Chapter Fifteen Break Out of Your Comfort Zone
Chapter Fifteen
Break Out of Your Comfort Zone
Frankie
Ryder is much shorter than I anticipated, but he’s just as cute as his photos.
“Are you new here? I haven’t seen you around” is the first question he asks, after greeting me with a friendly hug.
Since I didn’t know if he was referring to the island or the dating-app scene, I settled for a simple “Yes.”
From there, things were a little iffy. The conversation was difficult to come by—like pushing a boulder uphill. I asked about his work—he was currently unemployed—and about his family—he merely said they live in Ohio. His one-word answers weren’t helping.
Behind the screens of our phone, we were magic. In person, we have less to say. Even if the vibes are slightly off, I’ve assured myself that tonight will be more fun if I just roll with it.
So that’s what I do. In typical Frankie fashion, I laugh and tell him about Tessa and Charles, and generally work to keep the conversation flowing.
When we finally get our drink order, I lift my glass in a toast. “To whoever invented stretchy pants—your contribution to society will never be forgotten.”
Ryder’s eyes crinkle, and he gives a weak chuckle.
After we finish our drink, Ryder gets strangely fidgety. “Are you good?”
I figured we’d stay awhile, make an evening of it. But hey, I’m not going to force it if he’s not. “I guess so.”
I inhale and try not to feel let down. But something isn’t adding up . . .
One second, we’re finishing our drinks, Ryder laughing at something stupid I said, looking every bit like a guy without a care in the world. The next, he’s standing up, clapping a hand on my back like we’ve got places to be.
“All right, let’s bounce,” he says, already steering me toward the exit.
I blink. “Uh. The check?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, flashing that effortless grin. “I know the system.”
I don’t know what that means. But I do know the check is still sitting there, untouched, and that Ryder is moving very quickly for a guy who has been acting like time doesn’t exist.
We step outside, and he stretches his arms over his head like a man free of responsibility. Meanwhile, my brain is doing urgent calculations.
Did he leave cash while I wasn’t looking? Did he start a tab? Did I just unknowingly become an accomplice in a dine-and-dash?
Oh God. I think I did.
I stop in my tracks. “Wait. Did we—”
“You hungry?” he interrupts, like we didn’t just flee the scene of a financial crime. “There’s a taco truck down the street.”
I stare at him. He grins like this is just another night, just another casual stroll through life, where money is optional and bartenders don’t need to get paid.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Great. Now I have to come back in the morning and pay our bill.”
Ryder claps a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Frankie, Frankie. Where’s the trust?”
“Somewhere back at the bar, along with our tab.” I jerk my thumb toward the bar.
He just shrugs. “I’m a little low on cheddar right now, but it’s fine. I’ll get them back next time. I’m sure it all evens out in the end.”
That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.
“So that’s a no to the taco truck?” He gives me a hopeful look.
“It’s a no to the taco truck.” It’s a sentence I never anticipated needing to say.
He flashes me a peace sign and strolls away without a care in the world.
I make it back home a short time later, and unsurprisingly, Charles is asleep. I have no idea where Hayes and Malachi are. I decide emergency carbo-loading is in order. First, I change out of my dress, opting for leggings and an oversize T-shirt.
Once I’m cozy, I raid the pantry and grab anything that looks good—Fritos and canned bean dip, Swedish Fish and a bag of trail mix that I don’t remember buying. Then I begin filling the void, one chip at a time. What? It’s a totally reasonable coping mechanism.
From the foyer, I hear the front door open and then close, then male voices. Hayes and Malachi are home, it seems. They must have also called it an early night. It’s not even nine.
Footsteps move closer, and Hayes appears in the kitchen doorway. He seems surprised to see me here.
“You’re home.” His tone isn’t judgmental, and for that I’m grateful. I’m not exactly feeling the best about myself right now.
“We decided to call it a night.” I wash my hands at the sink and grab a dish towel.
“Gotcha.” He stands there, sort of staring at me in an odd way.
“Anyways, I skipped dinner, and I’m hungry.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain my snack-attack. I don’t owe him an explanation.
But he’s still just standing there, watching me.
“I could eat,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Do you want me to make you something? A sandwich or an omelet or something?”
“Um . . . sure?” Hayes being nice to me is a new development that my brain is struggling to comprehend.
He must sense my hesitation, because he’s still just watching me. “Unless you prefer to be alone?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Great. Omelets? I think we have some bacon leftover from breakfast . . .”
