I’m assuming most of that’s for me.
I let out a humorless laugh. The audacity of this guy. Assumptive of you, I type.
A soft sound leaves him, almost like a huff of laughter. Chills run up my spine. It’s quite rude to cook in front of someone and not offer to feed them.
I roll my eyes. Well, as you said, you’re not dealing with a lady. Rude is my specialty. I start a new message, typing, I was planning on feeding you, Lumberjack. Counting on it making you less grumpy.
He turns, frozen in profile. Ryder’s mouth opens, and he looks as if he’s about to say something to me, rather than type it, not that I’m under the impression he could. I stare at the outline of his thick lashes, his long straight nose, waiting. But he turns back to his computer and types, I’m not grumpy.
You’re grumpy, I write back. Right as I’m about to tell her dinner’s ready, Rooney all but skips back into the room.
She has a guilty flush to her cheeks and she keeps nervously glancing over at Ryder. She’s a transparent soul, so I always enjoy needling her when I know for a fact, she can’t lie to save her own ass.
“How interesting,” I tell her. “You just knew instinctively when to come back for food. It’s almost like you were watching us through that tiny crack in the door from your room to the dining room.”
“I’m like a puppy,” Rooney says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and avoiding my eyes. “I have a keen sniffer and I know exactly when food’s ready, then come running.”
“Sure, Roo.” Turning off the dial beneath the pan, I scoop pasta into three separate plates, taking care to pour Ryder’s sauce over his plate. Handing Rooney hers, I pat her cheek. “Run along, Peeping Tom.”
Rooney’s face falls. “Okay, I watched. But it was like a hot silent film—all these loaded gazes and sultry body language.” She fans herself. “You guys are better entertainment than a sweaty, silent tennis match. Well, I guess it’s silent except for all that grunting they do.”
The idea of a grunting, sweaty anything with Ryder bizarrely sends a jolt of heat between my legs. I could slap myself.
“Stop talking like that.” I tug Rooney’s ponytail. “Be gone.”
“Fine,” she says primly, spinning with her pasta. When she’s at the threshold of her bedroom door, she turns back, waving to Ryder. “Bye!” she practically yells.
Ryder winces, then gives her a reluctant wave.
I set down his plate, then circle the table, and sit with mine. “No shellfish allergy?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Damn.”
Ryder’s eyes narrow. It almost looks like he’s biting back a smile. He takes off his hat, a surprisingly polite, gentlemanly gesture. After he combs all that thick, shaggy blond back and secures it with a hair tie, he dips his fork into the pasta.
I watch him with grinch-like glee. But after two bites, he’s acting completely unaffected. He should be squirming in his mountain man britches by now.
He takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. No discomfort. Nothing.
Dammit. Of course, the lumberjack is one of those freaks with virtually no capsaicin receptors. My luck.
Ryder’s eyes are on his plate. I could tap the table, but I’m not sure if he finds that helpful or offensive. I don’t know that waving will work because his eyes are shut as he chews a bite of pasta. Tentatively, I slide my foot under the table until our toes touch.
His eyes snap open, then meet mine.
“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.
Another soft sound leaves him, as he turns toward his pasta. I spend the majority of my meal, glaring at the crown of his head, barely tasting my food.
That’s a bad idea, he types.
No, it’s a great idea, I write back.
Our eyes dance from our laptops to each other, our positions mirror images of stubborn intractability across the table. It’s ten o’clock. We finished dinner two hours ago, and we have yet to agree on a business project.
Nonprofits for special needs children are chronically under-resourced, I write. Nonprofits geared toward outdoor and sports activity for those kids are even rarer and less well-funded. This model relies on not only outside donors but also athletic and outdoors competition fundraisers, as well as internal sales that market the kids’ creativity—crafts, artwork, baked goods and—
No one pays ten dollars for a dozen campfire cookies, he types. And this is kid art, not a Monet at auction.
Okay, I write, so maybe that part of the budget’s a stretch.
Stretch? It’s delusional. I’m with you on a business geared toward sportswear and outdoorsmanship, and sure, gear and training for different needs and abilities. But this nonprofit idea is a waste of time.
My eyes snap up to his as I shut my laptop forcefully. “You’re being obstinate.”
He rips off his ball cap, raking both hands through his hair.
An odd feeling comes over me, watching those long fingers scrape through his dirty blond locks, tugging, combing repeatedly. Tendons in his arms pop, and the bulk of his bicep presses against his shirtsleeves. With one hand, he sweeps up his phone and types faster than I could ever dream of doing.
My phone dings.
I’m not being obstinate. I’m being practical. You need to be, too. You know how little the NWSL pays. You’re going to have to support yourself with sponsorships and savvy business agreements. You’re talking like business isn’t entirely about shrewd negotiation and profit. That’s *all* it’s about, Willa.
A growl leaves me as I stand, slapping my palms on the table, then leaning in. “You’re great at shutting down ideas, Ryder, but you know what you suck at? Offering good ones.”
Storming away, I sweep both of our plates off the table and toss them in the sink so roughly, I might have just cracked one.
His snide criticism highlighting my weak spot is the last thing I needed to hear. I hate that he’s right, that the National Women’s Soccer League, while not paying ideally, is going to open doors for me, doors that will require I do what I’m terrible at—tough negotiations, having uncomfortable, aggressive talks about payment and percentages that make me head-to-toe hive and freak out. I am nervous about how I’m going to succeed and support myself while playing, but I am trying to learn. Ryder’s needling just hit that tender, insecure part of my plans for my future.
Maybe he said it, like almost everything else he does, teasingly, merely to get under my skin, but he doesn’t know how thin my skin is, how breakable I feel most of the time.
Standing slowly, Ryder swipes his phone off the table and pockets it, then walks from the dining table into the kitchen area. He pauses, dragging a fist over his heart, just how I did earlier. I’m sorry.
I glare at him. I’m hurt and pissed, annoyed that for every nice thing he has to say, he has twice as many zingers. I’m tired, and ready for bed after an exhausting day. “Whatever, Ryder. Come up with an idea, and let’s meet next week.”