sadness and strengthens my bulletproof armor.
14
