3. Alex
ALEX
By noon the next day, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m being dramatic.
Almost.
Which is, honestly, better than I expected considering I woke up three hours later than I should have wearing Ryder’s hoodie like some emotionally compromised raccoon who crawled into the nearest warm place and decided to make a home there.
Not my proudest moment.
Especially because the most unsettling part wasn’t that I fell asleep in his clothes.
It was that I slept.
Actually slept.
No waking up every twelve minutes because the refrigerator clicked on.
No lying completely still while I listened for footsteps that didn’t exist. No checking the front door, then the bedroom window, then the front door again, because apparently my brain considers obsessive lock inspection a meaningful hobby.
I fell asleep wrapped in smoke, detergent, cedar, and Ryder, and I woke to sunlight leaking through the curtains like a normal person.
A rested normal person.
Which feels illegal.
The second I realize that, I yank the hoodie over my head so fast my hair tries to go with it.
“Fantastic,” I mutter, standing in the middle of my bedroom with my shirt twisted around my ribs and my heart doing something stupid over a piece of clothing.
It’s just a hoodie.
A navy-colored fire station hoodie with COOK stitched over the chest in white thread.
Just fabric, filled with warmth.
The most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept in after someone broke into my apartment and Ryder looked at me like he would burn the whole city down if that was what it took to make me safe.
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
I drop the hoodie on the bed, then immediately pick it back up. Instead of tossing it into the hamper like a normal person would, I fold it carefully and set it on the end of the mattress.
Then I stare at it like the crazy person that I am.
Until I leave the room because I do not have time to develop a complicated relationship with outerwear.
Work is safer.
It makes sense and doesn’t ask me to think about the destruction in my personal life.
Work has notes, quotes, deadlines, and a very clear expectation that I will not sit around thinking about Ryder’s hands fixing my window lock at four in the morning.
Unfortunately, by the time I’m downtown with my bag over my shoulder and my phone full of interview questions, I’m still thinking about Ryder’s hands fixing my window lock at four in the morning.
His hands on the screwdriver.
His thumb on my wrist.
His voice when he said I wasn’t being paranoid.
No, you’re not.
I hate how badly I needed to hear that.
I hate more that I keep replaying it like an audio clip I can’t get enough of.
The downtown redevelopment story is supposed to be easy.
A few interviews with business owners, a couple of quotes from tenants worried about rising rents, some background about old buildings that haven’t seen proper repairs since people still smoked indoors and thought shag carpet was an acceptable design choice.
Normal local paper stuff.
Except every conversation seems determined to remind me of everything I’m trying not to think about. Namely, Ryder, and his stupidly perfect face.
“The wiring is ancient,” says Mr. Bell from the used bookstore on Carson, waving one hand toward the ceiling like the exposed pipes personally offended him. “We’ve been asking the landlord to get someone in here for two years.”
I jot down the notes while my brain helpfully supplies the image of smoke rolling from the apartment building last night.
“Any safety inspections recently that you know of?”
He snorts, then leans an elbow against the counter beside a stack of water-stained paperbacks. “Define recently.”
“Within the last year?”
“Then no.” He chuckles like he’s listening to a funny story. “You’d think it’d be a priority, but it isn’t.”
Great. Comforting. Love that for everyone.
By the time I leave the bookstore, I have three pages of notes about rent increases, delayed repairs, faulty alarms, ignored electrical complaints, and a maintenance request one tenant says has been “pending” for eighteen months.
The entire story is starting to smell like negligence with a side of electrical fire.
Which is not exactly soothing.
I’m crossing the street toward the bakery when I see the SUV.
Dark. Glossy. Parked on the opposite side of the block with the front angled slightly toward the curb.
Same make and color as the one I thought I saw earlier this week outside my building, though thought is doing a lot of heavy lifting there because my nervous system has recently started adding ominous background vehicles to the list of things it likes to ruin my day with.
The windshield catches the sun, turning the driver into nothing but glare.
My steps slow.
People move around me on the sidewalk, a woman with a stroller, two teenagers sharing earbuds, a man balancing takeout containers in both hands. Normal life keeps happening all around me while I stand there staring at a dark SUV like it might sprout teeth.
Then the brake lights flash.
The SUV pulls away from the curb and disappears into traffic before I can even pretend I’m getting the plate information.
My stomach tightens.
