Lake
LAKE
Turns out I’ll do a lot of things I normally have absolutely no interest in doing for a hot piece of ass. The hot piece of ass in question is my husband, and the thing I don’t want to do is jogging.
But here I am anyway.
Jogging after Ryker through the Southwest Corridor Park.
It’s a thing I do nowadays. Work out. Reluctantly and with a great deal of complaining, but I made the mistake of tagging along once, and Ryker seemed to take it as an everlasting promise to accompany him on his days off. Mostly, he works out with the team, but that doesn’t include things like his “light post-dinner jogs” and “short weekend hikes” and stuff like that, to which he’ll blatantly manipulate me into going.
Don’t even get me started on the fact that even after staying in bed for half the day and fucking like fiends ever since we slowly woke up this morning, I’m still slightly hungover.
And I say jogging, but let’s face it, this is full-on running. Jogging is supposed to be leisurely. Kind of like walking, but for people who are in a moderate hurry. Ryker might as well be in the middle of a police chase. I’m tempted to just sit down and wait until he circles around the trail and gets back to me. I’ll just pretend I’ve been running in front of him this whole time. I’ll even pretend to be somewhat out of breath to make it look real.
It's a great plan, but I got competitive about three miles ago, and we only have one mile left to go, so throwing in the towel now seems pointless. I’ve already come this far. Plus, I’m keeping up with a guy who exercises for a living. Almost keeping up. My point is, I’m clearly too competitive.
Also, kind of delusional if I think I can beat Ryker. He’s not even winded, and while I appreciate his stamina—I really do—I find that I’m most thankful for it in a whole different setting. Right now, it’s just annoying.
“Sprint finish?” Ryker calls as he turns around, running backward for a few steps.
“Oh yeah,” I pant. “Love a good sprint.”
He doesn’t detect any of the sarcasm, just gives me a motherfucking thumbs-up, turns around, and switches up a gear.
Fucking hell.
My sneakers pound the pavement, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by my heavy breathing. It’s only about half a mile, but it feels like my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest while my pulse skyrockets.
I can already see the headlines of tomorrow’s newspapers.
Random guy dies in the park while chasing after promising new NHL talent.
Ryker reaches the end of the trail. There’s no gloating or anything, he just holds his hand up and waits until I reach him and high-five it. Which I do. Look, I’m gonna be honest here, it’s just really difficult to be a petty asshole when you’re married to the nicest, kindest person alive. It’s honestly a travesty.
I drop to the grass on my ass, wheezing and panting, trying to get my breathing back under control.
“I,” I gasp, lungs on fire, “hate you.”
He finishes stretching and flops down on his back next to me. Sunlight plays over the side of his face, and he grins at me.
“You say the sweetest things to me.”
On reflex, I quickly look around, but there’s nobody near us who could’ve heard. Ryker’s smile has turned into a look of contemplation. He doesn’t like when I “do that overthinking thing of yours” and I’m not in the mood for that conversation right now.
We’ve been circling around that same topic for months: me being overly cautious. And when Ryker says cautious, make no mistake, he means paranoid. He just loves me too much to openly acknowledge that that’s what he means.
“You didn’t win. I let you win,” I say.
His smile is back, this time with a side of indulgence before he snorts. “You’re one hell of a benevolent soul with how often you ‘let’ me win.”
“You’ve got a very nice ass, so it’s not a hundred percent selflessness on my part.”
“So, you just constantly figure you might as well appreciate the view?”
“I’d appreciate it even more if you were shirtless. Just a suggestion.”
“Is that what they call constructive criticism?”
“I’m just saying. People would appreciate it.”
“You’d allow others to check out the goods?” His lips twitch.
“It’s not like I can control where people aim their eyes.”
He studies me, squinting slightly against the brightness of the sun. “You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“Annoyed. Jealousy kind of involves me thinking they’d have a chance with you.”
“But you don’t think that.” It’s not so much a question, just him stating a fact.
I shrug. “Of course I don’t.”
He’s silent for a little bit, but his eyes go all soft on me.
“That was really sexy.”
I raise my brows at him. “Which part?”
“Your confidence in us.”
I feel my cheeks heat, which is not something I especially enjoy. I try to glare to offset my blush, but that’s not really working. Not when Ryker’s eyes have gone gentle on me, and he’s smiling at me like this.
I’m trying to be better, but too many emotions still tend to make me a bit uncomfortable, so instead, I huff and look at the bright blue sky above our heads.
“I miss the good old days when I didn’t have to spend my mornings running around parks like a motherfucking golden retriever on speed. Those were the days.”
Ryker just keeps grinning at that. “You’d miss me.”
“Would I?”
He hums in reply. “Not to mention you’d be a spinster without me.”
I half-heartedly kick his shin, and he lets out a lazy chuckle. He reaches out and trails his fingers softly over my forearm.
“Husband,” he says, and I blush even more furiously. For fuck’s sake! He knows exactly what he’s doing. He once told me making me blush makes him feel special. Something about me only being soft with him, or some crap like that.
“We should get going,” he says after a little while. “Mom said she made reservations for six o’clock.”
I bite back a sigh. It’s nothing personal. I actually like Ryker’s mom just fine. More than most people, at least, which might not sound like that much of an endorsement, seeing that I don’t like most people at all, but that’s the best I can do.
