Page 46 of Resting Grump Face
Ryker chuckles. He clearly isn’t used to his brother pushing back, but he seems to enjoy it nonetheless. “So,” he teases, “other than a brain tumor —I assume— what else is new with you?”
We chat for a while until our food arrives. My mushroom steak looks and smells delicious. Ryker had pre-ordered a butternut squash and sage ravioli with cashew cream sauce for himself, which looks equally scrumptious, and the last plate to arrive isn’t a plate but a large platter. Ryker’s eyes grow big with anticipation when the server puts it down in front of his brother.
“No way,” Roman gasps.
The plate is full of colorful vegetables cut into oversized matchsticks that are neatly stacked in cubes. Apparently, Ryker had arranged that all his food would be cut into batonnets.
“Touch one.” Ryker laughs. “They’re soggy, just the way you like them and, of course, there are a bunch of dips with too much sugar and salt for you to work on clogging those arteries of yours.”
Roman touches a stick of fried, soggy carrot, pushes it neatly back into place, and gasps again. “I didn’t know how much I needed this,” he murmurs.
To my chagrin, this is the best and worst thing I have seen all day. Roman’s eyes are big and innocent, like he is having candy for the first time, except that his candy is soggy vegetables. I love that something this simple makes him that happy. The only thing that I don’t like is that Ryker is responsible for it. He’s not the kind of person to do kind things. He is rude and irritable, and says things like ‘Grrr’ and ‘If I hadn’t been eavesdropping, I would have assumed you were talking about yourself’.
But here it is, the sweet, attentive, kind side of the devil. And it makes me dislike him even more. Because it means that he chooses to be a disgruntled grouch to everyone all the time when he possesses the ability to… not be that? At some point, he probably just figured out that he can skate through life on his looks and wealth, which is when he stopped worrying about being nice or doing the right thing.
After dinner, we have a few more beers, and one or two shots of something called the ‘Sourpuss Special’ for good measure, before we eventually decide it’s time to leave. Roman shakes my hand, and stares at me with eyes-wide open and an equally big grin when getting into his limousine. “Alright,” he says as the window slides down, “I obviously don’t have time next Friday togo to Fry-day’s, but I will see you on Saturday for my birthday. I’ll text you the address.” He nods once and closes the window again.
“Why would you text me the address?” Ryker asks, a little confused as he puts his jacket over my shoulders. “I know where the party is.”
The window slides down once more. “Not you, you fool. I invited your girlfriend.” The window closes again before the limousine drives off and leaves Ryker and me behind on the side of the road.
Ryker is smiling, like actually smiling, which I am sure is some supernatural sign, foreboding some kind of disaster. The last time he smiled like that, I dropped my pillow-weapon and almost made out with him.
I imagine what it would feel like to kiss him right now. I know what it felt like when we were still strangers, and now I wonder if it has changed, whether I would feel different doing it now. His smile turns to me and he tugs his jacket around my shoulders to keep me warm. If he keeps this up, I’m worried that darn smile of his might make me drop my panties instead of my pillow this time.
Keep it together, dumbass.
Stay strong.
Luckily, he quickly stops when he notices me staring. His pearly whites give way for the familiar, drawn together eyebrows and the wrinkles on his forehead. He takes a step back and motions across the street. “That way,” he lets out in a brutish tone.
I avert my eyes, mentally bitchslap my brain for allowing thoughts about our lips doing wonderfully terrible things to each other, and begin walking.
Mere moments later, my brain retaliates by hiding the curb right in front of me. I trip and, in what feels like slow-motion, fall straight towards the unforgiving pavement.
Unfortunately, I never hit it. Instead, I dangle in Ryker’s right arm. He’s down on one knee, his arm spun around my chest, holding me inches from the ground. I exhale. A tiny, thoroughly strained grunt escapes my saviors throat in response. His arm is shaking under the tension.
“Are you calling me fat?” I ask, still hanging mid-air, glancing over at him.
Ryker tries to hold it together but breaks out in laughter right away, then drops me to the ground and lands half on top, half next to me. For a moment, it must look like he and I are spooning in the middle of the walkway.
17
RYKER
There are many things one could say about Sienna de la Vega. Her wrinkle of friends would probably call her a firecracker. And they would be correct… if they were referring to the illegal kind you buy from the shady guy selling them out of the trunk of his car in an abandoned parking lot behind a junkyard. There’s definitely a constant risk of getting burned when being in her proximity. Maybe that’s what makes it so thrilling. That, and the fact that any fireworks pale in comparison to her.
I look over at Sienna sitting in the seat next to mine. Her head is bouncing around, her eyes are closed, and there’s a little drool running down the side of her mouth. The view makes me smile.
Must be the alcohol.
Carefully, I maneuver her body onto the empty seat between us. Once she’s down, she adjusts herself in her sleep and places her head on my lap.
A second later, I am rock hard, and consequently somewhat filled with guilt. It’s not really my fault. There’s nothing I can do about it, it’s involuntary, unavoidable. My right arm is hoveringin the air above hers, and I’m not sure what to do with it. Placing it on her side seems wrong for some reason, and I don’t want to wake her up. So I just let it float there.
After what feels like a small eternity (and a very thorough workout), the car finally comes to a stop and the partition slides down a little. Miles peeks through the gap. When he sees the two of us, his eyes grin. “We’re here,” he whispers.
I nod.