Coincidence.
It has to be coincidence.
This is a small town. People drive dark SUVs. People park downtown. People exist in places without plotting psychological warfare against me.
I’m pretending that I didn’t see the distinct metallic hood ornament for the newer model luxury vehicle.
Reasonable.
Logical.
Completely unhelpful.
My thumb hovers over Ryder’s contact before I realize what I’m doing.
I don’t call, obviously.
Because calling Ryder Cook every time I feel weird about a car would be pathetic, and I am trying very hard not to build my entire emotional stability around a man who somehow already knows far too much about me.
I’m pathetic, and in desperate need of a new vibrator, but I’m not ready to admit that I need him… or anyone. Not yet.
I shove my phone into my bag and go interview the bakery owner.
For twenty-seven minutes, I behave like a functioning adult.
I ask questions. I take notes. I nod at appropriate times.
I even manage a halfway intelligent follow-up about commercial rent hikes despite the fact that a corner of my brain is still standing on the sidewalk watching a dark SUV drive away.
By the time I duck into The Daily Grind, the lunch rush is in full swing.
The coffee shop is warm and crowded, filled with the hiss of the espresso machine, low music, overlapping conversations, and the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon. Sunlight pours through the front windows in bright sheets, making everything look safer than it feels.
I grab a small table near the back wall because I’m not completely self-destructive, spread my notes in front of me, and pretend the reason I picked this seat is because it has an outlet and not because I can see both doors from here.
Fantastic.
Now I’m doing crazy things like being overly situationally aware of what’s happening.
I’m halfway through rewriting Mr. Bell’s quote when the front door opens.
I know it’s Ryder before I look up.
Which is deeply inconvenient and possibly proof that my body has betrayed me on a cellular level.
The air doesn’t change. Music doesn’t stop. No one turns in slow motion.
But my spine knows.
My heart knows.
Some traitorous, attention-starved part of me knows.
I look up anyway because apparently I enjoy suffering.
Ryder steps inside wearing a dark Henley, worn jeans, and a baseball cap pulled low over damp hair like he showered fast and didn’t bother doing anything else.
There’s a faint scrape near his jaw that wasn’t there before last night, and his eyes look tired in a way that makes me think he didn’t sleep much.
Or at all.
The barista looks up and smiles. “Hey, Ryder. Usual?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Of course the barista knows him.
Of course Ryder Cook has a usual, and he probably carries old ladies across crosswalks in his spare time while rescuing emotionally fragile raccoons from trees.
His gaze moves through the shop with casual efficiency.
The door.
The counter.
The front windows.
Me.
He pauses like finding me here is a surprise.
It is a good pause. Very believable. Oscar-worthy, honestly.
I don’t buy it for a second.
“Alex,” he says, walking toward my table.
“Ryder.” I lean back in my chair and lift one eyebrow. “Wow. What are the odds?”
His mouth twitches. “Of coffee existing downtown?”
“Of you existing near my coffee at this time in the day, when I’m imbibing said coffee.”
“I was in the area.”
“Were you?”
He pulls out the chair across from me but doesn’t sit until I give the tiniest nod. I hate that I notice the asking. Hate more that I like it.
“Are we doing this?” he asks.
“Doing what?”
“The thing where you pretend I’m suspicious for buying coffee. And I pretend that I don’t understand your suspicion.”
“You are suspicious.”
“I’m a firefighter. We run on caffeine and bad decisions. That doesn’t make me suspicious”
“That explains so much about you.”
He smiles, and it should be illegal for a man who looks that tired to still be that attractive. There’s a heaviness under his eyes, a rough edge to him today that makes the golden-boy thing feel dented. Not gone. Just shadowed.
It does not help my libido any.
Nothing about Ryder ever helps.
Before I can decide whether to be annoyed or flustered, the barista calls his name. Ryder gets up, and when he comes back, he sets one cup in front of me.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the cup.
“What is this?”
“Coffee.”
“I know what coffee is, Ryder.”
“Could’ve fooled me by the way you’re looking at it.”
I peel back the lid and smell vanilla, espresso, and oat milk.
My exact order.
My stupid, slightly specific, not-quite-basic-but-basic-adjacent coffee order.
“You remember my coffee order?”
He sits slowly, like he knows he stepped into something but isn’t sure how sharp it is. “You order the same thing every time.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“How would you know that?”