Genevive James is the kind of person who possesses a level of competence and proficiency that is frankly intimidating. She’s the CFO of a large shipping company and splits her time between a few different cities, which means it’s also been relatively easy to avoid her. To an extent.
We’ve had dinner here and there over the course of this past year. It’s mostly been awkward. We have uncomfortable history between us, what with her having married my estranged father. Or, not really my father, seeing how it turned out I wasn’t really John’s biological kid.
Add to that my mother’s misguided attempts to make John somehow accept me as his son and failing at it spectacularly because, surprise, surprise, you can’t cheat on somebody and then make them accept the fruits of the affair with open arms.
Genevive sort of stumbled into the middle of this mess with Ryker in tow, and I can’t really blame her for not knowing how to behave or what to do with me when my mother dropped me off on Genevive and John’s doorstep every other weekend. Uninvited, I might add.
In short, being around each other is filled with uneasy silences and awkward moments.
Even so, every few months, Genevive sweeps into town, determined to spend some quality time with her son. And me. I think I might’ve managed to get myself off the hook if Ryker hadn’t broken his femur. I could’ve had one dinner with her and smoothed the relationship from painfully awkward to regular awkward and called it good. Of course, then I was taking care of Ryker and his broken bone, and she kept stopping by, and I was always there, and it all just somehow got out of hand, and I unwittingly ended up a regular participant in their dinners.
There’s also the part where Ryker wants me to attend those dinners. It’s a fine balancing act. On the one hand, I feel supremely uncomfortable hanging out with Ryker’s mother, but on the other hand, I’m in love with Genevive’s son, so I know I have to make compromises. And Genevive has been nothing but nice to me, so it’s not like I even have a legitimate reason to avoid her, other than being an unsocial asshole who just needs to get over himself and suck it up.
“This is an ominous silence,” Ryker says. He sounds careful, like he’s deliberately picking each word. It doesn’t make me feel so great about myself.
“It’s going to be great,” I say with some grade A faux cheer. “I don’t know about you, but I’m… excited. And stuff.”
“Mmm. It’s a new restaurant. They’re doing a chef’s tasting menu.”
“I… have no idea what that means.”
“You get to taste everything. It’s nine courses.”
I gape at him. “Wow.” That did not sound supportive or boyfriendy. I throw on another layer of faux cheer. “I guess we’ll be really full, then. Awesome.”
“It’s tiny portions,” Ryker says.
“Great!” I’m starting to run out of my cheer reserves, but damn it all to hell, I’m going to be a good husband for once in my life.
When he told me we were in a relationship, I freaked out.
When he broke his femur and needed some calm, loving support, I yelled at him.
I resisted the marriage when he first came up with the idea. I acted like I could barely tolerate him pretty much throughout our teenage years. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked him for all the things he’s done for me or shown any appreciation for the fact that he’s always, always been there for me. On my side. In my corner. Always.
I’ve fought him tooth and nail every step of this relationship.
Yeah. I’m a fucking catch.
My point is, this time, I’m going to behave like a supportive husband and partner no matter what.
“And it’s experimental food,” Ryker continues. “Tuna eyeballs. Oyster mousse. Lamb fries. Stuff like that.”
Those are what people consider food? Because I recognized very few words on that list as something edible.
“I like fries,” I say with a heavy helping of carefulness. “And lamb. Didn’t know you could turn sheep into fries—kind of figured that treatment was exclusively for potatoes—but if they’ve managed, I’m all for it. I’ve always considered sheep the assholes of the animal kingdom, so as far as I’m concerned, they had it coming.”
There’s a glint of evil in the lazy look he sends me. “Lamb fries are testicles,” he says, patting me on the knee and pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Bon appétit.”
I force myself to grin at him. “I can’t wait.”
There’s a hint of abject horror, but all in all, I think I pulled it off quite nicely.
“You look lovely when you’re trying not to visibly gag,” Ryker says, and my shoulders slump.
“Caught on to that, did you?”
His fingers slide over the nape of my neck.
“I know you better than anybody else in the world,” he says, and something jolts inside my chest at how complex and yet how simple that statement is. “It’s going to be fine. Stop overthinking.”
“I’m not overthinking.”
“She’s not going to freak out that I’m not straight.”
“Out of the two revelations, you being bi is not my main concern. Maybe we shouldn’t do it all at once. Don’t you think it’d be better to come out today and leave the marriage discussion for another day?”
“We’ll play it by ear.”
I rub my fingertips over my forehead. “How are you so calm about this?”
He looks at me with an expression that’s filled with loving exasperation. We’ve had this conversation one time too many already.
“She’s my mom. I want her to know.”
I blow out a breath and drag my palm over my face. I wonder what that feels like? Because, to be honest, I don’t think I want my mother to know anything about this relationship at all. It helps that she’s been living in Australia for the past two years, so I barely see her, but the thing is—and I realize it’s not a very nice thing to think about one’s mother—I don’t trust her not to spill the beans about me and Ryker. Not even because I think she’d want to somehow make a profit and sell the story. It’s more that she’s careless. Exceedingly so. With relationships. With people.
That’s not the road I’m in the mood to go down on, so I shake my head and concentrate on Ryker instead.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I get it.”
He grins at me. “Okay.”