Page 28 of Hungry Hearts

RYDER:I can still taste you on my lips.

I’ve read his message a hundred times in the past two days and it still brings a tingling sensation to my core. He’s giving me space and still letting me know he wants me. I wish I had more time in my life for him.

Pain fills my chest now instead of pressure. Pain and guilt. No, I wouldn’t wish my busy life away. There’s love and meaning in it, even if it’s not the fairytale I envisioned so many years ago.

I’ve been putting everyone else ahead of me for too long. It’s time I do something for myself. Just me. No pity, no shame, no advice from my friends and family. Whatever is going on between Ryder and me is between us and no one else.

Clutching my phone tighter, I let out a sigh and send Ryder a text.

ME:I’m free for lunch on Tuesday. If you already have plans or have to work, no worries.

I hit send before I second guess myself. It’s direct without being too forward. Lunch is safe, right?

But do I really want safe? I’ve been living in a bubble for too long. Ryder is the first person I’ve spent time with outside my bubble, and it’s an incredible feeling. Stepping out and enjoying the fun he has to offer is perfectly acceptable.

We’ll have our fun, then I’ll return to my bubble. I set my phone on my nightstand not expecting him to reply tonight. It’s nine o’clock and he has a restaurant to run. Unless he’s not working and is out with another woman.

The man is gorgeous and has women falling at his feet. Something I already figured out on my own and didn’t need the Internet showing me. That’s what I get for trolling him online. His social media accounts are all food related. Food porn, really. His captions are seductive and riddled with innuendos, but if you’re a pearl clutcher, you might not pick up on them.

I stare up at the ceiling and actually count sheep, backwards from one hundred, as a poor attempt to bore myself to sleep. I’m only at eighty-four when my phone vibrates. I wish I could say I’m a cool, chic woman who doesn’t jump when the guy she’s pining for texts, but I’m not.

I flip over and snag my phone, opening his text.

RYDER:Clarifying question. Areyoulunch or are we having like meat and potatoes or something? Because it’s a yes either way.

He follows his response with a dozen emojis. Some are thinking, others have hearts in their eyes, and he slips in an eggplant at the end.

RYDER:The eggplant is a symbol for vegetables. Or fruit. Get your mind out of the gutter.

I giggle while I think of a creative response. He doesn’t give me time before my phone vibrates in my hand with another message.

RYDER:Can you delete my last text? I meant to say, I love when your mind is in the gutter. It’s lonely down here.

In only a few minutes, the pressure in my chest has moved, and now I have a pleasant ache between my legs.

ME:I was talking about lunch. What you’re referring to is dessert.

I hit send before my brain tells me to abort where this is going.

RYDER:I have a huge sweet tooth.

ME:That’s right. Hot fudge sundaes.

RYDER:Mm. Hot fudge. Whipped cream. A cherry with a long stem.

ME:What flavor ice cream?

I expect him to say vanilla, or even cherry chocolate chip since I told him it’s my favorite. Instead, he has me turning into molten lava.

RYDER:“Maia” favorite flavor.

I bite my lip and clench my thighs, remembering how skillfully he licked me to orgasm. This is intense. Too intense. I don’t know how to reply, but if I don’t, he’ll think he offended me, and I’m anything but offended.

I whip off my covers, needing the cool air to wash over my body. Fingers poised over my phone, I watch as three dots appear.

RYDER:In case you didn’t get it... My-ah favorite flavor. Get it? Like, My favorite flavor, but I used your name instead because, yes, you are my favorite flavor. And now I’ve got a tent pitched in my pants and I have to leave the walk-in cooler at some point to get back to the bearnaise sauce I’m making. I’m not a rambler, but I’m hoping if I keep my fingers busy texting I won’t reach into my pants and... FILTER, Ry-dog. Damn. Sorry, angel. Lunch. Yes. A nice lunch with our clothes on. Unless you meant a naked lunch. Cause I’m down with that. Can’t say I’ve ever had a naked lunch before, but I’d love my first time to be with you. Fuck. This rambling thing isn’t helping. I’m still hard–FILTER. Say something. Did I freak you the fuck out? I’ll be good. Promise. No. Delete that. I always stick to my promises, but I can’t promise I’ll be good when I see you. Unless you call pinning you to the wall and sticking my tongue down your throat good. In that case...

ME:You’re making me cry. Stop.

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