Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers, #1)

by Chloe Liese

“I’m not handing this class to you. You chose to be a student athlete, and with that comes a responsibility to manage your time. You didn’t tell me ahead of the class when you’d be missing, or that you’d need notes. You didn’t communicate until the day of class you missed and then the second time, afterward. That tells me this class isn’t a priority, and frankly, I think it needs to be. This is a foundational course if you want to be prepared for any kind of business management down the line.”

He kinda has a point

Because Aiden gives me the notes for lecture. The lecture’s captioned on a projector, but it’s still a lot to keep track of, so I get the full lecture notes to help me follow along in class and to refer to later.

My thumbs fly, anger building as I realize what a mess he got us into. Aiden’s not doing me favors—he’s legally required to make the course accessible—but she doesn’t know that’s why I have them.

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.”

Her self awareness>>>

He’s incapable of shaving his face or wearing anything besides a scowl, a ball cap, and flannel. Now

“What?” I ask. He pauses, seeming to deliberate before waving a hand toward his nose, miming savoring a delicious aroma. Then, his fingertips tap his chin before dropping down. I know that one, and I put them together. “Smells good?” His lips barely tip in a grin, and he nods.

I LOVE HIM

“Taste okay?” I ask. He frowns, setting down his fork. Lifting one hand, he wiggles it side to side, the universal gesture for so-so. Heat rises in my cheeks. As my temperature skyrockets, his smirk deepens. Suddenly, he turns toward his computer, quickly followed by a ding from Messenger on my laptop. You’re fun to tease. I scowl at the laptop as I type, And you’re a pain in my ass.

Silence is a relief, a break from the constant torture of straining and trying to catch any scrap of discernible noise that I can.

It was surprising and welcome when Willa signed sorry in class. And the next time I saw her, I took a chance. She understood my hodgepodge sign for telling her the food she was making smelled fucking incredible, and it made something in my chest twist with warmth. I liked being able to meet her eyes when I communicated with her, instead of having my head buried in my phone, waiting for her to turn away from me and read my words. It felt closer, more intimate.

I thought I was past grieving what I lost, but maybe grief isn’t linear. Maybe I can accept what I’ve lost and still mourn it. Maybe I always will.

Favorite book, I type. She exhales heavily. I don’t know where to begin. I have too many. Pick one. She shoves me. “You’re so bossy.”

I’m not leaving her out here on the sofa. It doesn’t feel right. Carefully I scoop her up and carry her into my room. I tuck her into my bed and set her alarm for six thirty, placing her phone on the pillow, near her head. I figure that gives her enough time before the earliest a class runs on campus, which is eight in the morning. Thankfully, I’m fastidiously neat and I just changed my sheets last night, so everything’s clean and fresh in my room. She should sleep well enough.

I hustle through straightening his bed, then quietly tiptoe out and scoop up my bag. A crisp pile of papers sits on the table, along with a note in his tidy scrawl. The semester’s notes. All yours. Take the container with your name on it in the fridge. – Ryder

And there is nothing that turns me into my worst, clawing, scratching, hissing self than feeling exposed. Goddammit. All last night that trickster was eavesdropping on my verbal diarrhea freak-out about this class, acting all chivalrous, feeding me dinner and pulling out my chair, leaving me to sleep alone in his bed and preserve my dignity. And it was all a ruse. Anger churns my stomach. Embarrassment heats my cheeks. That asshole. That tall, sandy-haired, smirking, flannel-wearing, asshole lumberjack son of a bitch. “Oh, it’s war now, Bergman. It’s war.”

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.