Chapter 41
Forty-One
Return To Innocence
Spencer
I am so out of my depth here. Ryan's sisters are bulldozers in heels.
It must be a family trait because, like their brother, they ignore all the crime scene tape, caution cones, and toxic waste signs I've spent years carefully positioning around my person.
They just shove it all aside and let themselves in.
It's a little jarring. What's more unexpected, though, is my lack of resistance.
Well. My lowered resistance. Let's not get crazy here.
It's just a tiny bit alarming that not very long ago, if you'd told me I'd be waking up to Ryan Buterbaugh every day and his sisters would be coming over for dinner at my condo, I would've advised you to seek immediate psychiatric evaluation.
Yet here they are.
And they're witty, smart, devastatingly stylish women who somehow manage to make beauty look effortless while I stand here mentally recalculating my entire personality. I can't help but find them endearing.
Cricket especially. She has Ryan's eyes.
That alone feels unfair. It tugs at something in my chest every time she looks at me.
Those light green eyes are my favorite thing about him.
At first glance, they seem surface level.
Bright. Pretty. Easy. But the longer you look, the more depth you find swimming underneath.
Warmth. Sadness. Humor. Hope. Ryan feels everything so openly it's almost violent.
And somehow those eyes always make me feel seen in a way that's deeply uncomfortable. Not unlike the man himself.
I'm so screwed.
Shaking myself free from the spiral forming in my head, I lead them out of the master bedroom where Harper discovered Fucker lounging across my bed like a king and promptly decided his name is now Catfred Hitchcock because of his apparent proclivity for filmmaking.
If cats actually responded to names, I'd be concerned the feline I couldn't successfully name now has three.
Walking down the hall toward the main living area, Cricket hooks her arm through mine casually, like we've known each other longer than fifteen minutes. I stiffen for approximately half a second before forcing myself to relax. This is normal people behavior. I think. Honestly, I don't know anymore.
“I still can't believe you let Ryan move in,” Cricket says lightly.
“He did not move in.”
“Mhm.”
“He's temporarily occupying my guest room while recovering.”
Cricket hums in obvious disbelief.
Behind us, Harper carries Fucker—sorry, Catfred—like an actual infant, despite the fact he weighs roughly the same as a kettlebell and is shedding black fur all over her cream silk blouse. She doesn't seem remotely concerned about it.
Who are these people?
“You know,” Cricket says conspiratorially, leaning closer, “Ryan never brings people around us.”
I glance at her carefully. “People?”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do. My stomach tightens.
When we round the corner into the open living space, I find him standing at the kitchen island wearing one of his ridiculous aprons.
He looks up… and there it is again. That look.
Every single time his eyes land on me lately, his entire face changes like someone flipped on a light inside him.
The stupid dimples appear. The softness settles in.
Like seeing me genuinely makes him happy.
It's disorienting. Dangerous. Worse, I think I'm starting to crave it.
Ryan's gaze flicks to Cricket's arm looped through mine and his grin widens. “Wow. You guys look cozy.”
Cricket smirks. “Don't get jealous, Ry.”
“Oh, I'm absolutely jealous.” Something warm flashes across his face when he says it. Playful. Affectionate.
No need for jealousy. I’m yours.
The thought arrives so abruptly I nearly trip over absolutely nothing.
Jesus Christ.
Harper lifts a hand. “Can I help with anything?”
Ryan points a wooden spoon at her from where he's standing at my stove. “I need music. Can you start a ‘90s playlist on my phone?”
“Ooh,” Harper says, already excited. “Now we're talking.”
“Actually,” I interject, “I have streaming setup on the TV wired through the ceiling speakers. I can help you get it going.”
Harper waves me off dismissively. “Please. I'm a tech genius. I'll figure it out.”
Ryan laughs under his breath while stirring something that smells aggressively buttery. “It's true. Don't let her near your phone.”
Harper snickers and grabs the remote just as a knock sounds at the door. Ryan glances toward it, then lifts both hands. “Can you get that, Spence? My hands have butter all over them.”
I furrow my brow. “Can I get the door in my own condo? Yes.” Ryan grins. I shake my head and think, What is happening?
I cross the living room and pull the door open.
Tyler stands there wearing ripped black jeans, a cropped jacket, and enough silver jewelry to blind a small village.
