I Bet You(34)

“What were you writing?” he says nonchalantly as he stalks into my den, and while his back is to me, my eyes run over him, taking in the broad shoulders that taper to his trim waist. I picture the six-pack that is probably under that shirt. I briefly wonder if I’ll ever see his abs. Probably not unless I sneak into the locker room someday. Tonight he’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt and a pair of low-slung jeans that fit his ass like a glove. I smile to myself. I almost miss his button-down, but this isn’t a bad look on him.

His well-toned athletic butt really is a thing of magnificence, the taut muscles shaped by good genes and working out constantly. I imagine him in shorts and a muscle tank, lifting weights in a gym, sweat dripping as he lifts, curling his bicep— “Penelope. Are you listening?”

I start, realizing he’s facing me and asked a question.

I blink rapidly.

What did he ask me? Writing! “Uh, nothing. Just toying with some creative writing ideas.”

His gaze is intense and I think I see a glimmer of…heat in his eyes as he considers me. He sees my notebook on the coffee table and picks it up, thumbs through it. I can’t tell if he’s actually reading the pages, but my life flashes before me.

In an instant, I’m pressed against him, my hands tugging my journal out of his hands. I hug it to my chest like it’s the Holy Grail.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Personal?”

I huff and show him the cover. “Did you not see where it plainly says DO NOT OPEN?”

He looks at me.

“What?” I snap.

He shrugs. “I’m just wondering what kind of things you write about. Is there sexy stuff in there, Red?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You sure? Your face is flushed and you’re breathing pretty fast. I might have to defibrillate you if you pass out.”

I suck in a cleansing breath as I clutch my notebook. “You didn’t read anything, did you?”

“I didn’t read anything tonight,” he says softly.

I harrumph and tuck my notebook into the desk that sits next to the media cabinet.

“So why aren’t you at the Tau party?” I ask, straightening up to face him, determined to change the subject. “You should be in the middle of a fan-girl sandwich by now, Ryker. You should at least be ‘doing laundry’ with someone.”

He shrugs. “I was on my way home from getting dinner when I saw your lights on.”

Technically, my house is not on the main drag. He’d have to purposely make a few turns to get here, and I’m about to comment on this point— “Shit! Ryker! Shit!” It’s Vampire Bill, and I send him a be quiet look, but he just blinks back at me, his yellow eyes bouncing from me to the football player.

Ryker appears startled until he sees Vampire Bill, who is perched inside his cage on a narrow table in the den. Ryker glances back at me, a quizzical expression on his face. “I never took you for a bird girl. Maybe a cat or a small dog.”

I huff out a laugh. “I inherited him when my neighbors moved.”

“Oh?”

I nod. “Yeah, on moving day, they were going to leave him and let him live in the wild, but he can barely fly, and when he does get off the ground, it’s just for short spurts.” My lips tighten, and I’m feeling indignant all over again remembering the renters next door, a pair of young college girls who graduated two years ago. I came outside when they were debating about which side of the street to leave him on. Of course, I was horrified. I immediately took him in and did my best to be a good bird owner. I even took a class at the humane shelter, which I figure had to be better than what they did for him. I walk over to his cage and give Vampire Bill’s head a little scratch, and he allows it for half a second—until he hops away and glares death daggers at me. “He’s an African Grey and supposedly has the intelligence of a four-year-old. Sadly, he has a personality disorder. He hates everyone.”

“Jock! Shit! Ryker!” Vampire Bill squawks, and I stifle down my giggle.

“But he is funny.” I look back at Ryker, who’s now standing next to me at the cage.

“Did you teach him that?”

I blink innocently. “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh. You talk about me to your bird. Fascinating.”

“Not really. We do a word of the day sometimes,” I say as he stalks around my den, his eyes checking out my small but well-built house. His gaze takes in the decor in shades of gray and soft ecru. An elegant but rustic farmhouse-style chandelier illuminates the beige leather sofa and two baby blue plaid chairs across from it. The baseboard trim is thick and was recently painted a vanilla color by me this summer when I needed something to keep my mind busy and writing wasn’t cutting it.

“Oh, what was today’s word?”

I pause.

“Red?”

“Quarterback.”

He grins.

And we do that staring thing.

“Nice place,” he says, breaking our gaze as his eyes drift over the furnishings. “Homey. I like it.”

“I grew up here,” I tell him, my fingers touching one of the lime green pillows on the chairs. “My mom decorated. She was…pretty awesome.” I pause. “I guess you don’t get back to Austin much?”

“Nah, it’s just me and my dad, and he’s always busy with work. Hey, I’m sorry about your mom.” He pauses. “You mentioned it in the bookstore…”