Only when its us, p.18
Only When It's Us, page 18
Damn mind-fucker of a lumberjack.
“Beckett Beckerson, get your rank-ass hands out of the taco meat!” Tucker smacks Becks’s fingers away, then shoves him, nearly sending Becks crashing into me as I close the front door.
“Sorry, Willa,” Becks mumbles, straightening me out.
“Wilhelmina!” Tucker shouts.
I flick him off. “I requested Swedish meatballs.”
Tucker shrugs. “Ryder didn’t get home until fifteen minutes ago. He asked me to do him a solid and get taco meat cooking.”
Huh. That’s weird. I hate to admit it, but there’s no point in denying I have Ryder’s schedule memorized. He should have been home hours ago.
Becks goes to the fridge, pulling out taco fixings. “You like tacos, right?” he asks from inside the fridge.
I drop my bag on the table and wave my hand, already making my way toward Ryder’s room. “I love them. Thanks, guys.”
“Cool.” Tuck nods, jamming to some music he has playing quietly from his phone.
Knocking twice on Ryder’s door, I let myself in. He’s on his laptop, squinting at something with headphones on. He looks so intensely focused, I’m wildly curious to know what he’s watching.
When I step closer, he does a double take, eyes widening as he rips off the headphones, slams his laptop shut, and practically sits on it.
Tipping my head to the side, I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, Brawny?”
He nods and swallows loudly. Pushing off the desk, he grasps my elbow and steers me out of his room into the main living area. One hand guiding me, he sets the other at his sternum. Fingers splayed with the middle one higher than the others, he swipes up his chest.
How are you? he signs. What’s up?
I’ve noticed him using a little more sign in the past few weeks. We still talk our texting way plenty, but it seems like sometimes he just wants to look at me and have some conversation.
“I kicked my Feminist Literature final paper’s booty, that’s what’s up.” He releases my elbow now that we’re safely away from whatever’s on that laptop that he doesn’t want me to see.
He smiles, and signs, Good!
Becks is organizing tiny little bowls of all the toppings, Tucker warming up tortillas. I glance from the kitchen to Ryder. “Putting your minions to work, eh? What happened?”
Ryder’s face slips slightly. I’m sorry, he signs. He hesitates, frustration pinching his face as he retrieves his phone from his back pocket and quickly types, Forgot about a doctor’s appointment. I cook them dinner nightly. They owe me. You love tacos though, right?
Something melts a little inside me. He’s right. I don’t like tacos. I love them. They were, until his Swedish meatballs, my favorite food.
“Yep, I say.” Reflexively, I clasp his hand and squeeze. “Everything okay at the doctor’s?”
I try to ask it in a way that isn’t invasive but shows I care because I do. I can’t pretend I’m not invested in Ryder’s wellness. He gently tugs a curl of my hair, then steps past me, into the kitchen, typing as he goes. My phone dings.
Just some tests because science has yet to understand how I got so manly and shockingly lumberjacked. Nothing serious.
“Lumberjacked.” I snort a laugh, derailed from my concern.
Dinner’s served, and I enjoy the tacos as much as the volley of insults lobbed between Tucker and Becks and Ryder via catapulted food, texts in group chat, hands thrown in emphatic gesture.
I stare at Ryder, feeling weird, un-frenemy things. Which is so stupid. A pointless road to go down. I’m a frizzy-haired, foul-mouthed thorn in his side, not a woman he wants. I mean, we might have, half-asleep and half-drunkenly, dry-humped each other a little. We might have kissed because our brains misfired. We might have made out like goddamn prodigies under that waterfall until we broke apart and it felt all at once awkward and transformed and mysteriously the same.
Giant, dry-humored, snarky, insult aficionado, asshole lumberjack has emerged as my type for down the line, but Ryder Bergman is nothing but my frenemy. Maybe a frenemy I could hate bang if he were up for that kind of thing.
“Willa.”
I jolt, and my mind is now back at the table. “Huh?”
“Want any more?” Becks holds the taco meat bowl out to me. I stare at it, feeling my appetite dwindle.
“No. No, thanks. I’m okay.”
