Chapter 14 June
Oh, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.
He thinks he can just waltz around my house in a towel for half an hour—yes, it took a full freaking thirty minutes for his clothes to dry—and then I’ll be putty in his hands? Begging him for a date? For him to kiss me?
Ha!
He’s right.
I’m sitting on the counter after we return from the grocery store, watching Ryan move around my kitchen, trying so hard not to blurt out just kiss me already. He’s turned on the Black Keys and is humming while he puts produce in the fridge. I can’t handle it.
Thoughts of him in that towel with wet hair tousled like every teenage girl’s hot-lifeguard fantasy keep flashing in my mind. Do skillets weigh hundreds of pounds? They must for Ryan to have a body as sculpted as he does. His abs are like six perfect shelves. I could store things on them if I needed to.
And his mouth. So so perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever considered what makes a mouth perfect before, but Ryan’s is the standard. Full but not too full. A nice curve when he smiles that makes his eyes crinkle. Reddish, pinkish, brownish. Gah—I don’t even know what that means. It’s just good, okay? And I bet those lips would feel sooo good on mine.
When my palms start sweating at the thought of grabbing Ryan and pulling his mouth against mine, I decide it’s time to turn my mind to more productive tasks—like aimlessly scrolling through my phone.
I swipe it open and look down, but let’s be honest, I’m not really seeing what I’m looking at because I’ve trained my peripherals on the man in my kitchen.
Ryan’s voice makes me jump. “So, is there a reason you still follow your ex?”
“Huh?”
I look up in time to see him tilt his head toward my phone—eyes trained on the potato he’s chopping. “This morning you said your ex posted about his engagement. I was wondering why you still follow him on Instagram if he hurt you that much?”
“Oh.” I set my phone to the side. It wasn’t distracting me anyway. “I don’t. I just . . .” Oh gosh, I don’t want to admit this. To say it’s embarrassing is an understatement. But I’ve already told Ryan something about my life that no one else knows. Might as well get this off my chest too. “I occasionally go check his profile, hoping to see that maybe he’s grown a new mole on his face since I last saw him.” Please don’t make fun of me.
He grins. “I get it.”
“You do?” He has a quiet smile as he nods.
Chop, chop, chop.
His knife sails over the cutting board, and I get the feeling there’s more that he’s not saying, so I do a little digging. “You have an ex-girlfriend you stalk on Instagram or something?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes cut to me for a split second before training on the cutting board again. “Not an ex.”
I swallow, and my heart races from this new game we’re playing. “Hmm . . . interesting. So, it’s someone you don’t want anyone to know you follow?”
Ryan sets down his knife and walks toward me. My stomach tightens when his gaze fixes on mine before grabbing both my hips and sliding me to the side so he can open the drawer I was blocking and pulls out a ladle. But he’s not far enough in his cooking process yet to need a ladle. Busted. He sets the unneeded utensil down beside the cutting board and starts on another potato but doesn’t speak.
“So, this mysterious woman. Do you like her?”
“How long do you think this game is going to last? Because I need your help cooking.” He doesn’t need my help.
Ryan had come up with the most incredible menu for the rehearsal dinner. A Tuscan seared salmon with seasonal vegetables roasted in a red wine sauce and the most decadent chocolate cherry tart for dessert that Stacy immediately vetoed before slapping a worn-out, handwritten recipe into his hand. I’ve never seen Ryan so dejected as he read over Stacy’s desired rehearsal dinner menu: a dish I’d had many times at her mom’s house called potato-chipped chicken, old-fashioned mashed potatoes, green beans slathered in butter, and homestyle mac and cheese. I think Ryan wanted to cry. I enjoyed it too much.
“I just want to hear you admit it,” I say with a satisfied smirk.
He stops and levels me with a melting smolder. “Admit what?”
Under his attention, my confidence wavers. A minute ago, I was enjoying this game. Now, I see that, in classic Ryan style, he has turned the tables. The spotlight isn’t on him anymore. I’m the one who has to say the words out loud that my heart is hoping are true. But they might not be . . . this might all just be in my head.
“Never mind.”
“Admit what, June?”
“No, this was silly. Let’s move on.” I want him to quit looking at me, but he doesn’t. I’m angry at myself for pushing this game. I can’t take any more hits today, and I’ve set myself up for embarrassment.
“What do you want me to admit to you?”
You know what? Fine. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Here we go.