“That sounds great, actually.” At the mention of real food, my stomach perks up in interest.
Hayes begins looting the fridge for ingredients. He finds a block of cheddar cheese and a bunch of green onions, along with butter, milk, and a carton of eggs.
I heft myself up onto the counter to watch while he heats a pat of butter in a sauté pan. “I love that you cook. I can’t even crack an egg.”
“Sure you can. Here, try it.”
I slide down from the counter, and Hayes places a small bowl for me on the counter, then he hands me an egg.
I let out a sigh. “You asked for it.” Here goes nothin’ . . .
I crack the shell against the side of the bowl, and several things happen at once.
The yolk lands on the floor between our feet, and somehow the egg white ends up on his shirt. The only thing in the bowl is the cracked eggshell.
“Told ya.”
“Damn. Okay, fair. You were right. You suck at this. Let me handle it.”
I step aside. “Be my guest. Feed me.”
“Is that why you live on gas station snacks?” He smirks like he’s got me figured out.
I shake my head. “No, I just genuinely love junk food.”
“Fair enough.”
While Hayes begins cooking, I clean up said junk food, because despite his chill attitude, I’m pretty sure he’s still secretly judging me. He side-eyed the canned bean dip pretty hard, though to be honest, it does look weird. Tastes amazing, but yeah, it looks weird.
While he works, I’m transfixed. There’s just something about a man who’s volunteered to cook for you. Even if that man is Hayes.
He moves around the kitchen with the kind of efficiency that shouldn’t be attractive but is. Sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly mussed, he tilts the pan, giving it a quick flick of his wrist, and the omelet folds over perfectly.
I prop my chin on my hand. “You know, this is almost disorienting. You being . . . nice.”
“I can take it back.”
“No, no—by all means, keep the omelet coming.”
He smirks but doesn’t argue, sliding the food onto a plate before setting it in front of me. “So. How was your date?”
I stab my fork into the eggs, debating how honest I want to be.
“Let’s just say, if I never go out again with a guy who describes himself as an ‘alpha’ in his dating profile, it’ll still be too soon.”
Hayes exhales through his nose. It’s dangerously close to a laugh. “Noted.” He plates an omelet for himself and looks over at me. “And for the record, if a guy has to tell you he’s an alpha, he’s definitely not one.”
“Seems like a low bar for self-awareness.”
“You’d think. And yet.”
I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It’s . . . annoyingly good. The bacon is perfectly crisp, the cheddar rich and melty.
Of course Hayes would nail something as deceptively simple as an omelet.
I glance up, expecting smugness, but he’s just leaning against the counter, watching me with that unreadable expression.
And for once, the silence between us doesn’t feel like a contest.
“You know, this is weird,” I say.
He lifts a brow. “What is?”
“Us. Not fighting. I’m not saying I miss the bickering, but . . . it’s kind of our thing.”
He tilts his head. “Maybe we just needed a ceasefire.”
I poke at my omelet. “Or maybe we’re too tired to keep our knives out.”
His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but instead, he just nods. “Maybe.”
And weirdly, that feels like progress.
Out here, I have no one. And sometimes, you just need a friend. Someone to talk to about a bad date. Someone to eat late-night eggs with.
I guess Hayes will do.
Our friendship might be a bit . . . bumpy.
But for now, it’s a road worth traveling.
When we’re finished and he’s loaded our plates into the dishwasher, he turns to me.
“I have a confession to make.”
We’re only a foot apart now, and he’s towering over me—his jawline distractingly chiseled, hair tousled in a way that feels unfair to the rest of humanity. I force myself not to notice.
“I was there . . . at the Low Tide Lounge.”
I blink. “You were spying on me?”
“Not spying. Just . . . observing.”
“Then you must’ve noticed how painfully awkward it got. How abruptly it ended.”
He shakes his head. “When you left together, I figured you were going home with him.”
Now I’m really blinking. “I’m not that kind of girl, Hayes.”
The words come out soft, a little breathy—and I instantly regret how flirty they sound. But it’s too late. The air has shifted.
He steps closer. Not much, just enough.
His hand comes up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and then he lingers—his fingers trailing lightly down my cheek, like he doesn’t want to stop touching me. “You were too good for him.” His voice is low. Rough around the edges.
A breath escapes me. Slow. Unsteady.
It does nothing to calm the wild thrum in my chest.
For a second, I think he might kiss me. And worse—I think I might let him.
I step back, murmur a quiet “Good night,” and bolt from the kitchen on shaky legs.