Ryder’s eyes are on me. His hair is pulled back in a man bun so it doesn’t get in all the taco goodness, but he has some salsa in the corner of his mouth. I white-knuckle my jeans as an impulse strikes me to push away from the table and straddle his lap. To kiss that salsa off Ryder’s lips until our mouths burn for a very different reason besides habanero peppers.
His eyes darken as they hold mine and he slowly lowers his food.
“Here we go.” Tucker drops his tortilla chips and wipes his hands on his jeans. “They’re doing one of their stare-downs. Quick, get the timer.”
Becks yanks out his phone, setting it. Ryder and I have in the past engaged in a few juvenile showdowns of unblinking stares. Becks and Tucker have historically placed bets both on duration and victor. But this is not one of those times. This is…something very different, even if I can’t say just what.
His irises are pristine, glittering green. It’s unfair. I stare into their depths, their shades of lush hillsides, soccer fields, dazzling emeralds. My eyes start to water from staying open for so long. Ryder’s jaw tightens as his pupils dilate. A huff of air leaves him, and finally, he blinks.
“Woo!” Becks slaps the table, then sets his hand, palm up, for Tucker. Tucker grumbles and smacks a five-dollar bill into it.
I turn their way and lob a lime wedge at Becks’s head. “I should inspire a higher bet than that, Beckerson. I’m insulted.”
Ryder stands, collecting plates and stacking them. I help clear the table, then dry the plates Ryder washes in a daze, staring at the backsplash tiles. What is going on with my brain and body? And does Ryder feel the same way? Empty and full at the same time, like a balloon about to pop, a bubble that’s grown too heavy. Something between us feels incomplete and unavoidable. Something’s coming. I just can’t figure out what it is.
18
Willa
Playlist: “Stay,” Rihanna, Mikky Ekko
My ears ring. I stare out at the field, stunned. We lost. We lost. People try to console me. Stupid platitudes and empty reassurances.
At least you’re only a junior.
There’s always next year.
Hell of an effort, out there, Sutter.
You did everything you could.
Nothing makes it better. Nothing dulls the sharp pain of disappointment. We didn’t just lose, we didn’t play our game. Our defense fell apart, poor Sam took so many shots on goal I think she broke her personal record for saves in a single game.
Rooney and I were in sync, as always, but it felt like everyone else was passing ten yards behind me or right to my defender. Our only goal was a long shot I took. Rooney flew up the sideline, hit me with a gorgeous pass off the outside of her foot. I cut with it on my first touch and thanked God for my feet’s relative ambidexterity because I cracked that shot with my left and watched it sail over the keeper’s hands, rippling into the net.
And then I watched Stanford drop four goals over the remainder of the game. I saw Sam defending that gaping box like a woman facing a firing squad. And I was helpless. I was stuck at the top, useless except to try everything I could to put more past Stanford’s keeper. I could barely get the ball, and when I did, they triple-teamed me. My teammates took shots, some on target, but none with enough power or finesse to sneak by their keeper.
That feeling of helplessness gnaws inside me. It does not diminish after Coach’s consolation talk. Not as I pack up my gear and walk, head hanging to the bus. Not on the four-hour ride home. Not on the call with my mom the moment Rooney and I stumble inside.
“You did your best, Willa Rose. You should be so proud.”
I sniffle as tears stream down my cheeks. “My best wasn’t good enough.”
“Your best is always good enough,” Mama says. “Your best just doesn’t always mean that things turn out how you want.”
Wiping my cheeks, I exhale shakily. “I know. I just don’t like that.”
Mama’s chuckle is hoarse yet familiar. “Well, at least you can admit it.”
A beat of silence stretches over the phone. Something in the background beeps and I hear the murmur of quiet voices.
“Can I come see you in the morning?”
“Willa, you never have to ask.”
“Okay,” I whisper. I bite my lip, stifling more tears, swallowing my words. Words that would tell her how much I wanted her there, whistling in the stands, her strong voice yelling and cheering, urging me on. How much I wish she were home at our apartment, so I could crawl into her bed and feel her arms wrap around me, so I could smell her vanilla perfume and cry through all my disappointment.
