Chapter Twenty-Two
Elliot
“ I can explain.”
Ryder’s words shoot through me. And I keep staring at the cards in my hand, willing it not to shake.
Of all the things he could have said, those three words are up there among the worst.
“You’re collecting numbers, Ryder.”
“No, well, I know one of the women and she wants—”
“We all know what they want. I thought we went through how to handle all this. Or are you just trying to get a jump on the time you’re free? You know, like a collection plate, but with women instead of money.”
He snatches the cards back. Looks at them, then shoves them at me. “No. Jesus, it would be nice, just for once, for someone to believe in me.”
He can’t change. I know that now. Whatever excuse he might come up with, he can’t. Ryder’s hard wired to want women. As in plural. One could never satisfy him. Abstinence certainly wasn’t doable for him, and now, right after we have sex—or near enough—he’s at it again.
“You keep this shit up, Ryder, and you’re going to lose.”
“I have just over two weeks left.”
“And you can’t help yourself.”
His eyes burn dark fire. “Some chick put her card in my pocket. I know Leah. And yeah, you want to know? We did. Ages ago. She’s happily engaged now. She wants me to help her cousin find a place. That’s all. I let her know I wasn’t interested. I might have jumped the gun, but I was trying to have it out there I wasn’t interested. That I’m not available. It’s why I’m standing here like an asshole. And you…”
He stops, shakes his head and signals to the bartender. “Bourbon, straight up, please.” Then he glares at me. “And you brand me and damn me without a trial. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I take deep, calming breaths. “This isn’t the place for this discussion.”
Am I being unreasonable? There’s a part of me that’s sure I am, because that’s the part who walked out before he could do that to me, metaphorically speaking. If I set those personal rules, this can’t hurt as much, right?
But there’s the professional Elliot at play, here, too. And she knows he needs hard core.
Because I haven’t failed in my job and I’m not about to start, not with Ryder Sinclair.
Too many people are looking at us, including his brothers. All tall, all dark, all impossibly good looking. And Ryder’s the most beautiful one of them all. He could walk into a room dressed like a hobo and people would gravitate. He’s beautiful and he has presence and that’s part of why this thing with him is so difficult. If he blended in, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be able to be more hands off. But couple his looks with his personality, his allure and his way with women, then…
Under the circumstances of the job, he’s a disaster always waiting to happen.
His hand curls around mine and I almost rip it from his grip. He’s too there, too real. The heat and electricity of his touch tumbles through me and pushes hard against the flimsy walls I’ve built.
“Don’t fight, Perry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re about to.” He murmurs this against my ear and I try not to shiver. “And my mother is avidly watching. Along with my brothers.”
And half the room, even if they’re pretending not to. I smile up at him, even though I don’t feel it inside. “Fine. We can take this elsewhere.”
“Or we can forget it.”
“Not a chance, not if you want me to work for you.”
He nods. “You win, for now.”
And with that, we make our way outside and we wait until his car arrives. I slide in and he follows. We’re silent as we drive across town, the streets of Manhattan melting past us.
We pull up in Greenwich Village outside what looks to be one of those charming residential streets just off Bank Street.
Ryder gets out and holds the door, offering me his hand which I ignore. There’s a building set back amongst a small garden of trees beyond a brick wall. From inside, music tinkles out and Ryder heads up the path to the door where he flashes the woman just inside a card. She waves us in.
“Private club. Old school,” he says as we wind down the hall of polished dark wood. He pushes open a door and we go into a small room with a bar and lush private booths. It’s full of older, suited men, some smoking cigars, the acrid scent burning my nose.
There are young women in tight dresses draped over some of them, but most are there, deep in conversation while some classical music plays over discreet speakers.
He points to a booth and then signals the waiter and orders drinks. All this is done so fast and smoothly I know it’s not his first time. This isn’t a part of Manhattan I’m privy to, although I’m aware such places exist. They’d have been a gentleman’s club in the classier aspect of the word back in the day and I’m assuming it’s private with the cigar smoking.
