18. Serena
Serena
Ryan isn’t just artful in the kitchen—he’s efficient and mesmerizing to watch.
Once I have my drink, he disappears down a hallway, shirking his nice clothes from the cafe opening. When he walks back down the hallway, it’s in a Las Vegas Knights T-shirt and a pair of sweats that make my mouth water.
The shirt clings to his biceps as he works.
He uses a medieval contraption to chop butter in a bowl, then folds in dry ingredients, all while spinning between four other pans on the oven, which spit and crackle at different intensities.
His kitchen fills with warring scents—fish and vegetables, something sweet and earthy, and somehow also the gentle scent of the chamomile drink under my nose.
“I grew up in Nebraska,” he says, glancing over to catch my reaction.
I imagine it’s something similar to how Travis responded to me being from New Jersey.
The only thing worse than not being from the city is being from a flyover state.
“Yeah, yeah, I know that look—but here’s the thing, man, when you come of age in a place like that, everything in the world feels miraculous. First time I saw mountains, I cried.”
I should be more concerned with how charmed I am by him. I can practically feel Georgia standing next to me, eyeing him up and down.
Lillie, meanwhile, would be drooling over his kitchen, his ingredients, the casual way he spoons something into the fish with a flick of his wrist.
“I’d like to see that.”
“Mountains?”
“You crying.”
He laughs, “Just show me a video of a soldier coming home. Or an animal rescue—like, some burly blue-collar worker finds a little duckling and takes hours getting her out of a storm gutter? Waterworks.”
I can feel my face getting ruddy from how much I’m laughing, but I can’t help it. Something about this man makes me feel at ease. Or maybe it’s the chamomile and blueberry.
As he works, we talk. I let it slip that I’m from New Jersey; then he’s the one giving me a face. “Oh, whatever, Nebraska,” I chide, hoping he doesn’t ask me to point out the state on a map.
Ryan tells me about his parents, Edward and Hannah, a roofer and teacher, respectively. He tells me about his three sisters, and I instantly see their effect on him, softening him around the edges like a pebble in a rock tumbler. He’s primed and ready for another woman—sisters will do that to you.
“Here’s the thing—my mom cooked, but she hated it.
It was always some crock pot thing you dumped a few cans into—and always, like, a ranch packet and a block of cream cheese—then cooked the shit out of for hours.
Stir when you get home from work and plop it into bowls.
So, when I got into cooking, my parents had no problem with me taking over that chore. ”
“It’s astounding to me that you learned about food in Omaha,” I mutter, trailing my finger over the smooth, sparkling granite.
“Food Network,” Ryan quips. “Plus, don’t knock Omaha. They’ve got a budding foodie scene there. And the tacos aren’t half bad. Just ignore the Yelp result that incorrectly says Village Inn is the best thing in town.”
I hum a laugh, and the smile he gives me in return makes my stomach flip.
He pulls the scones from the oven just before plating up dinner, and I stare at the pan of pastries with my mouth open.
“Are those…?”
“The one you wanted the other day,” he confirms, grinning. “Figured you might take a whole dozen home as an apology for the shortage.”
I groan, “That’s not fair. Now I have to give you the picture.”
Ryan pauses in plating, a yellow sauce hovering over the slice of fish in a shallow plate. “I’m sure we could work something out.”
The physical attraction zips through me, almost like the sudden realization that you have to pee. I squeeze my legs together and try not to let on to how much he’s affecting me.
Travis is dangerous in how dark he is, how off-limits he feels.
But Ryan is something else altogether—sweet and palatable at the onset, but with a sexy undertone that hits you when you least expect it.
He’s a cocktail of charm and passion, and you’ll drink way too much before realizing just how strong it really is.
He carries the plates to his dining table, and I bring my drink, joining him. The walk across the floor in my socks feels domestic, intimate, and the look he gives me as I sit down is heated.
“This looks amazing,” I say.
Ryan winks at me. “Well, wait until you try it before you offer praise.”
The food is, of course, the best fucking thing I’ve ever had in my life. Before moving to the city, I would have said I didn't like fish. That came from a long history of cheap fish sticks out of the oven. After having some street food and genuinely good fish tacos, I changed my tune.
After eating this—flaking off rich chunks of halibut and dragging it through a crab curry—I’m definitely a convert.
“It’s a celery pave,” Ryan explains, gesturing with his fork. “That’s what I was slicing.”
“Jesus.” I swallow, doing my best not to moan. The way he’s looking at me, he’s either waiting for me to, or can tell I’m fighting it. “It’s… really good.”
“Would you say it brings to mind the artful chaos of the fish market, the meandering peace of shopping for local vegetables, and the impossible harmony of a well-structured oil painting?”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.”
Ryan laughs, points his fork again—something he really likes to do, “No, they said that about me in the Times.”
I give a dry laugh of my own at the dissonance there, the reminder of who I’m sitting across from right now. “You should see what they’ve said about me.”
He gives me a serious look. “Send me the photos of those flowers at Perle. I might be able to make something like that happen.”
Just like when Bianca talks about paying for me, there’s a flutter of discomfort just under my skin.
This is what people do, this is the reason to be in the city.
Connections. I know people don’t just get their photography in major publications without an in, but I still don’t know how not to feel slimy about the whole thing.