I pull on my fake courage and meet his blistering stare. “Admit that you’ve been pining away for me all these years.”
The dare floats between us, and the only evidence that he even heard me is when the corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. “June, I’ve been pining away for you all these years.”
His words tip me over. Spin me around. Disorient me until I can’t see straight. Ryan’s face is serious. He really means what he just said, and his admittance makes my stomach turn inside out. I can’t say anything. My tongue is tied up in a neat little bow.
At my silence, he grins and turns back to his work. I should take this opportunity to laugh in his face. I could finally win our war. Here and now, I could claim victory and plant a flag in the ground, staking my win. I should do that. I don’t. “Are you ever going to ask me out?”
I want Ryan to jump or startle at my words, but of course he doesn’t. His confidence is what makes him so attractive. “You just told me, about an hour ago, that you’re not ready. Something changed?”
Something has definitely changed, but because it feels safer to admit I’m attracted to Ryan than I have feelings for him, I tell a different truth. “Yeah. I saw your abs. It got me thinking that maybe one date won’t hurt.”
“No, thanks.”
“What?” I immediately start picking my shield back up. I should have known better than to think this wasn’t all some trick.
He must hear the edge to my voice, because he turns to me and looks me in the eyes. “June, I’m not interested in becoming the next guy in your long string of one and only dates. I like you—I have for a long time—and I’m done hiding it. I want to give us a chance, but one date is not gonna do it for me. So, are you ready to give up your rule?”
Yes.
“No.”
He nods but doesn’t get upset like most men would. “Okay, then.” He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. “Get over here and help me make some mashed potatoes.”
Part of me thinks we should keep talking about this. That I should empty my feelings out onto the counter like an adult and tell him I’m scared of him. I’m scared of loving him and him walking away from me. But I can’t. The words won’t budge.
I slide off the countertop and move to stand beside him as he hands me a big knife that I don’t think he would have given me if he knew how few times I’ve held it before. That fact is clear, though, when I grab hold of the slippery potato and inch the blade through it. Nice and slow. That’s it. Easy does it. ANNNNND one cut complete!
The knife makes a sound when the blade connects with the cutting board, and I smile, feeling like someone should give me a gold medal. Maybe Top Chef is still taking auditions?
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ryan’s less-than-enthusiastic voice has my head jerking up to look at him.
“What? I did it! Look at that solid cut!”
“I turned a million years old in the process.”
Someone likes to exaggerate. “Is speed always your top priority?” I give him a taunting, flirtatious look, but he doesn’t take the bait. Still, I see the corner of his mouth twitching. I want to kiss it.
“How do you not know how to use a knife?”
I shrug. “I work with dough all day. Very rarely do I have to use something sharp.”
“Okay, well, today you learn.” The authority in his voice is doing nothing to lessen his attractiveness.
I’m ready for Ryan to move in close behind me and pick up the knife so he can teach me how to use it. He’ll keep his body pressed up next to mine, and his breath will tickle my ear as he shows me how to properly slice a potato. His calloused hand will cover mine, and my whole body will break out in chills from his touch. It will be the sexiest cooking lesson in the world, and we will fog up the windows in my house when he kisses my neck, knife lesson forgotten. He’ll probably spin me around and carry me to the couch and—
“June!” He’s waving his hand in front of my face, and I blink. “Where’d you go?”
My cheeks flush, and if he notices, he doesn’t comment. He’s too engrossed in my impending lesson—all business. He holds up his knife and nods for me to do the same. Super. I guess I really am getting a lesson in knife work with a gap so wide between our bodies I’d have to stretch just to get our elbows to touch. How sexy.
For the next ten minutes, Ryan drones on and on about how the knife should never leave the cutting board, and the blade should rock back and forth, letting me move through the potato faster. Honestly, I’m bored to tears. I couldn’t care less about this dang blade. This is nothing like when we were making donuts side by side. Instead, Ryan’s brows furrow, and he’s serious—joyless.
I pause my practice and look up at him. “You know, I had no idea that you even liked to cook—back in high school, I mean,” I say, interrupting his monologue on the various techniques of rocking the blade at different angles.
He freezes, and I see something flash across his eyes. “No? Huh.”
“You never mentioned it. Not once.”
His attention is back on his work. “Not exactly surprising. We never talked back then unless we were trying to annoy each other.” He’s right. And now that breaks my heart. So many wasted years.
“Well, tell me now then.” I lean my hip against the counter and look up at him. “When did you get into it?”