“I fucking hate this place,” he says as two martinis appear discreetly. “Just so you’re aware. My father came here. It’s a place to do deals and talk business—”
“And flaunt girls.”
“Those are wives,” he says, barely flickering a glance. “And I hate this kind of shit. But it’s private and discreet and I didn’t think you wanted to come to my place.”
“Ryder.”
He ignores the warning. “On account of all the hot sex we had.”
“Ryder.”
He takes a swig of the martini and I almost smile at the savagery. “Thing is, tonight I didn’t do anything wrong and you’re acting like I did.”
“You had numbers.”
“So?” He sounds hard and brutal as he says it, but there’s something in his gaze that hurts my heart. It’s at odds with the hardness in his voice. “That happens. All the time. I didn’t seek it out, I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t do anything. For what it’s worth, I didn’t speak to the first woman. She just gave me the card. And I told you about Leah.”
And him saying the name of one of his many lovers slices into me.
“Ryder, maybe I’m not the right person for this job.”
“Oh, is that your professional opinion? Because here’s my opinion. I’m doing my best, and you’re meant to take that and turn it into something that works. It’s not about right or wrong in that. You’re the best, I want the best and…” He leans back, “we’re half way through this. I can’t go and find someone else.”
He’s right. “I’m going to see this through to the end, Ryder. I just get so frustrated. You make the job hard.”
“Is this about the job? Or is it about you and me?”
A cold hand squeezes my heart hard. “There’s no you and me.”
“Bullshit. I can think of a number of things from the other night that says otherwise.”
“That was a mistake.”
He finishes his martini and another one appears. I don’t know if it’s the place or the magic pull of Ryder that has the waitress so attentive. “No, it wasn’t. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? We had sex and you punish me for my past.”
I breathe in fast and hard and wrap my fingers around the slender stem of my glass. “It’s not your past, Ryder. It’s who you are, bone deep, in your DNA.”
“I like you, Elliot. Beyond the attraction, the insane chemistry I wasn’t expecting; I like you. Do you know how rare that is?”
There’s a spark of something bright and light in me, but I squash it down flat because this is Ryder Sinclair and he’s not going to change. He might like me and I sure as hell like him, but anything else? No. He’s just talking like this because I’m the only access to sex he has for the now.
“I like you, too, Ryder, but that doesn’t change anything. And it doesn’t change the fact that no matter how well you handled it tonight, you’re a magnet to women and you like that role. Now, I need to go.”
And without letting him say another word, I get up and leave.
Before my resolve crumbles.
I ran away.
It haunts me because I don’t do that. But I don’t see how we can get past who and what he is, even if I was stupid enough to believe there was something there.
I do the right thing and throw myself into my work for the next couple of days. Ryder’s snowed under, so he says, but there aren’t sightings of him in social media and as the minutes tick away and he continues not to bring down any houses, the more my guilt starts to climb.
We’re at week three, and it seems the blogs are bored with the fact Ryder has some kind of girlfriend—sorry, fiancée—who is as scandal and newsworthy-free as, well, me. His scandal is milking her relationship, and that’s where focus is, the will they won’t they no doubt scripted drama being played out with her estranged husband and the Ryder angle has been dropped.
For now.
I’m not foolish enough to buy it’s over.
Whether it’ll be over for the next two weeks or if the waves will rock back against Ryder and his less than stellar reputation is anyone’s guess.
It’s one thing I can’t control or predict. All I can do is be ready.
Which means I have to put aside the personal crap with us and micro guide.
He has another board meeting coming up. They shifted it around, but he isn’t bothered. We talk, but it’s mostly via email and text. And…fuck it, I miss him.
I miss him there on my sofa. I miss bickering and talking and laughing and it doesn’t matter it’s been a thing of my doing along with circumstance, I miss him.