But I can’t. Because she wasn’t well enough to leave, despite the fit she threw with Dr. B. Because we don’t have a home anymore since cancer swallowed up my mother’s hard-earned money.
“Willa?”
I jolt. “Sorry, Mama. I got lost in thought.”
“Willa, take a hot shower, eat something nourishing, and go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day, and soon you’ll be practicing for next season, one step closer to your dreams. Your dreams are still right there, waiting for you to claim. Your team might have lost tonight, Willa, and you’re allowed to be sad, but tonight you shone, my little star. You wowed them. Don’t forget where you’re headed, okay?”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “Thank you, Mama. See you in the morning. I love you.”
“Good night, Willa Rose. I love you, too.”
I hit the end button on my phone. Staring down at it, I watch tears splash on its surface.
A knock on the door jolts me. Who could that be? It’s late. Like, really, really late. I shuffle over and peer through the peephole.
“Holy shit.”
Yanking it open, I step back. Ryder stands in the cool night air, his ball cap pulled low, wearing the torturous blue and green plaid.
“Asshole had to wear my favorite flannel,” I mutter.
Ryder tips his head and signs, What?
“Nothing.” I wave him in. As Ryder steps inside, he turns and faces me. I shove the door shut, then stare up at him, before my eyes drift slowly down his body. In one hand is a bag of peanut butter cups, in the other, a bottle of whiskey.
I scrunch my nose to fight the threatening sting of fresh tears and palm my eyes. There’s a quiet rustle, the clink of candy and booze dropped on the table. Then warm arms wrap tight around me, pulling me close.
An ugly sob bursts from my throat as I fall into him. I sink into his hug and cry so hard my chest aches. Ryder’s grip strengthens, making the worn fabric of his sleeve brush my cheek. I press my nose to it, breathing in deep that comforting scent of evergreens and fresh air, something rich and clean and uniquely Ryder.
I tighten my grip around his waist and squeeze. Ryder’s arms span my entire back, his hand tight on my shoulder until carefully, it drifts up to my hair. Just like Mama, his fingers sink through my tangled curls, teasing them loose. It makes me cry harder.
“I tried my best,” I sob into his chest.
He nods, hands sliding through my hair. I know. That’s what his touch says. That’s what he tells me with the dip of his head until his cheek rests against the top of my head.
I can’t tell you how long he sways me in his arms, how long it takes for my chest-wracking sobs to become quiet hiccups. When he seems convinced I’m not going to explode with tears again, Ryder pulls back enough to wipe his thumbs under my eyes and extract one of those ever-present hankies from his pocket.
Blowing my nose, I glance up at him, then stash the hankie in my hoodie. Trying for a deep breath and a smile that ends up wobbly, I meet his eyes. “Why are you here?”
He tips his head, his eyes searching mine. It’s a long moment that our gaze holds. I’m scared to read into it. I’m frightened to admit what I feel when Ryder shows up with my comfort foods and open arms and that unspoken way of understanding me.
When he steps forward, I step back. My butt smooshes against the table’s edge as Ryder leans closer and my thighs part. He lifts his hand and my eyes fall closed. I’m waiting for him to throw me on the table, then tear off my clothes, when the rustle and pop of plastic make my eyes snap open.
Ryder smirks as he unwraps foil covering a peanut butter cup and brings the chocolate to my pinched lips.
Tap. Tap.
He presses the peanut butter to my mouth once more before it opens and he sets the chocolate inside. I chew, trying to maintain my irritation with his teasing games. It’s a struggle. He brought me peanut butter cups and now he’s uncorking the whiskey with his teeth and spitting the cork into his palm. The hairs on my arms and neck prickle. He smells like sex in a forest, standing inside the gap of my thighs and hand-feeding me chocolate.
“You’re here to make me feel better,” I whisper.
He nods, giving me the bottle. With his hand free he gestures a little.
“Yeah.” I throw back a swig and swallow, not flinching at the burn. “Well, a little better is better than nothing.”
Pressing the bottle into his chest, I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
Ryder’s eyes don’t leave mine as he tips the bottle back and takes a long drink. It’s the sexiest thing a man’s ever done in front of me.