“June, we have a lot to get done. Let’s just focus on getting the dinner made before we have to get ready for the rehearsal.”
Oh, I see. He expects me to open up about my life, but he gets to keep all his secrets inside? I don’t think so.
“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding close to amusement.
“I’M . . . CARRYING . . . YOU . . . INTO . . . THE . . . SHOWER!” I say with my arms wrapped around Ryan’s gigantic body, using all my strength to try to lift him off the ground. Someone please call Superman. He’s the only one who can get this job done. Ryan is clearly made of lead. “Make yourself lighter!”
He laughs, turns around, and picks me up by my armpits, setting me back onto my perch on the counter (apparently, I wasn’t that much help in the slicing department). I find it ridiculously unfair that he can just move me around like a rag doll, and I can’t even push him an inch.
But I’m not so easily deterred. I reach for the sink sprayer and aim it at Ryan’s chest, but I don’t wait for him to spill his secrets. Nope. I turn on that cold water and blast him like a machine gun of liquid. Otherwise known as a water gun.
His shoulders jump, and he drops the knife onto the counter, but that’s the most startle I get out of him. He rests his hands on the counter and takes the stream of cold water like a war hero. Then, slowly, his gaze shifts to me, and I see retaliation in their depths. His dark eyes flash fire.
They say when you get close to death, you can feel it. I feel it now.
I drop the sink sprayer and bolt up onto the counter, jumping off the island to the other side. Ryan is fast, though. He’s rounding the kitchen island and racing toward me. I don’t know what he’ll do when he catches me, and I don’t want to find out.
I race out the front door, squealing in a way that I’m not proud of as I run toward my backyard. I feel Ryan close on my heels, and when I glance over my shoulder and find miles and miles of his toned, tan abdomen instead of his drenched shirt, my steps falter. When did he take that off, and how did I miss it?
I land hard on the ground.
A better man would check to make sure I’m not hurt. Ryan is not one of those men.
He dives onto the ground and pins me down so he can jab his fingers into my ribs until I’m practically screaming from laughter. How dare he remember that I’m highly ticklish! I want to murder him. Or run my hands up and down his abs. One of those two things.
Finally, the torture stops, and I open my eyes. He’s smiling. A warm, heart-wrenching, let’s-do-this-forever kind of smile, and I feel a piece of the ice around my heart break off. I wish I wasn’t this girl. The one protecting her heart like it’s made of spun glass. He’s still pinning me down, but there’s a new tenderness in his eyes as he shifts his weight to his elbow and uses his other hand to brush my wild hair out of my face.
“I used to cook with my mom,” he says quietly, and both my rapid breathing and smile fade into something softer. “Anytime I had a bad day but didn’t want to talk about it, she’d pull me into the kitchen with her, and we’d cook something together. It was our thing. By the time whatever we were making came out of the oven, I had told her everything that was bothering me. And somehow, just having her listen made me feel better.” He gives a sad smile. “The day she died, I went in the kitchen and cooked her favorite lasagna. It went in the trash when it was finished because I didn’t have an appetite for a while after she died, but that’s how I got into cooking. It’s how I remember her.”
“I didn’t know.”
His thumb traces my jaw. “Because I didn’t tell you.”
“I wish I had known back then.”
“It’s okay. You were nice to me when I was feeling my worst after she died. I think it was the only truce we’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, but still. I wish I knew that about you and your mom—that you liked to cook. That you were hurting more than you let on. I wish I knew you back then.”
“I wish a lot of things about that time. If I could go back, I’d do it differently.”
But we can’t go back. And even if we could, would he really change anything? “If things were different between us back then, you might not have gone to France and become a chef. You would have missed out on doing something you love.”
His eyes leave mine for the first time to stray to where his elbow is holding up his weight. “Right.”
My brows pinch together. “You do love it, don’t you?”
Those deep-brown eyes slide to mine, and I’m not able to read them. He opens his mouth, but before words come out, I hear a car door closing in my driveway. He and I both jerk away from each other and look up into the smirking face of my brother, Jake, and my niece, Sam.
“Hey, June. I see your enemy is here.”
My face is on fire as I look at Ryan propped up beside me, shirtless, with a crap-eating grin on his face. I shove him away from me at the same time that I look at my brother and say, “I hate him.”
Jake’s eyebrows raise and lower as he says, “Yeah. Looks like it.”
Just go ahead and add Jake’s name to my list of people I’m going to murder.