Page 39 of Rush
The soundof the front door opening and closing finally roused me from my fitful sleep.
Opening my eyes, I saw Ryan creeping into the apartment. He was dressed in his running gear, and I began to feel like a fat, lazy slob.
“Where’d you go?” I muttered, peeking up at him.
He paused and glanced at me. “For a run.”
I stared at his sweat-soaked tank top and damp skin and curled up my nose.
“You’ve been asleep this entire time?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I suppose. I’m not used to staying up so late.”
“I left you a note,” he said, nodding toward the coffee table.
Seeing the piece of torn notepaper on the coffee table, I picked it up. It read,Gone for a run. Back soon. Fiddling with the note, I studied his messy handwriting as he disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower turned on.
I was still staring at it when he emerged.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked, opening the fridge.
“Yeah, that would be nice. I’ve got to shower first, though.” I ran a hand through my hair. It was stiff with hairspray and frizzed to the extreme. I probably looked like I’d stuck my finger into an electrical socket, which was a totally sexy look. Straight of the runway at Fashion Week.
“Good thinking,” he said, his voice muffled from inside the refrigerator. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
“Ugh!” I exclaimed, attempting to comb my fingers through my hair. “You’re the one who took me to the beach while I was half drunk, thank you very much. I’m pretty sure I’ve got sand in places where there should never be sand.”
“My poor couch.”
Pouting, I climbed out of my makeshift bed and gathered some clean clothes. Stroking my cocktail dress from the night before, I smiled softly to myself before slipping into the bathroom. This week had really had been an eye-opener. It would be sad to see it come to an end when we both went back to reality on Tuesday.
After a heavenly soak in the shower, I felt a great deal better, and when I finally emerged in a waft of steam, Ryan had just finished making a giant omelet. Where he’d whipped up the ingredients was beyond me. I’d thought his fridge was empty.
“And he cooks,” I declared, standing beside him at the stove. “You’re the complete package, Ry.”
“It’s just an omelet,” he replied with a grunt. “Chuck everything into a pan. Cook it. Flip it. Done.”
I peered at him, sensing something was a little off about him this morning. Thinking about our adventure last night, I knew I was a little drunk, but I hadn’t crossed any lines. Well, any I knew of.
“Are you okay?”
He turned and smiled. “Fine. Are you okay?”
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and you know it.” I waggled my finger at him. “How are you so…”
“Awake?” His tone was clipped, and the uneasiness grew. “It’s the training.”
I frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re a little grumpy.”
“Stop being so paranoid,” he said with a huff. “I’m fine. Late night, booze. I’m not used to it, either, you know.”
Not entirely convinced, I shrugged, watching as he divided the giant omelet in two and dished it up on the waiting plates.
“Dig in, J,” he said, dumping the frying pan into the sink and turning off the stove.
We sat at the table where a pair of glasses and a carton of orange juice was waiting. It was a fancy organic kind, not the ones that were full of processed sugars and additives. Not only was Ryan a ripped fighter, he was a master of nutrition, too. Remembering he’d told me professional MMA had weight classes, I suppose he had to be on top of his food to keep his body in that kind of shape all the time. It was more involved than I realized.
We ate in silence for a while, the omelets he’d whipped up tasting pretty fine. It danced across my taste buds, and healthy never went down so smoothly.
