He returns to his seat behind the desk. He leans back in the armless chair, his long legs open, his strong hands resting on his thighs. “So, about Friday night,” he says.
I breathe in deeply, lifting my chin. “I’m not saying I’m completely innocent, but I’m not the only one to blame either.”
He slants his eyes, his mouth opening slightly into the beginnings of a smile. “Who is to blame, then?”
“Well, since the whole thing was your idea,” I say, leaning onto the desk with both hands, like a prosecutor about to reveal the smoking gun, “I’d say you.” Case closed, your honor. Savannah would be proud, both as a friend and as a lawyer.
“Actually, it was Jackson’s idea,” Ryder says. “He and Cash convinced me to
do it.”
Whatever hesitations I had earlier this morning about setting Ryder straight vanish at the word convinced, like I was just another bet to be won for him, a consequence of some gross truth-or-dare session among Ryder and Cash and Jackson.
If he’s trying to embarrass me, okay—it’s working a little. But two can play that game. “So they put you up to it?”
“It was their suggestion.”
“Because as I recall,” I say, my muscles tense, my jaw tight, “your erection didn’t seem to need too much convincing.”
Ryder’s blue eyes widen. He nods his head, and runs a hand back through his dark hair. When he looks up at me, he’s grinning.
“What do you think we’re talking about?” he says, standing up and crossing toward me.
He plants his hand next to my hand on the desk’s edge, his fingertips just touching mine, and the feel of his skin, even so barely, makes the nerves in my stomach turn to butterflies as I realize: maybe I don’t know what we’re talking about. And maybe I just gave myself away.
Shit.
“Friday night,” I say, my voice quieter than before.
“Friday night,” he says, “You left before Cash could tip you out.” He pulls three fresh, crisp, new hundred dollar bills from his shirt pocket. “Not everyone’s first time is such a success.”
“I didn’t know,” I say. “I thought it was all going to the debt.”
“It was,” he says. “But your ass in those jeans made Altitude a lot of money that night. So Jackson and Cash persuaded me to reward you for it.”
“Oh,” I say, biting my lip as I turn my head away from him. “That’s nice of you.”
“Yeah, it is,” Ryder says.
I look back at him, studying his face. I heard somewhere that people often assume attractive people are assholes because they are attractive, and therefore seem unapproachable. And Ryder’s not just attractive—with his blue eyes and dark hair and strong jaw line, frankly, he’s gorgeous—so combine the stereotype with his tattoos and height and build and reputation, and I imagine a lot of folks assume he wouldn’t have a thoughtful bone in his body.
And I guess I’m seeing I’m one of those folks.
Not that he’s not ever the bad guy. He has the reputation he has for a reason. But maybe just not always.
“Thank you,” I say as I reach for the money. He pulls it away from my grasp, and tucks it back into his pocket.
“I don’t know, Cassie,” he says. “Maybe I changed my mind. I’m not sure if I like your attitude today.”
I close my eyes and sigh as I realize I may have to say the one thing I didn’t want to say. “I’m sorry, Ryder. I really appreciate your generosity.”
He takes a step toward me. “Say my name again, and I’ll think about it,” he says, his voice low and deep and cool, though the sound of it makes every part of me warm.
I cast my gaze up at him, and swallow hard. “Ryder.” I can’t help it: my mouth pulls into a tiny smile at the feeling of the last syllable slipping past my lips.
“Again,” he says. He brushes the back of my hand on the desk, trailing over my wrist and up my bare forearm, across the sleeve of my dress to my shoulder, my neck. I close my eyes, blocking out everything except the way it feels for him to trace his fingertips across my earlobe.
Keep it together, Cassie. You know exactly where this goes.
It’s true. I do. We’ve been here before. But as he twists the back of my hair around his fingers, I also know: I don’t think I mind being here again.
He drops his other hand from my waist to my ass and pulls me closer to him, our bellies and legs and everything in between pressed against each other. I put my hand in the middle of his firm, wide chest to steady myself, his steady heartbeat beneath my palm like a countdown to whatever we’re about to launch.
I look him at directly, like I’m the one daring him now.
And maybe, caught in this office with him again, I’m daring myself, too.
“Ryder,” I say, as in one motion he guides my head toward him, his fingers tangling in the back of my short hair, and kisses me, soft and firm and slow, like a musician who stretches out that one last note so it winds around the audience, holding them in place, not letting them go.