Chapter 11 #2
“They sort of are.” He seems to weigh his words. Then, as if they’re being dragged from him by force, he says, “Woodsworth has a program. They cover half of your dependents’ tuition fees as long as you’re employed with the company.”
My mouth drops open. “Wow. That’s…generous.”
“Very,” he says. “It’s been a game-changer. It means she won’t have to consider paying off giant debts when she weighs employment prospects after she graduates. It’ll give her more freedom.”
Something funny happens in my chest as I listen to Ryan talk about his sister’s future, knowing everything he’s done to set her up for success…for happiness. Knowing how hard he works to provide her with open pathways while restricting his own.
“What about your freedom?” I ask.
“It’s just…never been a priority.”
“You mean you haven’t made it a priority.” Because his most pressing needs have always been his sister’s needs. Before my brain catches up, my hand is draped over Ryan’s forearm. “Celine’s lucky to have you as her big brother.”
My skin prickles where it’s touching him, and his gaze pins me in place, the raucous room going silent. The golden flecks framing his pupils gleam like the rays of the sun, the entire solar system revolving around them. Warm and vibrant. Central.
I wish it didn’t send heat radiating through me. Because he’s golden-handcuffed to the company, needs to walk the straight and narrow, to do everything in his power to not jeopardize his job until Celine graduates.
Not create a conflict of interest that could risk it all.
Even if he wants to.
I drain the remainder of my drink, and he does the same.
The night air is cool as we wander from the train station back to the hotel, the streets illuminated by bright signage and hanging red lanterns throughout Chinatown.
I ask question after question about Celine’s childhood, and he doesn’t seem put off by the rapid-fire interrogation.
On the contrary: He regales me with stories.
The time she put a cannellini bean up her nostril and had to be rushed to the hospital.
When she choked on half a strawberry, prompting Ryan to enroll in a CPR class.
Or the daddy-daughter middle school dance he took her to.
I imagine young, hot Ryan among all the middle-aged dad bods—the spectacle that would have been for a gymnasium full of pubescent girls.
He’s a captivating storyteller and credits her for it.
She would insist he invent original bedtime stories every night, which she called “mind stories.” When she showed particular affinity for one, he would run with the positive feedback and write it.
Inventive tales of otherworldly characters and events.
The few times he submitted them for college classes, they garnered high grades.
“Now we know your sci-fi author origin story,” I say.
“Blame Celine’s unquenchable thirst for interdimensional travel.”
“Does she write too?” I ask.
“Nah, she was always more interested in science, nature…She wanted to live in the woods as a kid. Her ideal weekend was going camping.”
“Oh god.”
“My thought exactly,” he says. “She begged and begged me to take her.”
I’ve never understood camping. I like being outdoors—on that first warm day of spring, just try to keep me inside—but pitching a tent miles away from civilization and the nearest coffee shop?
I can’t make food on a stove, let alone over a fire, and going to the bathroom over a dirt hole buzzing with flies is about the least appealing thing I can imagine. “How’d you get out of it?”
“I didn’t. You should see her when she really wants something. There’s no saying no.”
“Then she earned your compliance,” I say, smug, even though I have nothing to do with Celine’s strength of character. But something tells me Ryan wouldn’t say no, anyway.
“If it means she’s going to save the world’s forests,” he says, “I consider it an investment in climate action.”
“She and Maral should partner up,” I say.
“Urban planning and infrastructure reform with an emphasis on nature conservation.” I imagine them working together, becoming a world-renowned team for creating strategies for sustainable urban spread, and feel an inexplicable swell of pride at the fantasy.
It’s been so long since Maral worked in the field, so long since I envisioned her as anything other than the kick-ass brand manager so vital to SPOY now.
“Is Maral’s goal to go back to urban planning?” he asks.
“God, no—we’ve built something really special. She’s as committed to it as I am.”
He nods. “I wondered, given her interest in climate action. But then you’d lose the ace up your sleeve.”
“She wouldn’t leave me in the lurch,” I say, a sly grin curving my lips. “I have too much dirt on her.”
“I have a feeling Maral’s dirt is sterile.”
“Says the most fastidious person in the world,” I say. “I seem to remember the term serial killer being used to describe you.”
