I open my eyes. It’s my first look at Ryder’s bedroom in the daylight, which is blasting through the uncovered glass patio doors to the balcony, where I imagine my discarded panties greeted the sun.
The carpet is a light blue, like the color of the sky or sea on a clear day, a contrast to the white walls and sheets. I gingerly pull the comforter to my chin, not wanting to stir Ryder. It was almost dawn when we finally crawled into bed, my knees curled up, his body fitted snugly around mine, his hand snaked through my breasts, resting on my heart. Still, I’m not tired now. I feel kind of exhilarated, actually. Maybe it’s getting to wake up with Ryder, seeing the tough guy of tough guys in a vulnerable, sleepy state. Or maybe it’s just the residual effects of our fourth-dimensional, nuclearly explosive, fall-off-the-earth sex.
I mean, it’s been a long while since I’ve had even decent sex so what happened last night wasn’t just a fun time after fight night: it was a revelation, a peek at what sex could be. Should be. And I can’t help but hope will be again.
Pushing my bedhead bangs out of the way, hoping the circles under my eyes from lack of sleep last night aren’t too dark, I roll over, my hand outstretched, waiting to land on his beautiful ass.
But the spot next to me in the king-size bed is empty, the pillows stacked neatly, smoothed out, as though no head has ever been there.
I sit up, letting the sheets fall in my lap, my breasts bare. We fucked with our clothes half on, but we slept naked. Go figure.
“Ryder?” I say. “Hello?”
The room is soundless. It’s true I’ve been out of the single world for a while, but if you have a one-night stand, isn’t the person who came over supposed to be the one who tiptoes out?
Maybe he’s at work: Doubtful at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.
Maybe he’s at church: Doubtful because it’s Ryder.
Maybe I’m meant to take a hint: Sigh.
Nothing like wearing stilettos home in broad daylight to raise a couple neighbors’ eyebrows. I stand and wrap the comforter around me like a strapless gown, surveying the room for my clothes.
What I find first is my phone, which thankfully has no missed calls from any blocked numbers, just a string of teasing good luck text messages from Shelby and Savannah after they saw me and Ryder leaving together last night.
I scroll through them, a smile playing over my face, but the grin stops cold when I realize I haven’t heard from Jamie in days. He’s still avoiding my calls and his responses to my texts have been sporadic and vague. I send him one more, just checking in, but I know I won’t hear back. Sometimes little brothers are the worst.
On the long wooden dresser across from the bed, I spot a folded note: C. And underneath it: my dress, folded with perfect geometry. Nice.
Around the far side of the dresser, I see the red toes of my shoes peeking out. Somebody straightened up before he snuck out.
Training, the note reads. Elevator down to B. Come. (But only if I get to watch.) R.
My mood lifts as I reread the last part, imagining it in Ryder’s deep, commanding voice: Come. But it’s the R, something about the intimacy, the brevity of the singular letter, like a sign that now we know each other in a different way, that electrifies my insides, the same heat I felt last night pooling again in my center. I don’t know what it will be like to see Ryder now, the morning after. But every part of my body can’t wait to find out.
Ryder Cole can throw a punch. This doesn’t surprise me. But it’s the elegance with which he does it, like a dancer performing choreography, that makes it impossible to look away as he spars with his trainer in the basement gym of his building.
Well, and the fact that he’s bare-chested, his sexy sleeve tattoos on full display, his muscles tight with movement and shiny with sweat. That keeps my attention pretty easily, too.
Though I know I’m an invited guest, I didn’t want to interrupt the session, so I shut the door as quietly as possible when I entered. The gym is huge, a punching bag in one corner, weight machines in another, a row of treadmills and stationary bikes on the periphery. I’m not even sure Ryder knows I’m here as I lean against a back wall, away from the square pad in the middle of the room where he and the trainer stick and move and kick and jab—unlike the guys at fight night, they wear boxing gloves. Keeping distance between them, they bounce as they circle each other, their bodies in constant motion. The trainer throws his right fist at Ryder’s face, and Ryder blocks it, knocking the trainer in the side and then the head.
“Jesus, Ryder,” he says. The trainer smiles, but rubs his ribcage with his glove. “You showing off for someone?”