Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
THAD
I pushed the bathroom door closed and leaned back against the white painted wood.
Any minute, I was going to wake up and find the last twenty-four hours had been nothing but a nightmare.
I waited, exhaling long and slow as I stared through the small bathroom window at a purple-flowered creeper trailing along the handrail of the covered veranda.
And exactly when had I started noticing damn flowers for Chrissake?
I didn’t do plants. My mother had once given me a potted rosemary for my terrace, and I couldn’t tell you what happened to it.
It just . . . disappeared, which is actually kind of funny since rosemary is supposed to be for remembrance, right?
Then again, I’d never met a plant I couldn’t kill, a fact which hadn’t bothered me until I’d stepped into Ryder’s garden and, holy shit, the man had some serious skills.
I doubted he’d approve of my flippant attitude toward all things horticultural.
His back yard was . . . I didn’t even have the words.
Magical? Transportive? Dreamlike? Any number of words that said it was just plain fucking beautiful.
And this from a man who’d once thought foxgloves were a strange knitting fad. You know, like willy warmers.
I guess you had to be there.
None of which solved the problem of what the hell I thought I was doing in said man’s bathroom, for fuck’s sake.
I groaned and dragged a hand down my face.
I should’ve turned down Ryder’s kind invitation to breakfast and got my arse back to my car.
I didn’t know him from a bar of soap, and I certainly had no business engaging in idle chit-chat with him over bacon and eggs, not to mention making use of his—I looked around the bathroom—facilities.
Refer back to serial-killer considerations, albeit very attractive serial-killer considerations.
Because Ryder? Jesus. If ever there was a name to jack off to, Ryder was pretty well up there, and he walked the talk, as well.
A tall, blue-eyed, outdoorsy beauty sporting shoulder-length, dirty blond waves in need of a trim, a short beard and moustache that made me think of Jake McDorman, and a wide chest and flat stomach covered in thick blond curls that disappeared into a pair of blue cotton boxers.
I happened to know that last bit because that’s all the damn man was wearing under that loose, open shirt—a distraction he’d failed to remedy the entire time we’d talked.
I mean, the thing had buttons for a reason, right?
It was like he was completely unaware of how gorgeous he was.
I’d spent our entire conversation just one more flash of his thickly roped thigh away from an embarrassing semi.
Thighs hewn from honest, physical labour.
Thighs made to hold a man exactly where Ryder wanted him.
I was going to stick with the male option for the sheer hell of it, and because it was my fantasy, even if the guy was surely straight. The best ones always were.
Except for that one time when I’d caught him looking at me like he might have other things on his mind. Dirty things. Naughty things. It was likely nothing more than my own wishful thinking, but a man could dream.
I’d almost swallowed my tongue when the shed door opened to reveal him standing there like all my fucking Christmases had come at once.
Still, it was no excuse for stripping off and showering in the house of a man I’d known for all of ten minutes, when what I really needed to do was grab my stuff and skedaddle my pathetic self out of there, pronto.
I gnawed on my lip and stared at the enticing shower cubicle.
It was a nice shower; I’d give him that.
Bright, roomy, spotlessly clean, and possessing enough body wash options to satisfy an entire brood of serial killers.
And those towels. Oh my God. I stretched out a hand and ran it over the closest, groaning as my fingertips all but disappeared into the luscious pile.
Would it really hurt? I was already in here, after all, right?
I spied the toilet and my body suddenly came to life in the most embarrassing way.
Oh yeah, I definitely needed some quality time with that.
A pee in the forest was about my limit. As a non-camper, I sure as hell didn’t drop trou for .
. . other things. Okay, new plan. Make suitable use of the man’s toilet, then ditch the shower and breakfast thing, and head out.
I made quick work of undressing and sat myself down with my phone.
“Have you got everything you need?” Ryder’s voice at the door made me jump.
“I’ve left a pair of sweats and a T-shirt outside.
They’ll be a little big, but I’m guessing that’s not a priority.
You don’t need to return them. Just throw them away when you’re done.
And there are spare toiletries in the top drawer. Help yourself.”
