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“They’re that good. Not everything’s about you.”
I forgot to have lunch today so the fries are perfect, and heat coils and licks within me at his words, and the gin just gives the heat a boost.
He laughs. “Are you sure? Because the latest Ryder Sinclair Weekly mag came out, and it said I was.”
“You have problems.”
“Nope, it also says I’m pretty much perfect.”
“Do not—” I shake a fry at him “—make me launch these at you. They’re too good.”
“If I’d known this is what it would take to get you making hot sounds, I’d have been feeding you fries from Basic since day one. What else gets you going?”
“Idiot.” This time I do throw one at him. Ryder catches it and eats it. “I’m going to the bathroom. Try not to get into trouble.”
“Me? Never.”
I head off, and after I use the facility I take my time washing my hands so I can think. Ryder’s a little softer now, more relaxed in his role.
The other night, I was too caught up in the moment to see it, but I think he really can pull this off. He’s chosen a place that’s him but not flash and sizzle. It’s not full of models and the kind of hot women he’s photographed with. This isn’t even the kind of place that draws the attention of the paps.
It’s neighborhood, happening and upscale, yes, but it’s small, too.
Even his flirting with me is more laid back. I don’t think he’ll ever stop that. I think flirting is as much a part of Ryder as his charm. But he’s not angling for anything like he was the other night. Oh, he made the comments about the erotic sounds, but that’s Ryder, right?
And I know he likes me, likes spending time with me. But that’s neither here nor there. This is about him and the change in him.
Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s an act, but if it’s an act then he’s doing a stellar job. I buy it, and if I do, then the board and his mother might too.
Who knows, if it’s an act, it’s one that comes from a place of sincerity, not cynicism. And that means real change, if he wants it, can happen. What’s that line? Fake it till you make it?
There’s a lightness to my step as I turn to leave. But it thumps down the moment I step out into the back hall of the bar. A woman stands in front of the single occupant bathroom and she blocks my path. Someone else starts to ask about the bathroom, but she waves them past.
She’s looking at me, her beautiful face cool and narrow-eyed.
There’s no need to ask. Ryder slept with her at some point. She has that look and she’s up his alley.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
Her gaze travels over me and her perfect nose wrinkles, her mouth twisting in a delicate sneer. “Have his standards fallen so far?”
“Obviously, I can’t, so if you’ll excuse me, I have my boyfriend to get back to.”
The word feels so weird, so alien, as I say it. Normally I’d never go there, and I know she’s not media of any kind, not officially, but there’s social media and for the next few weeks I’m watching my mouth because anything I say that’s used online can be way more powerful than an article.
But the word is a trigger and the woman’s face turns ugly with hate. “Boyfriend? Maybe, but you’ve got to have something on him. And trust me, a man like Ryder Sinclair, who looks like that, will never in a million years be faithful to someone like you.”
“Or maybe he knows real quality when he sees it.” Inside I’m shaking. But not on the outside.
Even if Ryder was mine, I’d never give trash like this the satisfaction. And this isn’t unexpected. She thinks I have something she couldn’t get looking like her—Ryder. As in basically living with him. Going out with him. Sure, she slept with him, but that isn’t the same as a relationship.
Not that I have him, but she thinks that.
It’s almost laughable. But I don’t make that mistake.
“You’re not quality—”
“Maybe not. But Ryder thinks so.”