I take his hand, and pull him with me, toward the sofa. With his crazy wingspan, he snatches the peanut butter cups and brings them, too. He sets down the goodies as I drop onto the sofa, then Ryder straightens, eyes on me, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and slowly rolling them up. It’s hardly a striptease but it’s turned my nipples to drill bits beneath my hoodie. My panties are soaked. The urge to get naked is overwhelming.
With one long step past me, Ryder falls onto the corner of the sofa. Toeing off his boots, he spreads his legs and pats his chest.
My eyes are not that high up on his anatomy. I’ve never seen Ryder sit like that, and now I know that not only does he tuck it right, but Ryder is packing a flipping tailpipe in his pants.
A throat clear interrupts me. It’s deep and gravelly. Goose bumps scatter on my skin and send an involuntary jolt through my limbs. When I finally peel my eyes up, Ryder lifts one eyebrow. He looks like he’s working very hard not to laugh at me.
“There are so many puns I could make about your log jammer, Lumberjack, but you brought me booze and peanut butter cups, so I’m going to take the high road.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Thank you, he signs.
I crawl in between the space of his legs and lay my back to his front. The peanut butter cups land with a thwack on my lap, as Ryder brings the whiskey in his large hand to balance on one knee. With a sigh, I let my head fall against his chest. It’s like sinking into a hot bath, that moment of bliss when the water’s just high enough, the temperature just right. I take the whiskey from him, throw back another swig, then set it in his grip once more. Ryder corks it, one-handed. A long, slow exhale leaves him, and when I glance up, he’s staring down at me.
Good? he signs.
I nod. “So good. I need more frenemies if this is how they roll.”
That makes his head tip back with a faint chuckle. Watching him, I slide my palm along his thigh. His breath hitches.
Emotion hits me square in the chest. It feels like the time my bike clipped the gutter and hurtled me over the handlebars. I’m breathless. Dazed. I feel that high of relief after a near-death experience, as I sit in his arms. Letting Ryder touch me, comfort me, I’m not terrified my heart’s going to break because of it.
What is this?
Eyes still on me, Ryder pulls out his phone. A moment later, my pocket buzzes.
You should be proud, Sunshine. You were perfect out there.
I stare down at it, then back up to Ryder as I swallow more tears. “Thank you.”
Ryder’s fingers drift up my arm until they rest at the base of my throat. His hands are ballplayer big. He could crush my windpipe in a heartbeat if he wanted. He could snap my neck without even breaking a sweat. I’m vulnerable, curled up against his body. With my despairing, distrustful attitude of men, I should be freaking out.
But as his thumb whispers over my windpipe, as it traces the hollow of my throat, I know with complete certainty I have never been safer than I am with Ryder Bergman.
He shifts and lowers his head, until our foreheads touch. The whiskey bottle drops with a liquid clunk on the sofa, freeing both hands to roam my body, up to my cheeks.
Our eyes hold and I refuse to blink. I search Ryder’s gaze as his thumbs stroke my cheeks, as his legs tighten around me. My body turns, so I can slide my hand along his torso and earn his stuttered breath. Over his pecs, traveling his throat, my fingers test the soft, thick hair of his beard. It tickled last time like I expected it would. What I hadn’t expected was to like it so much.
Now, I’m prepared.
Ryder’s mouth lowers to mine, a hair’s breadth away. I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for me. He’s going to let me make the first move. Just like I made him last time.
Fair and square.
I slip my fingers through his silky hair, curling around the nape of his neck, and pull him to me. Those soft lips that I wish I could see, I feel, taste, and bite.
Our kiss is languid—a bookstore word for luxuriously slow, decadently savored. It’s torture of the best variety. Ryder’s groan fills my mouth, the clearest sound besides his laugh that he’s ever given me. His fingers tighten in my curls, as I lean into him. His mouth opens, his tongue finding mine with soft, teasing strokes. I fist his hair and tug him closer. His hands tip my head, controlling the kiss, and I’m at the mercy of his touch, as his tongue spears my mouth. I hear the gasps that leave me, the pleading noises I’m making.