Even when I actually saw him briefly yesterday, it was all business.
I check my watch and start to pack up my desk. Ryder’s got a luncheon, one that was thrown at him by the board. The Women’s Guild of the Upper West Side.
He’s got this, and his mother will be there. Not to mention most of the women will be the matronly sort.
But I don’t want to let him go in without my hand guiding him, even if it’s just a pep talk and a going over of rules.
Ryder’s mother is going to be there and that sends certain warnings going off inside me.
So I close up early and I head to his place.
Ryder throws open the door right as I knock. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, his tattoo on display and his feet are bare. He doesn’t smile.
“I’m alone.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes,” he says, “you do.”
I narrow my eyes. “Can I come in?”
At that moment, a guy with a fixed gear bike comes up. “Sinclair?”
“Yes.” Ryder comes past me and gives the guy some cash and takes the paper bag the man digs out of his insulated messenger bag. Then Ryder just walks past me, wafting the mouth-watering scents of Vietnamese behind him. He pauses at his door. “Come on, Perry. I don’t have all morning.”
Inside, he heads to the kitchen where I’ve been once, a masterpiece of charm, industrial and color. “You’re eating?”
“I do that,” he says. “Along with drinking coffee. You want?”
“It’s ten thirty a.m. How the hell did you get Vietnamese at this hour?”
“New York City, baby; that and a lot of money gets results.” He sets two cups under his built in espresso machine, inserts some pods and presses a button. Then he moves a pile of papers and his open laptop from the top of the kitchen bench and kicks over a stool to me. “And I’m not going to this thing without eating what I want first. If I’m descending into hell, then I want a stomach full of great food.”
Ryder grabs the tiny espresso cups and gives me one, and then he opens the bag and pulls out a banh mi and gives me one half.
“I didn’t come here checking up on you,” I say, taking a bite and pretty much almost having an orgasm as the flavors hit my tongue. “Oh, my God, this is fantastic.”
He smiles low, like he knows what just shot through me. “Best kept secret in Chinatown. Squat, ugly place with zero frills, all thrills in the mouth department, and one of my go-to places.”
I take another bite and swallow, the pork melting and spiced just so it melds and builds with the homemade pickles and the herbs. And the hot sauce. The crunch of the bun so light and the inside so soft I’m in heaven. “You’re a man of many hidden depths, Ryder. And I mean it. I didn’t come to check up.”
“Good. Why are you here?”
“Stealing food.” Ogling a hot, gorgeous man who has taste… “Doing my job.”
“I’ve been alone. You’ve been my only downfall.”
His words sit in the air, a little too bright and loaded with meaning I don’t know how to unpick, or even if I should.
“So, what’s your plan for today?”
He shrugs, letting it go. “Get through the whole mind numbing event. I’m going to be scrutinized by my mother, I can tell you that and you’ve no fucking idea how much that irritates me. Almost as much as…” He trails off then seems to switch tracks. “I’ll get through it.”
We finish eating, then I say, “I can find the perfect outfit for you.”
“Actually, something arrived this morning, which is why I worked from home. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
He’s back in ten minutes and my heart stops beating. The suit is one we decided on for Ryder 2.0. It’s dark maroon, so dark it could be black and the perfect level of conservative with a hint of dashing thrown in. The cut’s modern, and the tie is rich blues and blacks and he looks good enough to devour slowly.
“You don’t need me anymore. It looks better than I imagined.”
“I do,” he says quietly, gravely. “I need you. I’m glad you’re here and we’re talking like we used to. So, want to come with me?”
I’m just wearing a pencil skirt with a fitted jacket. I probably look good enough to open a door for him. But he looks at me like I shine.
“I…I have to work. For you.”
“This is work,” he says with a smile and holds out his arm. “Come on, Perry. Come be bored out of your brain with me. Though, I know with you by my side, that’s not going to happen. I like you, Elliot. And, you like me. We work. So…what do you say?”