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Freya takes his beer and finishes it, then wipes a hand across her mouth before she writes, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: men are idiots. Remind me, why’d I marry you? Aiden drops his head to the table but manages to type his answer in our group chat. Good question.
“He’s deaf. MacCormack just didn’t seem to find that important to tell me when he referred me to Ryder. Ryder told me it’s MacCormack’s trip. In his mind, good people figure it out by being open-mindedly diligent, and bad people fail because they get butthurt the moment Ryder doesn’t respond. I failed. I assumed he was ignoring me and pretty much devolved to wrestling him in class.”
I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself. I managed to coax my temper from explosive rage to a simmering level of irritation, thus clearing my head enough to do some logical deducing.
As my fellow wild-haired woman and general feminist badass Hermione Granger would say, he routinely demonstrates “the emotional range of a teaspoon.”
I could be truly wrathful in my revenge, but at some point, violence gets boring.
The irony is not lost on me, that he’s the first man who’s ever truly made me feel heard in my life and he can’t hear a word I’m saying.
The moment we almost had; another almost kiss hangs in the air between us. Unless . . . unless he wasn’t going to do it. Unless I had dirt on my face or a booger. Oh, shit. What if I’m imagining all of this?
I’ll admit it: I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. Is he about to set me straight? Tell me to quit making sexy eyes at his mouth and rubbing myself on him like a koala in heat?
Because that’s weird to hate peanut butter cups, she texts. Because you deserve shame for hating peanut butter cups.
I tip my face to the sky, begging it to wash my brain clean. To erase all this worry and preoccupation over a fucking man.
Men are a waste of time anyway, as we both agree.”
I’ve taught you to be cautious with men. That many are disappointments. But also that some are good, rare gems in their species. The hard—and for me, deterring—part is that it’s difficult to know which are which at first, sometimes for a long while.”
“Hate, enmity, rivalry are all passionate responses. My personal theory is that they are incomplete expressions of one core human emotion: love. It’s like that parable about the men who felt different parts of an elephant and each mistook it for something else. Love is a many-faceted feeling. It’s anything but one-dimensional. Sometimes when someone’s in love, certain emotions and behaviors, more than others, present themselves first.” I swipe open my phone and type, That logic is terrifying. He leans in. “But it is logical. Think about it. We don’t bother with people we’re indifferent to. We
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She’s not boy crazy, she’s never out on dates, and, given her many anti-male diatribes that she weaves into our evenings together working on the final, I assumed Willa more or less truly hated men, except for me, basically, and maybe Tucker and Becks, who seem to have grown on her during our project nights at my place.
I can’t tell you why I do it. Why I watch them when my heart corrodes in the acid of my jealousy. But I can’t look away.
I never knew I had a sandwich kink, but it seems I do. Ryder eats a big-ass Italian submarine sandwich, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, as the December sun beams down on him. It is straight up pornographic. I can see every tendon and muscle flexing under that fine dusting of blond hair on his arms.
‘In vain I have struggled’ ” Ryder’s voice is deep and ragged. He reads Darcy’s voice with suffering that’s as believable as it is expressive. He’s her gentleman reader. Oh, fuck. Hot, fat tears slide down my cheeks. That asshole. That infuriating asshole lumberjack is reading to my sick mom and putting Colin Firth to shame.
“You have to slog through their stilted ability to be vulnerable, their dogged fear of opening up, which causes all those misunderstandings, before their reconciliation. That’s what makes it feel so gratifying and meaningful,” he says. “The sweetness of them admitting their feelings is powerful only because they’ve gone through so much to arrive at that understanding. They have to work past their insecurities and assumptions, to fight their way to uncover the truth. Then and only then do they realize what they mean to each other.”
I watch his hands grip and wipe the towel, then unbutton his cuffs and slowly fold the fabric along his arms. It’s another damn forearm striptease as he rolls up soft, worn flannel.
When he picks up the towel again, I gulp, watching his hand work the fabric. I need to get laid. This is not right. I’m eroticizing hand drying.
Ryder steps close as he tucks the towel into his back pocket. Even that’s hot. There’s no mercy in this world.
Ryder sighs and drags a hand through his hair. His fingers snag on the strands, reminding him they’re pulled back. I have to suffer through him retying his hair; watching those damn muscles bunch under his shirt; his long, calloused fingers pulling each blond streak back into a tight bun.
“You should be more afraid to provoke me. I’m a giant ginger Viking who skates on knives for a living—” “Hey.” Ryder cuts in. He crosses himself. “We don’t talk about the fall of the prodigal son.”
Ren sighs wearily. “Hockey is not that terrible. I guarantee you Bergmans have been skating on ice much longer than they’ve been chasing a ball across a field of grass, looking like demented sheep.” Ryder shoves him. “You were good at soccer, too. That’s what hurts.” “Wait, you chose hockey over soccer?” I lean in and lock eyes with Ren. “And they still acknowledge you as family?” Ren throws up his hands. “I’m a professional hockey player, and you’d think I sold organs on the black market. Jesus. He didn’t even tell you?” “Nope.”
“Please.” Becks rolls his eyes. “We all know why Ryder grew the beard. Because he got too much attention clean-shaven, and when his ears went to shit, attention was the last thing he wanted.”
“Something funny?” I ask. She shrieks and jumps back. “Who the fuck are you?” I raise my eyebrows, tipping up the brim of my hat. “Sunshine, are you serious?”
“We had a whole Beauty and the Beast thing going. I had to make sure you liked me for my stunning personality, not my mom’s cheekbones.”
“I’m edgy,” I finally manage. He smirks like a sexy asshole. “Ya think?”
“I’m scared, too, Sunshine. This is vulnerable shit.” His mouth is a breath away from mine. “I just know I’d rather be afraid with you than fearless with anyone else.”
Add cooking to frowning, opening laptop bags, sleeve cuffing, and other mundane activities that Ryder Bergman magically makes pornographic.
But tonight, the jerk had the audacity to set up a tray of fancy snacks, pour me a fat glass of red wine, and not only roll up his sleeves in front of me but prepare our meal from scratch.
“Where’d this food come from anyway?” “I ordered it, Sunshine. There’s this modern marvel called online ordering and delivery of groceries.” “Bergman, you better watch that mouth. I’m a vengeful woman with a gift for nighttime pranks, and it won’t be hard to find where you sleep tonight.”
He shrugs. “It’s environmentally irresponsible to heat this entire place for two people. I won’t do it, but if you can start that fire yourself, be my guest. Or you could consider doing your part to protect the dwindling polar ice caps, harbingers of impending climate-change catastrophe, and bed-share with a warm-blooded human. Your choice.”
“That’s because most men I’ve met are complete disappointments.
“You’re quiet, Brawny.” “I’m always quiet, Willa.” “No, you’re not. I mean, sometimes you are but, generally, you talk to me plenty.” Ryder stops on the trail, making me bump into him. Slowly, he turns and peers down at me. “I guess I do. But that’s different. That’s only when it’s us.”
“Only when it’s us?” Ryder stares at me. “Have you seen me speak to another woman besides my sisters or mother, since I met you?” I shake my head slowly. “Have I looked at one?” I give my bottom lip a rough tug between my teeth. My heart rate trips and takes off at a dead sprint. “No,” I whisper.
His legs are a little wide, so I try for a nutmeg, to thread the ball between them. He anticipates this, dropping his shin and catching it, then immediately pulling a Maradona that yanks it back from me. “Asshole,” I mutter. “You thought you could ’meg me, Willa?” I shove him. He doesn’t budge. “Keep it clean, Sunshine.”