“Easy to appear fastidious to a sloven.”
I gasp, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Was that a burn? Did you just burn me?”
“If the mess fits,” he says, eyes glittering under the streetlights.
“Savage. That’s the last time I invite you into my room.”
“I hope not,” he says, the last word clipped as he clamps his mouth shut.
Mine drops open unceremoniously.
Did he just?
He did.
“As I live and breathe—” I say.
“That was—”
“Did Ryan Grant just—”
“—uncalled for—”
“—cross professional boundaries?”
He exhales like a deflating balloon. “I shouldn’t have said that. It just slipped out.”
Maybe I’m rubbing off on him. I’d love to know what else would just slip out if he didn’t keep such a taut leash on himself. “I didn’t mind.” No use lying. I look both ways down the quiet street we’ve veered onto, making sure we’re alone. Take a step closer, reach for his hand. “I liked it.”
He stiffens, his Adam’s apple rising on a thick swallow.
I pull my hand away—I’m overstepping, he only said that opportunistically, he didn’t mean it—but he reaches out and grabs it back, curling his fingers tight around mine.
The contact sends ripples of electricity up both our arms—I know he’s feeling the same thing I am. There’s no chance his eyelids have flown to half-mast because my touch doesn’t affect him just as much as his affects me.
His gaze rises to meet mine, remaining hooded, dark. He grips my hand more firmly, drawing me nearer despite himself, my body only a few inches from his. This close—at any distance, really—he radiates something that tugs deep in my belly. And lower.
How can his hand feel so right in mine?
“Ana,” he says, but nothing else.
His breath comes out in a rush when I tip my head back and my lips part, ready for a kiss he’s reluctant, yet visibly hungry, to give me.
“We…can’t,” he whispers, hesitating on the second word, showing his lack of conviction.
“But you want to,” I say. He hasn’t let me go.
“That doesn’t matter. I—” He licks his lips and I want to die from what it does to me. “We’re drunk.”
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Don’t do what?”
“We had one beer that was mostly foam, almost two hours ago.”
My free hand traces a path from his shoulder down over his hard pec and the flat ridges of his abdomen, drawing a shudder from him.
“I would never jeopardize your job,” I say. “I know now how important it is. Celine’s tuition and—I would never mess it up for you. We can be discreet. Nobody at Woodsworth would ever know.” My fingers reach his belt, lingering on the leather. “Don’t you get tired of denying yourself?”
He exhales shakily. “You have no idea.”
“Then just take what you want for once.”
He searches my eyes, his brow gathered. “We’re on this tour together for another week. What if things get…uncomfortable? I don’t want to put you in that position.”
“I can think of a few positions we’d both very much enjoy being in, and none of them would be uncomfortable.” I snake my hand around his waist, up the hard muscles of his back, pulling him closer, aware that he doesn’t resist in the least. “All I want is to enjoy each other’s bodies.”
Frown lines form grooves in his forehead. “Is that really all you want?”
There’s something in his voice. Disbelief…pleading? As if the answer to that question is important. As if he needs to know.
He’s worried I’ll catch feelings, cling, get hurt when we have to go back to being strictly colleagues. I have to convince him that the last thing he needs to worry about with me is emotional entanglement. That this is 100 percent physical. That I have no feelings whatsoever. Other than horniness.
In other words, convince him of the truth.
Because that is the truth.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m not in the market for a relationship. That’s totally off the table. This would just be sex.”
He’s breathing deeply, brow gathered, eyes searching mine. “Just sex.”
Just hearing him say sex is enough to send heat cascading up my thighs. “That’s what I want.”
A beat passes. “Ana, I don’t know if I can—”
“You remember that kiss,” I interrupt. “You know how good it would be.”
A thick swallow. Fingers twitching at his sides.
I close the remaining few inches between us, the tips of my breasts grazing his heaving chest. “Do you want me, Ryan?”
His heavy-lidded eyes drop to my mouth. “God, yes.”
“Then get out of your head,” I say, a breath away, “and enjoy me.”
I bring my lips to his, uncharacteristically tentative, in case he wants to stop me—but it’s abundantly clear he wants the exact opposite as he opens his mouth greedily for my kiss.