18. Rowan
18
ROWAN
My fingers hover over the phone screen, hesitating before I finally hit send. The text to Brick is short and to the point: Not feeling well today. Can’t make it to the diner. Sorry for the short notice.
I toss the phone onto my couch like it’s suddenly turned hot, then immediately snatch it back up. What am I doing? The diner’s going to be slammed on a Sunday morning, and I’m leaving Ryder to handle it alone. But the thought of seeing him after what happened in the pantry last night makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with actual illness.
My phone rings, with Brick’s name flashing on the screen. Of course, he’d call instead of text back.
“Hello?” I try to inject some weakness into my voice.
“What’s wrong?” His tone is stern, but I catch the thread of concern underneath.
“Just feeling a bit under the weather.” I fake a slight cough. “I probably just need to rest. I’m super exhausted, and my body hurts all over.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“Headache, um, sore throat, joint pains…” I scramble to think of something that sounds legitimate but not serious enough to warrant an actual doctor. “Maybe a slight fever?”
“I’ll stop by the pharmacy and bring you some medicine,” he says decisively. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“That’s really not necessary—” I start to protest.
“Text me if you need anything specific. Otherwise, I’ll bring the basics.” And then he’s gone. The call ends before I can argue further.
I groan, dropping my phone onto the kitchen counter. Great. Now I’ve got Brick coming over to play nurse for an illness I don’t have, all because I’m too chickenshit to face his brother after having what was arguably the best sex of my life.
What I actually need is emergency contraception, not cold medicine. At least I was smart enough to make Ryder stop at a convenience store on the way home last night.
I pace around my apartment, feeling restless energy crawl beneath my skin. The memory of last night keeps replaying in high definition no matter how hard I try to push it away. The unexpected tenderness afterward that somehow felt more intimate than what we’d done.
I shouldn’t want more. I shouldn’t want any of it, really. Getting involved with my bosses, with men who have roots in this town I’m just passing through, is a complication I don’t need.
I head to the kitchen, pulling out flour, yeast, and salt. Bread is what I need right now. Something that requires my hands and attention. The rhythm of kneading dough is meditative, letting my mind drift.
Once the dough is smooth and elastic, I place it in a bowl and cover it with a damp cloth to rise. I’ve just finished washing my hands when a sharp knock on my door makes me jump.
It’s barely been forty minutes since I texted Brick—he couldn’t have gone to the pharmacy and gotten here that quickly. I open the door without checking the peephole, and my heart practically stops.
Ryder.
He stands in my doorway wearing dark jeans, motorcycle boots, and a simple black T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His dark blond hair is slightly tousled, and those gray eyes study me with an unnerving intensity.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, acutely aware that I’m in ratty sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and probably still have flour on my face. “I thought Brick was coming.”
Ryder steps inside without answering, his gaze sweeping over my apartment before settling back on me. His eyes drift to the kitchen, where my covered dough sits on the counter.
“You shouldn’t be baking if you’re sick,” he says finally, his voice that familiar low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
“I—” I start to protest, moving back toward the kitchen, but suddenly my feet leave the ground.
In one fluid motion, Ryder lifts me into his arms. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck as he carries me toward my bedroom. His body is solid and warm against mine, and I can feel the strength in his arms as he holds me like I weigh nothing.
He sets me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then kneels over me, his thighs bracketing mine without pressing down. I’m trapped beneath him, but it doesn’t feel threatening—it feels like exactly where I want to be.
Ryder takes both my hands in his, pinning them lightly above my head. His face hovers above mine, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips.
“So you were lying about being sick,” he says, his voice low. “You don’t look sick to me.”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t want to see you,” I admit, unable to lie with him looking at me like this. “After what we did…”
“You realize that’s not the last time it’s going to happen, right?”
The straightforwardness of his statement knocks the air from my lungs. I look away, squeezing my eyes shut, unable to handle the certainty in his gaze.
“Are you scared?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’m not even sure what I’m most afraid of—how he makes me feel or how much I want to feel it again.
He releases my hands but doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers drift down to the hem of my T-shirt, just barely slipping underneath to trace patterns on the sensitive skin of my stomach.
“Ryder…” My voice is embarrassingly breathless.
“Shh.” His finger traces the curve of my hip bone, dipping just slightly beneath the waistband of my sweatpants before withdrawing again. “I’m not going to do anything to you.” His hand flattens against my stomach. “We’re going to sleep,” he says, his tone making it clear this isn’t a suggestion. “Just sleep. Nothing more.”