I blink at him, then glance back toward Ryan, then back at Tyler.
“What are you doing here?” I ask slowly.
“And why are you knocking? You know you can just come in.”
Tyler pushes past me immediately. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome, old man.”
I grit my teeth and shut the door behind him. “Twenty-nine is not old.”
Tyler shucks off his coat dramatically. “You're like a dinosaur in gay years. Next year they won't even let you into clubs anymore.”
I snatch the coat out of his hands before he drops it on my floor. “Says the guy who's not old enough to get into clubs himself.”
Tyler scoffs. “Please. When you're as pretty as I am, they let you in.”
“I don't want to know.”
“To answer your question,” Tyler says smugly, “I'm here because your boyfriend invited me.”
My jaw drops instantly. “He's not my—”
Tyler holds up a hand. “Save it. Also, the door was locked, and I didn't bring my key. Sorry to disturb your peace, gramps.”
Ryan and Cricket burst into laughter from the kitchen.
Meanwhile Harper is standing frozen in the living room with the remote still in her hand, staring at Tyler like she's just discovered a new species.
Then her face splits into a grin. She points directly at him.
“Oh, you're sitting next to me at dinner.”
Cricket appears beside her carrying two glasses of wine and hands one over. Tyler looks both women up and down slowly. “Someone call the diva police,” he says sassily. “Because you two are fucking fabulous.”
“Language, Tyler,” I snap automatically.
Cricket tuts dramatically. “Pish-posh. The fucking is required before fabulous when describing us.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tyler,” I say wearily, “this is Cricket and Harper. Ryan's sisters.”
“I figured,” Tyler says. Then all three of them converge into an aggressive tornado of hugs and compliments like they've known each other for years instead of thirty seconds.
From the kitchen, Ryan calls, “What am I? Chopped liver? Where's my hug, Little Man?”
Tyler immediately pivots and heads toward the kitchen. “Stop calling me that.”
Ryan beams at him, and it hits me all over again—that warmth, that softness, that easy affection Ryan gives away so freely to people he cares about.
It reminds me uncomfortably of when he first started giving me nicknames.
Counselor. Spencester. Perfect. Like he'd decided I belonged to him in some small way before I even realized he'd made space for me in his life.
Ryan points his spoon at Tyler as he reaches him. “I'll stop calling you that when you stop calling him old.”
Tyler rolls his eyes, but his whole expression softens as he wraps Ryan in a quick hug.
And there's that damn feeling in my chest again.
The two of them have become close frighteningly fast. Tyler comes over more than ever now.
Sometimes they game for hours. Sometimes they sit at the island whispering like tiny criminal masterminds while periodically looking at me and laughing suspiciously.
I still don't know what that's about. I can't even be annoyed by it.
The more people Tyler has in his corner, the better.
“Where's the wine?” Tyler asks after pulling away from Ryan.
“Ha. Nice try,” Ryan says immediately. “Soda's in the fridge.”
Tyler groans. “Aw, come on. Twenty is basically twenty-one and I'm not driving.”
Ryan shakes his head without even looking up from the pan he’s sautéing something in. “Not happening, T-Bone.”
Tyler sighs theatrically. “You're oppressive.”
“You'll survive.”
It's almost too much watching them together because I know Ryan isn't protective of Tyler to impress me.
There's no performance in it. No angle. It's genuine.
And somehow that makes it worse. How different would I be if I'd had someone like Ryan when I was younger?
Someone steady. Someone safe. Someone who showed up without wanting something in return.
My chest constricts. There's nothing to be done about my past. But I will give Tyler every opportunity I can. And I know Ryan will too.
I wish I could go back. I wish I could go back and have a talk with that younger, more innocent version of myself. I’d tell him to be open to people like Ryan. But watching Tyler get that opportunity comes really fucking close to fulfilling that wish.
My head is starting to swim, and I haven't even had any wine yet. This is all too much at once. As if the universe hears the thought and decides to make it worse, another knock sounds at the door.
I slowly turn my head toward Ryan, accusingly. He gives me a sheepish grin that very clearly says, I mayyy have invited more than just my sisters to dinner. In fact, I can practically hear his voice saying it in my head.
Unbelievable.
Resigning myself to whatever this night has apparently become, I turn on my heel and stalk back toward the front door.