Chapter 21
June
I know I’ve stepped over some invisible line again when I see Ryker’s expression harden. The lightness fades and the tension returns, thick and heavy between us.
My heart was beating fast with fear when he came upstairs and unlocked the door to my bedroom. He didn’t follow me right away, so I had some time to drive myself crazy, while I was waiting for the inevitable blaze of anger that would come from him, once he knew.
But nothing happened. He was calm and nice, not mentioning anything about me running into one of his associates downstairs when I was supposed to be locked away. I was relieved at first, but now I wonder. Did the guy not mention me, or is Ryker just pretending not to know?
I glance at him, trying to read his mood, but he’s impossible to figure out. He’s being… nice, which is exactly the opposite of what I expected.
What game is he playing?
“Are you hungry?” Ryker suddenly asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice a little softer than usual. My nerves are still on edge, but I’m trying my best to keep things calm between us.
“Let’s see what we can come up with,” he suggests, standing and gesturing for me to follow him back inside the house. We head into the kitchen, and I watch as he walks toward the cupboards. He’s moving like a man who’s used to being in control, but there’s something a little off about it. Like he’s not really sure what to do next.
“Do you ever cook for yourself?” I ask, watching him open one of the cabinets, scanning its contents.
“No,” he says, pulling out a random jar of sauce. “Like I said, I usually have someone here.”
I nod, biting my lip. “Right, but you sent him away because of me?”
He glances at me, his eyes narrowing briefly, but then he nods, turning back to the cupboard. He pulls out another random item—this time some dried herbs—looking a little lost.
I can’t help but smile. It’s endearing, seeing him out of his element like this. He seems completely lost in his own kitchen. Which explains why we have been eating mostly take out and sandwiches this past week, except for that first meal when he still had leftovers that his cook prepared.
“You know how to cook, though, do you?” I ask, trying not to tease him too much, but it’s harder than expected.
He huffs. “Of course, I do. It’s not rocket science.”
I suppress a laugh, stepping closer as I peer into the cupboard. Among the random ingredients, I spot a package of pasta, some garlic, and a can of tomatoes. Simple enough.
“Here,” I say, pulling the ingredients out. “How about I put you out of your misery and cook something for us?”
“Put me out of my misery?” he repeats, an eyebrow raised. “Do you really think I’m too stupid to cook some pasta?”
“I didn’t say that,” I respond. “But, to be honest, I have more trust in myself than in you. I think it’s better for the both if you let me do it.”
I wink at him, and he shakes his head, but he’s chuckling. Thank God. I don’t want to get on his bad side, but it’s so hard not to tease him about this. It’s a lot harder not be myself than I thought it would be.
He takes a step back, his expression now shifting between surprise and reluctance, but after a second, he raises his hands in defeat and steps aside.
“Fine,” he says. “I won’t argue with that. You cook.”
He makes those last two words sound like an order, and I’m sure that’s on purpose. He needs to feel like he’s the one in command, always.
Fine, I can give him that.
I give him a demure nod before I get to work. I start with boiling the pasta and quickly sauteing the garlic, while he takes a seat in one of the high chairs at the counter, acting like he wasn’t watching me as he pulls out his phone and tries to keep his eyes locked on the display.
The aroma fills the kitchen, and I feel his eyes on me as I move around, preparing the sauce. The whole situation is strangely domestic, almost normal, and it throws me off balance. It’s easy to forget why I’m here. But I can’t forget. Not with him watching my every move, even when he’s pretending not to.
As I’m busy cooking, a small sense of happiness settles in. It feels good to do something normal for once, something that doesn’t involve plotting or pretending. I’m not being too pushy, I’m just making dinner. I’m letting him believe he can trust me without going too far.
And how did that saying go again?, I wonder as I stir the sauce. Keep your man’s balls empty and his stomach full. My grandma used to say that, and I will never forget my father’s face when she shared that useful dating advice with me on my seventeenth birthday, shortly before she died.
“Men really are that simple,” I remember her saying, while my father begged her to stop, and I almost died laughing. I smile at the memory as I stir the pot in front of me. In a weird way, I think my grandma would be proud of me right now. She was an unusual woman, hard without being strict, and with a no- nonsense attitude that she passed on to me. My mother died in childbirth, so she was the only mother figure I ever had, and if she was still here, she would be the first to help me with my revenge, no matter what.
I glance over at Ryker, who’s still watching me closely. If he likes me—really likes me—he might get careless. And if he’s careless, it’ll be easier for me to find something to use against him, something that will take him down.
Plus, he is hot. Painfully hot. If it came to that, it’s not like I’d suffer.
No, I might even enjoy it.
I shake the thought away, trying to focus on the task at hand. Still, I find myself being a little flirty with him, glancing at him over my shoulder as I chop the garlic, letting a playful smile linger on my lips when he catches my eye. I try not to overdo it, though. I need to ease into this.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” he asks, surprising me with the question.
“Sometimes,” I reply, keeping my voice light. I love cooking and have had a lot of practice, because I was cooking for me and my dad when he was still alive and I was still living with him. But I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to be Grace right now. Grace, the girl who doesn’t do her own cooking. “But I don’t get to do it often. We also have people for it.”
I don’t actually know if that’s true, but it’s easy to believe. The Reid family is wealthy, and I imagine they have staff for everything.
When the pasta’s ready, Ryker helps me set the table, moving with a quiet intensity that I’m recognizing as his default. He’s always in control, even when he’s being nice. He also opens another bottle of wine, and while I don’t comment on it, I can’t help but remember what happened the last time we drank together.
“That looks good,” he says as we sit down. “And it smells even better.”
“It’s nothing special,” I say. “Unlike this wine.”
He poured our glasses and I cautiously raise mine to him, before bringing it to my lips. It’s another Chateau Haut-Brion Blanc, the same we’ve had last time, and it’s honestly the best wine I’ve ever had.
We share a little chit chat while we eat, which mostly comprises me talking about my progress in his garden, while carefully avoiding questions that might come across as too nosy. I notice that Ryker actually seems to enjoy talking to me tonight. He’s in a good mood, more relaxed, even though I can see that hint of tension in his eyes that never fully goes away.
I feel myself getting more comfortable. I’ve been walking on eggshells since the pool incident, but this feels like progress. Maybe I’m finally getting through to him.
Halfway through dinner, I decide to test the waters a little more.
“Would it be okay for me to get a bikini?” I ask, my tone casual. “Since you seemed so angry about me swimming in my underwear, I figured I’d ask.”
I watch his reaction closely. His posture stiffens, and I catch the flash of something in his eyes—something dark and unsettled. Bingo. I might be on the right path.
“I don’t see why you need to go swimming,” he mutters, avoiding my gaze as he reaches for his glass of wine. “Like I said, this isn’t a vacation.”
“Well, I don’t need to, obviously, but I would like to,” I say. “It gets pretty warm during the day, would be nice to cool off for a bit while I’m out working in the garden.”
He sighs, and for a moment I worry that I might have gone too far again. But his expression changes when he puts his glass back down and leans over the table to look at me. The atmosphere shifts, even before he adds: “You don’t need a bikini for that. You can swim naked for all I care.”