Chapter 6 #2
The rain is pouring in sheets as we race to our waiting Uber, which Shanthi has directed to a bar in Belltown.
At a different time of day, the drive would afford us a choice view of Pike Place Market and the Spheres, but as it stands, the darkness and deluge will obscure the sights Seattle has to offer.
Shanthi and Maral pile into the back seat and Ryan goes to open the front passenger door. The driver yells something we can’t make out over the sound of the downpour. He waves at the front seat, which is piled high with insulated restaurant delivery bags.
“Sorry!” he calls. That much we hear.
“Are we ridesharing with food?” I ask.
“I’ll call another car,” Ryan says.
“It’s fine, we can all fit in the back!” Maral shouts.
The car’s a Civic, not exactly a double-wide—I don’t think Mr. Boundary will appreciate being smushed between us.
But it’s a short drive, just a few city blocks, and every second of indecision while the rain batters the pavement means our shoes and pant legs get even more soaked than they already are.
Ryan motions for me to get in first, and I return the gesture.
“You get in first,” Maral says to Ryan. “Ana’s smaller, she’ll be able to squeeze in more easily.”
I glare daggers at my cousin. I’d like to squeeze her small head in a vise.
“I don’t think—” Ryan begins.
“Or you can stand in the rain and ruin those dry-clean-only clothes,” Shanthi says.
He looks to me and I raise my eyebrows as if to say, It’s up to you.
He presses his lips together and, as Maral yells for us to hurry, folds himself gracefully into the backseat, closing his umbrella and dropping it into the footwell along with the others.
I do the same but I’m nowhere near as elegant, given that there’s almost no seat left and I have to practically climb on top of him.
If anyone had asked me a few days ago whether I ever envisioned so much as touching Ryan Grant, I’d have laughed. Never in a million years did I think I’d be perching half an ass cheek on his lap.
I’m careful to balance most of my weight on the door console so I’m sitting as gingerly as possible on the very edge of his thigh, which is rock-solid with muscle beneath the soft flesh of my butt.
The driver apologizes again, saying it’s a busy night and gesturing vaguely at the windshield getting pummeled by rain.
The car feels so unbelievably small, every sound amplified within its confines.
The shush of my pants against Ryan’s as I adjust my position.
His audible swallow. When the driver pulls a sharp corner and I fly fully into his lap, my back against his chest (again, no goddamn give whatsoever), his harsh exhale rings so loud it fills all my mental space.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Don’t be.” His voice sounds strained. It takes some maneuvering to peek at his face in my peripheral vision, to see if I can read his expression, but his eyes are clenched shut.
I feel bad that he’s uncomfortable, but the guilt becomes hazy when his warm breath rustles strands of my hair against my neck and a shiver courses through me.
Hazier still when another turn almost sends me flying off him before large, warm hands splay across my rib cage for the splittest of seconds to secure me, keep me right where I am, before they curl into fists at his sides.
Maral and Shanthi are cool as anything, discussing impressions garnered from the conference like nothing untoward is happening back here. Meanwhile, I am trying to steady my breathing, engulfed in Eau de Ryan. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol yet, but I already feel intoxicated.
Blessedly, the car pulls up to the bar a few minutes later.
You’d think all the HIIT workouts I do would mean I’m somewhat agile, but climbing off someone’s lap from the back of a sports sedan tests that theory.
I have the brief impression of hands at my waist again, giving me a gentle boost, and need to brace myself against the car for balance when I’m finally standing.
Ryan emerges behind me, sweeping an umbrella over the both of us, obscuring his expression momentarily.
Am I imagining things or does his breathing seem deeper and…
measured? I know I’m not imagining what I glimpse in his eyes before he schools it away, or the quivery, melty sensation it inspires in my belly.
As soon as we’re inside, I beeline to the bar and order four draft pints. We walk our drinks to a high-top table, me downing a sizable gulp on the way.
Maral raises her glass into the air. “A toast—”
“Yes!” I say. “To all of you, the finest team a girl could ask for.”
I don’t miss the annoyed expression on Mar’s face at my interruption. “And to Ana,” she insists on finishing, “who killed it today.”
