Chapter Ten #3
Out of my peripheral vision I can see Ryder already starting to clean up.
I look at my watch, noting it’s five thirty, and my heart sinks.
Because as much as I enjoy having Carter here, even if he is annoying me by prodding about my feelings or whatever, I kind of wish I could have spent this time with Ryder myself. Just the two of us.
We sit there in silence, me eating my cinnamon roll with an extra topping of guilt while Carter and Nash sip their coffees and talk between themselves before Nash kisses him and tells him that he’ll be back to pick him up after group.
I look to the kiosk, noting Ryder is gone and the lights are dim.
I frown.
“What are you more afraid of?” Carter asks carefully. I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem phased. He keeps going. “That he’ll say no? Or that he’ll say yes?”
I turn to look at him, thinking about his words. And for the first time, I give Carter a truly honest answer.
“That he’ll say yes.”
The words are heavy, but there’s a relief to them, too.
Carter nods, his gaze drifting behind me.
“Well now’s your chance to find out because he’s coming over here right now.”
I turn around quickly to look, noting the sight of Ryder—sans his barista apron and uniform—wearing a dark blue sweater and jeans, and I swear I hear fucking angels sing.
I barely hear when Carter gets up and says he’s going to head down and help Tim set up the refreshments, that he’ll see me downstairs. Because the only thing I can focus on is Ryder, standing before me, above me.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to where Carter was. Aside from the minimal chatter of people coming and going, there’s not much activity here. I’m the only one at the table, so I know he could just sit down. But it’s the way he asks.
Like he needs my permission. And I want to give it to him.
I want to give him more than just my permission, and that is as dangerous as it is tempting.
I nod lightly, my voice bold and stern, because I don’t even have to think about how to answer him, or what to say. It’s second nature. It’s who I am.
The switch flips instantaneously.
“Sit.”
Ryder gracefully sits in the chair, his gaze sparkling with relief. He keeps his gaze on mine as he does so, and I feel his knee brushing against mine under the table. His fingertips graze against my knee as he settles his hand there.
Waiting.
Being such a good fucking boy.
This…
It’s the closest we’ve ever been, and that is not lost on me. He’s so close.
Close enough I could grab his chair and pull him to me, straddle him. Grasp his neck.
Kiss him until I can’t breathe.
My cock jumps at the thought, clearly not against the idea, despite the fact we’re in public. Though, if I were to serve Ryder, I wouldn’t want observers. I’d want him all to myself.
All his pleasure would be mine and mine alone…
“Thanks,” he says softly, chewing his bottom lip. The sight does nothing to help my situation, despite my attempts to quell my inappropriate erection.
I think about Carter’s words. About Claire and her relentless persistence to find me a good man. About Margie’s.
He seems like a nice guy.
What’s wrong with that?
I sip my coffee because I’m afraid if I don’t put something in my mouth, quick, I might do something I regret.
And I don’t think I’ll be sorry about it, either, which is a problem.
A very big problem.
Ryder leans over the table, the motion putting him closer to me. His sapphire gaze holds mine, and he opens his mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
I nod, sipping my coffee.
“Of course,” I manage to say without choking on my drink.
Ryder twists his lips. The look on his face is almost innocent, save for the sparkle of mischief in his eyes that I have come to appreciate; as one might appreciate the Hope Diamond on its blue velvet pillow.
“Are we… friends?” he asks curiously.
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “That depends. Do you want to be friends with an old curmudgeon like me?” I say, feigning humor as a mask. I want to tell him yes, but the truth is… I don’t know what we are.
I know he is a damn good barista. He knows I come to this building every week, though he hasn’t asked why or for what, and I haven’t divulged such information willingly.
But friends? I am not certain the word fits, but I don’t know what else I would call us. Acquaintances is too formal.
Ryder’s lips twitch in the corners.
“You’re not that old, Kane.”
“I’m definitely older than you,” I note bitterly.
“Ryder smirks. “Yeah, and? What does that have to do with anything?” He licks his lips, and I note the determination on his face. “I’m an adult.”
His answer stokes a fire in me. It almost feels like he’s trying to placate me, but on the other hand, it feels defensive.
“I know that,” I say carefully. “I just meant—”
Ryder looks at me, and I realize he’s waiting for me to finish. I sigh.
“I’m not really good at this sort of thing,” I say honestly.
“What thing?” he asks, shifting his position. His fingers and knee rub against mine, and the touch is more soothing than it should be. It settles something in me.
“This.” I point between us. “Friendship. I don’t… really have friends.”
“Really?” he asks, almost dumbfounded.
“You look shocked.”
Ryder sighs. “No, I just… assumed someone as cool as you would definitely have friends, unlike me.”
It’s the way he says the words. Self-deprecating, like he doesn’t realize how pure and perfect he is.
There are a hundred things I could say to him. But all I settle on is, “You think I’m cool?”
Ryder smirks. “Maybe.”
I glance at his lips, that unrelenting desire to feel them. To touch them, is like a fire I can not deny.
“I would be lucky to call someone like you a friend,” I say softly.
Ryder scoots closer to me in his chair, and I settle my hand on my knee under the table. My fingers brush his, deliberately. Desperately.
I need to touch him, if only to know he’s real. To sate my craving for his warm, smooth flesh against mine.
It’s not what I want, far from it, but it’s all I can manage to reach for, knowing more may never come. No matter how cool Ryder thinks I am, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my darkness or my pain.
But I wish he could.
Ryder’s fingers gently rub mine under the table, and I am frozen in place. He doesn’t look at me, but rather at the gleaming silver surface. At his reflection.
I watch him as he speaks.
“I think I’d like that,” he says, his voice shaking a bit. Almost as if he’s nervous. Without thinking, I twist my fingers between his and gently squeeze his hand. Ryder looks up at me, surprise evident in his eyes. But he doesn’t let go.
And neither do I.
It’s then I notice how close he truly is.
“I think I’d like to be your friend,” he says softly.
He smells like coffee and cinnamon, and temptation.
Like promises I can’t keep, and things I don’t deserve.
I lean in just a fraction, opening my mouth to speak, and that’s when my phone loudly interrupts us; alerting me that it is time for group.
Fuck.
I hover there, inches from Ryder’s perfect lips, his skin warm against mine.
And I realize I do not want to be friends with Ryder.
I want so much more.
But I will take whatever he is willing to give me, if it means I can have him at all.
Even if it hurts.
Especially if it hurts.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
Ryder nods as I push away from the table, standing to stretch.
Ryder does the same. He looks to the door, then to the elevators.
“Would you, uh…” He runs his hand through his dark hair, and the motion is strangely erotic, even though it’s awkward and somewhat anxious.
“Would you like a friend to walk with you?”
He stammers, clearly nervous, and something about that makes me feel relieved. The way he says that one word—friend—is so breathless, so sweet, it’s hard not to delude myself into thinking he wants more, too.
“I’d like that,” I say, and this time, I know I hear him gasp. “Very much.”
He smiles as he takes two steps ahead of me, and starts to walk, and I follow without hesitation, letting Ryder the barista lead me down into darkness once again.