So, instead of lingering on it, I just stand, picking up my empty plate and making my way into the kitchen. Ryan is hot on my heels, the padding of his socked feet a heavier mirror of my own.
I’m reminded of Travis chasing me through that hotel, the thrill of slipping off my shoes to race down the hallway. Since when do I like being pursued so much?
“What are you doing?”
“The dishes?” I glance over my shoulder at him, before ducking down and looking under the kitchen sink. “Where is your soap?”
He closes the cabinet door gently enough not to trap my fingers, but firm enough to make a statement. “You are not doing the dishes, Serena.”
I straighten up, “You cooked. I clean. That’s a healthy division of labor.”
“I have a cleaner,” he says, stepping in closer to me, taking my hands in his own. “He comes in the mornings.”
My pulse quickens, that touch like a warning to the rest of my body. These hands are coming for the rest of you—get ready, girl.
No. They’re not.
I spin away, spotting the soap on the corner of the sink. Grabbing my dish, I set it in the sink and try to turn on the water.
“Serena MacKenzie.” A full-body rush pours through me at the sound of my name on his lips. Ryan moves quickly, blocking my advance on the sink, spinning me around, and pinning me against the counter. His body is warm and he smells so good. “You’re not very good at listening, are you?”
Once again, I’m faced with something I want.
My entire body wants Ryan—in fact, I want him more than just physically. One night sitting at his counter, and I can see many more in the distance. Eating his food, hearing his addictive laugh.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Wanting so much all at once, when I never wanted Alex like this. Not his body, not his touch, and not our future together. I’d settled for it like a dentist’s appointment. A requirement. Something you do once you become an adult.
“You should know that I’ve been with other men,” I croak. Christ, am I trying to think of the least sexy thing to say in this moment? “Recently.”
Ryan’s eyes flash, and he drops his mouth to my neck. His lips are warm, and when he swipes his tongue over my collarbone, he lets out the same sound he did earlier after trying his mocktail. Like I’m a collection of flavors, something he’s been waiting to taste.
“I’d tell you to invite them along,” he murmurs into my skin, “but just for this first time, I’d like to have you all to myself.”
It’s not what I was expecting to hear, and it melts my insides. Maybe he knew that would happen.
What he can’t know is that it brings to mind, instantly, the image of Ryan and Travis in bed with me, their hands everywhere, their mouths on respective sides of my neck. I can see it easily, framed from above, the shot lined up to show all the legs and fingers and the tangle of passion.
Travis, demanding, his hand spread over my neck. Ryan, slow and casual, his fingers scraping over my hips, gathering me up, his mouth lowering to the place between my legs, his eyes narrowing in on the sensation, his favorite thing to do—eat.
“Fuck,” I whisper, without meaning to, and Ryan lets out a pleased sound, gently pulling the soap from my hand like he’s extracting a toy from a toddler.
“Come here,” he whispers, and then his hands are under my ass, and he’s lifting me onto the counter, bringing his mouth hungrily down on my neck, on my collarbone, his lips covering every inch of my exposed skin.
“You smell good,” he rasps, dragging his tongue down to the tie of my blouse.
I try at the knot twice before he takes over, loosening the string and pulling the shirt open, so the tops of my breasts are illuminated by the pendant lights.
We’re washed in a warm yellow, and once again, I can see it: a shot framed from the side, my hand tangled in Ryan’s golden curls, the sweet curve of his neck, the eye drawn to how he consumes me.
“You, too,” I say, dumbly, already fumbling at the hem of his t-shirt, wanting nothing more than to get him bare for me.
And when his shirt is off, I pull back for a moment, just looking at him. Maybe it’s just that he’s hot, and I’m a woman, or maybe it’s an obsession over form, over beauty, but the sight of him makes my heart catch in my throat.
His chest and stomach are softer than Travis’s, but fuller. While Travis is all sharp lines and basically no fat, Ryan’s body is gentle, secretly strong. Travis’s physique is all about restriction, while Ryan’s is about surplus. He looks like the kind of man who works hard, and plays hard, too.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan asks, his voice sobering slightly, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for far too long.
Swallowing, I shake my head, reach for him, tuck him back between my legs.
I want to absorb him, to swallow him whole.
I hook my ankles around his back and let myself touch him, too, kissing his warm, freckled shoulders and his chest, letting my hands travel up and down his abs, fingers slipping just under the waistband of his sweatpants.
We kiss like that for a long time, bodies moving together, finding new ways to take the other’s breath. Ryan says that I’m beautiful, that my skin is soft, that I smell like scones, that he wanted to take me home that first night, that waiting has only made him want me more.
And when I wind both hands into his hair and tug, he wastes no time in dropping to his knees in front of me.
We work together to shirk my pants, my underwear, and then he’s tasting me, his mouth explorative then uncompromising against my clit, two fingers sneaking inside me and curling at exactly the right angle.
I lean back, gasping for air, and Ryan reaches up, finding my nipples greedily even as he takes every part of me below.
My orgasm is an appetizer, quick and warm and like the rocking of a paper boat on the water, then Ryan is standing, wrapping my legs around him again, his sweats riding lower and lower on his hips as he carries me, effortlessly, to his bedroom.