Everyone clinks to that, and I mouth boyid mernem at her.
Conversation flows smoothly. When we first brought Shanthi on, Mar and I were amazed at how seamlessly she fit into our dynamic.
Although her family is Sri Lankan and not Armenian, we’ve had similar experiences with being raised in relatively progressive immigrant households.
Being almost ten years my junior, she was still living with her parents on Long Island when we first met, but has since moved into a studio in Brooklyn.
We all work mostly remote from our own places, but there’s no small amount of travel involved in the gig, and we mesh well as we schlep around the country.
Ryan, gradually emerging from his taciturn shell, is drawn into the conversation tonight.
Maral and Shanthi are full of questions about famous authors he’s worked with, and he’s irritatingly respectful in his answers.
Shanthi orders another round in the hopes of getting him to loosen his lips, but he remains steadfast in his integrity.
“What’s the fun of drinking with someone who doesn’t want to gossip?” Shanthi asks.
Ryan shrugs. “A couple of beers aren’t worth jeopardizing my job.”
“How many beers will it take, then?” asks Maral.
He smiles. It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding my breath.
Or just forgetting to breathe. It’s not fair how the movement of a mere seventeen tiny muscles can transform his face from broody and handsome to dazzling and handsome.
“It’d take something a lot more enticing than alcohol,” he says, throwing an almost imperceptible glance my way.
“Bet we can find some coke in this bar,” Shanthi says.
“Jeopardize your job is kind of dramatic,” Maral puts in. “You think we’re going to tell anyone at Woodsworth what you say about people who’ve probably had worse juice spilled about them on social media?”
“So go ask social media,” he says. “I wouldn’t cross that line even if you weren’t public figures with devices glued to your palms.” He nods at Shanthi, who, sure enough, is typing into her phone as we speak.
“I’m not a public figure,” she says. “Although I might seem like one to someone who has zero online presence.”
“I’m online,” he says.
“You’re not on Instagram,” I say, and everyone turns to me.
“Yes, I am,” he says.
What? “You don’t follow me.”
“Of course I do.”
I tap into the app, pull up my followers, and search for his name. “Nope.”
He takes the device from me and types something different into the search field: aintlovegrant. The icon shows a man about twenty feet from the camera, standing on a residential sidewalk, brownstones extending behind him like books arranged on a shelf. He’s wearing a cap and sunglasses.
“This is you?” I ask, incredulous. “How on earth would I know?”
“Are you meant to know?” he asks.
“You’re a publicist!” I tap his profile open. “There aren’t even any posts on your account. How does Woodsworth let you get away with this?”
He shrugs. “They’ve never cared.”
Shanthi makes a sound of disgust. “Is it because you’re old? They let you get away with whatever?”
His brows draw together. “I’m only thirty-six.”
Two years older than me. Yet I can’t help thinking that Ryan seems so much older than other men the same age. More mature.
I press the blue Follow button, then pull down the menu to add him to my favorites. “In case you ever decide to post anything,” I say.
The glint of satisfaction in his eyes borders on cockiness, and it does something to my insides. The lower region, specifically.
“So you have an account,” Maral says. “Doesn’t really count if you’re unsearchable.” She gives him a once-over. “What kind of secrets you hiding, Grant?”
As if on cue, his phone rings, and he pulls it from his pocket. The name Celine scrolls across the screen and he excuses himself to take the call.
“Is it just me, or does he get cuter when he’s questioned?” Mar asks.
“It’s not just you,” Shanthi says.
I take a sip of my drink, and then another.
Obviously they find him attractive—any person with a hypothalamus in their brain would find Ryan attractive—but hearing them voice it aloud pulls back a curtain inside me that would do best to remain closed.
Giving credence to something I might otherwise be able to pretend doesn’t exist. A secret between me and my vibrator.
Mar is eyeing me. “For the horniest woman I know, you’re awfully quiet on this subject.”
Caught out, I pause a moment too long before responding, “I don’t think it’s relevant.”