Before I can process this shift, he stretches out beside me and kicks off his boots. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his chest until my back is pressed to his front. I stiffen, confused by the sudden change.
“Just rest,” he murmurs against my hair. “We both need it.”
The tension slowly drains from my body as I realize he means exactly what he says. No demands, no expectations—just comfort. It’s almost more intimate than what we shared in the pantry.
“So you bailed on the diner too?” I ask, my voice small in the quiet of the room.
“Yeah.” His chest rumbles against my back. “My brothers are busting their asses there now.”
I should feel guilty, but the warmth of his body against mine and the steady rhythm of his breathing is lulling me into a comfort I haven’t felt in months.
“The bread dough—” I mumble half-heartedly.
“It’ll rise just fine,” he says, his arm tightening slightly around my waist. “Sleep now.”
And somehow, despite all my racing thoughts and the heat of his body against mine, I do.
I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, disoriented for a moment before I register the warm weight of Ryder’s arm still draped over me. I blink, trying to gauge how long we’ve slept. The angle of the sun suggests it’s early afternoon.
Ryder shifts behind me, his breathing changing in a way that tells me he’s awake too. Neither of us moves to break the contact.
“Your bread dough,” he says finally, his voice rough with sleep.
I laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
He sits up, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You were worried about it.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the simple consideration. He remembered my half-formed protest even as I was falling asleep.
“It’s probably overproofed by now,” I say, sitting up beside him. “But it’ll still bake.”
We move to the kitchen together, a strangely comfortable silence between us. The dough has indeed risen well past its optimal state, spilling slightly over the edges of the bowl.
I quickly shape the dough into two loaves and place them on a baking sheet. Ryder watches me work, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asks.
I shrug, trying to seem casual. “Been baking a long time.”
“Professional training?”
“Self-taught, mostly.” The half-truth slides out easily. “My mom started teaching me, then I just kept learning.”
He nods, accepting this without pushing further. It’s one of the things I’m starting to appreciate about Ryder—he doesn’t demand more than I’m ready to give.
As I slide the loaves into the oven, Ryder moves closer, his hand settling on my hip. The casual possessiveness of the gesture makes my pulse jump.
“Thirty minutes?” he asks, nodding toward the bread.
“About that.”
His thumb traces small circles on my hip bone. “That’s enough time.”
My breath catches. “Enough time for what?”
The corner of his mouth quirks in what might be a smile. “To start the coffee.”
I laugh, feeling some of the tension dissolve. “Coffee sounds good.”
We move around each other in my tiny kitchen with surprising ease. The coffee has just finished brewing when Ryder’s phone rings. His expression doesn’t change as he checks the screen, but something in his posture shifts.
“Maddox,” he says, answering.
I can’t hear what his brother is saying, but Ryder’s responses are minimal, even for him. “Yes.” “No.” “Later.”
Then, with a glance at me: “She’s fine.”
My cheeks heat at the implication that they’ve been discussing me. Ryder ends the call and pockets his phone.
“Everything okay at the diner?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Busy.” He accepts the mug of coffee I hand him. “They’re managing.”
“Should you go help?” I try to ignore the disappointment that rises at the thought of him leaving.
Ryder takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. His eyes meet mine. “Do you want me to go?”
The question catches me off guard with its directness.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble with your brothers,” I hedge.
“Not what I asked.” He steps closer, backing me gently against the counter. “Do you want me to go?”
His proximity makes it hard to think. “No,” I admit finally. “I don’t.”
Something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes. He reaches past me to set his mug on the counter, his body brushing against mine in a way that can’t be accidental.
“Good,” he says simply.
The oven timer saves me from having to respond. The bread looks perfect—golden brown and fragrant.
“That smells amazing,” Ryder says, watching as I set the loaves on a cooling rack.
His phone rings once more before I can respond. This time, his expression darkens slightly as he answers. “What?” His voice is sharper than before. He listens for a moment, then sighs. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
When he hangs up, I can see the reluctance in his eyes.
“You have to go,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.
He nods, his expression apologetic. “Problem at the garage.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
Ryder steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
Before I can respond, he leans down and kisses me. Then he’s gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
I stand in my kitchen, lips tingling, surrounded by the smell of fresh bread and the lingering warmth of his presence.
I’ll take three days off, I decide. Three days to sort out what I’m feeling, to figure out what I’m going to do about the Kane brothers.