Ryan, very unlike him, snorts before he nods. “Yeah, but I’m good at what I do, so even without the financial support from my parents and grandparents, I like to think I’d still be where I am today with my skills alone.”
“Impressive,” I reply, genuine admiration infused in the single word, and enjoying the reward of seeing such a gorgeous guy flash me a smile that could easily solve the world’s problems.
Just as I open my mouth to ask more about him, since he’s in the sharing mood, Zeke gallivants over like a sprightly pixie, patting my shoulder repeatedly the moment he reaches us with Gretchen in tow.
It’s a reflex that my hand shoots up to my sunglasses, and I send Zeke an untrustworthy, narrow-eyed glare, but the guy simply rolls his own eyes at me and declares, “The winner of this month’s comp is about to be announced. The poll endeda minute ago. I just couldn’t get this one to stop talking long enough.”
Zeke jerks a thumb toward a red-cheeked Gretchen, who smiles awkwardly with her hands tucked into the pockets of her blazer. She shrugs a shoulder and, with a soft voice that reminds me of the morning before everyone wakes up, she says, “Sorry. It was a good conversation.”
“It was about cheese,” Zeke argues, giving her a bland look.
I share a look with Ryan, finding him already watching me, and we both laugh just as Freya, Static’s receptionist, walks into the lounge with a bright grin and her tablet tucked beneath her orange and green blazer sleeve. I visibly recoil from the garment, sure she would win if the competition revolved around the ugliest suit imaginable, and I hear Ryan cough.
When I check on him, I find him looking away with that hand covering his mouth once more, those pretty brown eyes peering down at his laptop like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. It’s not. I mean, there are far too many people in here wearing the most outlandish articles of clothing, but Ryan keeps his eyes on the surface of his laptop like it holds all of the answers to every question in the universe.
I’m about to ask him what his deal is when Freya clears her throat and asks everyone for their attention. Ryan is long forgotten the moment the words leave her lips. I’m locked in and ready to win, sitting upright with my ass barely perched on the edge of my seat, fingers twisted in crosses that I hope give me luck.
And under my breath, while I wait for the results of this month’s Suit Up Day poll, I’m muttering, “Gimme a win. Gimme a win. Gimme a win.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maddie
“I don’t get it,” Ryan chimes, eyeing my slouched form and pouted lip like he’s trying to figure out the world’s most complex puzzle. “I thought you wanted to win.”
I side-eye the man, wanting to stew in my annoyance for a little longer, but I can’t help it. The words burst out of me like a popped soda can, spilling into the air between us, only separated by a table filled with far too many plates and large glasses of water. “A little robot, Ryan. Or something akin to a little vacuum that I could name something stupid. What the hell am I supposed to do with a two-week paid vacation? I can’t very well name that Optimus Crime or something, now, can I?”
I’m pretty sure the inconsiderate bastard is trying not to laugh at me again, but he’s failing, and it’s prickling my nerves in a way no amount of pizza, mozzarella sticks, and garlic bread can soothe. And there’s a whole lot of that laid out between us, enough to feed the restaurant, along with several other plates of full meals I know I’m not going to eat. I vaguely wonder how Ryan is going to pack it all away in such a slim, toned body.
That distraction only lasts twenty seconds before he makes my annoyance worse by offering an answer I wasn’t looking for. “You could, I don’t know, go on vacation?”
“But why would I do that when I love my job? I’ve already had three days off, and I thought I was going to go crazy then. I mean, you already know what happened on my first day off. What will two weeks bring? Why does the universe continue to shit all over me?” I complain, reaching for a mozzarella stick, dipping it a little aggressively in the small bowl of ranch, andbiting into it with an aggression you’d expect from a freaking crocodile.
Ryan doesn’t mention it, sitting opposite me at a cute restaurant he brought me to for lunch, not at all embarrassed to be seen with a woman wearing clothes bright enough to be spotted from the space station. I think he’s simply trying to cheer me up after listening to me complain about my long-awaited win, his ears barely hanging on by a thread after spending two and a half hours in the studio with me, pretending to care about my bitching between photo shoots. Poor guy wanted a peek into how I work, and I gave him an experience I’m sure he won’t want to repeat. I should pay for lunch as an apology. Yeah, that’s probably the good thing to do.
“So long as you stay away from the lube, I think you’ll survive two weeks away from work,” he assures, and the first prickle of annoyance seeps from my bones. As though he can see his words take effect, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and continues, “You could always go abroad. Take a trip or something. Take your camera with you. It’ll be just like work, only fun.”
“Work is fun,” I argue, but only to be petulant, because his suggestion does actually sound better. Two weeks of traveling with my camera? Hell, I could get some gorgeous shots in that time.
“Not as fun as flying somewhere nice and sunny, eating plenty of good food, experiencing new things, and filling your camera with photographs you could frame. You could replace the ones that shattered yesterday in your apartment,” he says, doing his best to convince me that this isn’t the tragic loss I was considering it to be. I’ll be spanked by my mother if it isn’t working, too.
I eye the man before me, those butterflies still swarming my stomach with enough stamina that I wonder if they’ll everleave, and finally concede. “If I say you make a valid argument, will you hold it against me?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he answers instantly, sitting back in his seat as though he’s accomplished great and miraculous things. And they say I’m dramatic.
Looking away from the slightly smug man, my gaze wanders toward the front door of the restaurant, only to land on a pair of pretty green eyes and a killer smile that sets those pesky butterflies into a frenzy once more.
Caiden waves over at me, and I lift a confused hand and wave back, a little baffled but low-key thrilled to see him walking through the spaces between tables. My surprise is doubled, nay, tripled, when I spy Rayne and Baxter following behind him, each just as devastatingly beautiful as the other.
Bax smiles, and Rayne offers one of those manly head jerks in greeting, and I turn to a grinning Ryan with questions in my eyes that he can see now that I’ve removed my sunglasses. I mean, I don’t have to hide the disaster from him. He’s seen it firsthand and knows the backstory. I’d only look like a bigger idiot than I already look in my eye-burning yellow suit if I kept my sunglasses on inside the nice restaurant.
“I called them. Figured we could have lunch together,” Ryan answers the silent question I’m sending him, gesturing to the food between us. “You didn’t think I could eat all of this, did you?”
I shake my head because, no, I didn’t. I did think he might give it a try, but I was dubious at best. “I wondered if you’d accomplish it. I wasn’t willing to pick up the slack where you failed.”
Ryan laughs. “Gee, thanks. I hope you don’t mind that I called them.”
Another head shake from yours truly. “Not at all. I just feel guilty all four of you are now being subjected to this suit.”