“Relevant?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’re working together. I’m pretty sure he’s on the phone with his girlfriend right now. There’s no way anything could happen.”
“Happen?” She and Shanthi exchange an amused look. “Whoa. I was just saying he’s cute—not that any of us would ever hook up with him.”
“Right.” The word whooshes out of me. “I know.” I drink again.
She squints. “Unless you’ve thought about this already.”
“I’ve thought about hooking up with Ryan as much as I’ve thought about hooking up with Shanthi, which is to say, not ever even once. No offense, Shanthi.”
“None taken,” she says flatly. “You’re not my type.”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. Now I need to know more about this. “Not into charismatic dynamos?”
She waggles her head from side to side. “You’re a little…much. No offense.”
Offense! Definite offense. Although it’s not the first or even tenth time I’ve heard this assessment—often put less kindly.
“Anyway, this isn’t about me,” I say.
“No, it’s about Ryan, and your crush on him,” Mar teases.
“Can you stop? You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“More like I’m embarrassing you.”
I glare at her. “You should never drink.”
“Excuse me!” She stops a passing server. “Can we get another round, please? This evening is getting interesting.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Okay. Yes, sure, he’s cute. But we’re professionals and there are boundaries and it’s not right for us to shit where we eat, so to speak.”
“First of all, gross analogy. Second, nobody’s shitting anywhere,” Maral says. “Commenting on someone’s looks—positively, no less—is a far cry from ripping his clothes off.”
I try not to let my brain conjure the image of ripping Ryan’s clothes off…and fail. I push my pint glass away. I need to reduce dopamine production, and drinking isn’t helping.
“And I’d have thought,” she continues, “that for someone who compartmentalizes her sex life like a bento box, it would be no big deal for you to do that.”
“Well, maybe it is a big deal.”
Maral’s face exposes her surprise—and delight—like a showcase. I suddenly realize the error of my words, which could be construed as being more significant than they are.
“I mean,” I clarify, “that it would be wrong to cross that professional line. With him.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Shanthi says. “A couple beers won’t make him jeopardize his career.”
It’s like the universe is taunting me, because just then the server delivers our next round. I order a glass of water.
Ryan returns then, seeming unsurprised to see a third beer sitting next to his half-drunk second one. “Sorry about that,” he says.
Maral nods knowingly. “Girlfriend?”
I could kick her. I settle for a glower that could melt her skin off instead.
Ryan wipes at a small puddle of condensation on the table. “No,” he says simply, and she raises her brows at me, mouthing, No girlfriend.
So what if she’s not his girlfriend? There’s clearly something going on between him and the jovial woman in his phone.
Given all the heart emojis she texts him, maybe she wants to be his girlfriend, but he’s keeping things casual.
Not that I’m judging—casual is exactly the term I’d use to describe my own relationships.
Relationships being a stretch as far as descriptors go.
Sexual acquaintances? Fuck buddies? Is that what Ryan and Celine are? Does Ryan have a lot of those?
Where are Maral’s inappropriate questions when I need them?
I drink my water, trying not to envision his hopping sex life, or marvel at how the bar’s moody reddish lighting accentuates his jawline, or remember the way his body felt under mine earlier in the car.
Meanwhile, Maral yawns dramatically and checks the time as though she’s in a middle-school stage production. “Damn, it’s late. We should get back and finish that Reel,” she says to Shanthi.
“Yep,” Shanthi says, rising. “Time difference is kicking my ass. Does your body just get less and less tolerant of external influences as you age?”
Maral flips her hair. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask our village elders here.”
Ryan nods, deadpan. “It’s all downhill.” He reaches into his pocket. “I’ll order a car—”
“No need,” Maral says quickly. “We’ll just see you in the morning.”
Noting Ryan’s caught-in-headlights expression, I pipe up. “We don’t need to stay—”
“You both still have drinks to finish,” Mar insists. “Unwind, celebrate, enjoy.”
Ryan’s eyes find mine as Maral and Shanthi bid us a hasty good night, leaving so quickly you’d think a bomb was seconds away from detonating in here.
Which suddenly feels accurate, as Ryan and I are left alone.