“Okay, I guess.” I keep ahold of the cupcake boxes while Ryder unlocks a door so he can grab the table. Still holding onto the carafe, he carries the folded up table out one handed. The muscles in his shoulders bunch, and his sweater stretches tight across them. I may or may not lick my lips at the sight. Almost as soon as I do it I’m horrified. Am I attracted to Ryder? No. Hell no. I can’t be.
Ryder sets the table and coffee carafe down so he can unfold the legs and stand it up. I stand there like a complete numbskull, mulling over my previous revelation. I don’t have a crush on Ryder, do I? I’m not even over Ben yet? How could I possibly have feelings for another man? One I barely even know?
“You okay?” Ryder asks, his dark brows furrowing together as he takes the cupcake boxes from my outstretched hands.
“Me?” I ask, and my voice is several pitches higher than normal. “Fine.” I wave a hand dismissively and scurry into the closet to begin setting up the chairs. Before I flee, I see the look of confusion flash over his face. I’m being a freak, I know, but there’s no way I can explain to him that I think I might have a crush on him. There has to be some rational explanation for this. Like the warm and fuzzy feeling inside me is from gas or something. Yep, I’m totally blaming this on gas.
I carry two chairs out and set them up. I’m not paying attention, and have my head down, and when I turn to head into the closet, I bump into Ryder’s very hard, very muscular chest. I freeze, with my palms splayed across his stomach, holding onto the fabric of his shirt so I don’t fall.
“Whoa,” he says and the chairs fall from his hands so that he can grip my waist. I’m pressed right up against him and I can feel his heart racing beneath his sweater. I’m positive mine’s beating just as fast, and I wonder idly if he can feel it. My eyes flit up to his and he stares down at me with warm brown eyes. His tongue slides out to wet his lips and time seems to stand still. I don’t let go and neither does he. It might only be seconds, or minutes for all I know. Regardless, I know we’re both holding on longer than what’s appropriate. His arms feel wrong around me, but right at the same time. I’m so conflicted and that confliction makes me feel sick to my stomach. I jerk away and he lets me go immediately.
“I … I’m sorry. I have to go,” I mutter, looking down. I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Blaire?” I hear him call after me, but members of Group are already beginning to arrive. “Blaire?” he calls again. I don’t look back to see if he’s following me. I want to, but I can’t let myself.
I hurry down the hall and out the double doors into the crisp, early, April air. I inhale a breath before running to my car. I drop my keys before I can unlock the door and let out a loud string of curses. A guy from Group glares at me for my foul language before he heads off toward the building. I’m tempted to give him the finger, just to spite him, but I don’t have time. I swipe up the keys and get in my car.
When I back out, I see Ryder come out of the building. His black hair is blown away from his forehead by the wind and he waves his arms, begging me to stop, but I don’t.
I leave. I have to. Before I do something I’ll regret. Or worse, something I won’t regret.
The day after running out on Group I’m mopeyer than usual. I’m so angry with myself for my irrational feelings. It was a fluke, I tell myself. Nothing and you made it into something.
I stir my cereal around and around the bowl, my spoon clanking against the side of the glass bowl.
“Kid,” my dad speaks from behind his newspaper, “if you don’t stop that I’m going to steal the spoon from your hand and throw it across the room.”
“You’re so nice,” I tell him, but I stop stirring. “I’m not very hungry.”
“You’re growing a human. You’re starving. Eat.”
“You’re bossy.” I glare at him, but he can’t see since he’s behind the newspaper. He laughs, but quickly turns it into a cough like he can feel the heat from my stare.
“So your mom tells me.” He reaches over and grabs his cup of coffee. It disappears behind the newspaper before being placed back on the table. “You need to eat, you’re growing a human and that has to be exhausting. Your mom was a bitch the whole time she was pregnant with you.”
“I heard that,” my mom says, coming out of the downstairs bedroom. Her hair is damp from a shower. “Your dad’s right, though. You need to eat.”
“What is it with you and food?” I mutter, staring down into the milky depths of my cereal bowl, like I’m waiting for a fortune to appear or something equally as ridiculous.
“Food equals life, Kid. Therefore, you must eat to live.” My dad lowers the paper slightly so I see his eyes.
I make a face and he quickly raises the pages back up.
“Maybe you’d like a sandwich?” my mom asks. “Oatmeal? Toast?”
“Eh.” I shrug and lift the spoon of soggy cereal to my mouth. “I’ll stick with this.”
“That’s hardly enough for the baby,” she argues.
I lift my eyes to hers as she leans a hip against the table. “This is good,” I tell her.
She sighs and moves away. “Suit yourself,” she says.
“Hey, Mom?” I call after her while she pours herself a cup of coffee.