Oh God, now the man’s giving me his clothes. Get the hell out of here, idiot. This is too fucking weird. “Thanks, but I really don’t think I need a shower after all. I’ll just finish here and get out of your hair.”
After a beat or two of silence, Ryder said, “Take it from me, you really do need a shower. Straw, chicken feed, compost, and damp wool suits don’t rate on anyone’s list of favourite fragrances. Stop trying to be polite and just enjoy it.”
I was about to argue, then lifted my arm for a test sniff and . . . damn. The man was right.
As if he’d read my mind, Ryder added, “Besides, you’re safe with me, if that’s what you’re worried about. I ate two hikers last week, so I’m good for a while.”
I swallowed a laugh. “Which is exactly what you’d say if you were a serial killer.”
He chuckled. “Then I guess you’ll have to find out. I’ll give you a five-minute warning when breakfast is almost ready. There’s plenty of hot water, so don’t hold back.” His footsteps disappeared back along the hall and I was left admiring his sneaky skills.
Still sitting, I opened the top drawer of the vanity and grabbed a toothbrush in its box and a disposable razor. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and curious as all hell, I then rummaged around to see what else the man had. I’d been invited, after all.
I came up with several travel-size shaving foams, a male grooming kit, some after-shave gel, men’s moisturiser sachets, and a whole lot of shampoos and conditioners lifted from hotels.
For a straight landscape gardener, the man sure liked his products.
I added a grooming kit and foam to the toothbrush and razor and was about to close the drawer when it struck me there weren’t any women’s toiletries amongst the selection.
My interest piqued again. Was it really too much of a stretch to think Ryder might be—
I opened the second drawer of the vanity and almost groaned with the embarrassing answer. Women’s moisturisers, cleaners, toners, hair products, feminine hygiene options, the whole lot. I swallowed my disappointment. And slammed the drawer shut.
Get a life, Thaddeus.
I finished my business, showered, shaved, and all the rest, and then cracked open the bathroom door just enough to collect the clothes Ryder had left for me. They were too big, for sure, but looking in the mirror, I decided they’d get me home, which was all I needed.
The reflection staring back at me wasn’t anything I wanted to dwell on—a pale, ghost of a man I scarcely recognised.
But for the first time in twenty-four hours, since I’d read that fateful text from Phillip, I felt like I might actually survive this mess.
As long as I pretended none of it had actually happened, of course.
My phone vibrating its way across the vanity with a text from Phillip was quick to put an end to any illusion of that happening anytime soon.
You’re angry, I get it, but don’t be an arsehole.
24 hours without a word? You’ve made your point, okay?
It’s just like you to run away :( BTW your mother called looking for you.
I didn’t say anything but if I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll have to come up with something to tell her.
Just let me know you’re ok. Regardless of what you think, I do actually care.
I almost choked on that last bit. But then I remembered the part about my mother and my head dropped back and I whisper-cursed at the ceiling, “Fucking, fuck, fuck.” The last thing I needed was my mother causing more drama.
I turned my attention back to my phone and replied to Phillip.
I’m fine. Now leave me alone. I’m not running away. I’m just not ready to talk about how you have royally fucked over our friendship. You and Judd are welcome to each other. Now piss off.
I hit the Send button and immediately thought of a dozen other things I wanted to say that would have been far more dismissive, more cutting, and just generally . . . better. Dammit to hell.
I took a deep, calming breath, stared at the phone in my hand for what felt like a millennium, and then pressed Call.
Phillip answered on the first ring, sounding breathless and genuinely worried. “Oh, thank Christ. Finally. Jesus, Thad, I’ve been worried that you might . . . well . . . you know—”
“What?” I cut him off. “Top myself?” I gave a mirthless chuckle.
“Trust me, neither of you arseholes is worth that.” The sudden raw truth of that sent a wave of crushing grief through my chest at the loss of our friendship, but there was no going back, and Phillip needed to know that.
“We’re done, Phillip. Our friendship is over.
The business partnership is also done. I’ll either buy you out or sell you my share.
I really don’t care which. You can have it all if you want, Judd included.
It’s what you wanted, after all, right? Control of everything? ”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phillip started to protest, those smooth honey tones falling far short of my patience. “I never wanted—”