Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(14)

Does he owe anyone who ever sits next to him his life story? Plus, you gave him death eyes. The first time he saw you, that’s how you were looking at him.

The sound of a photo being taken jars me. Ryder leans his phone my way, showing me a picture of my profile. My eyes are narrowed, my focus on the food while I know secretly my thoughts were spinning about the jerk-turned-stealth-photographer. My hair’s a giant puffball on my head. Loose curls gather at my neck, ears, and temple.

“What the hell?”

I smack his shoulder but he waves his hand, as if to say, No, no you don’t get it. Pointing first to the pan where I’m cooking, then the photo, specifically, the half of it taken up by my hair, Ryder then sets his phone on the counter, frames his hands around his head and makes the mind-blown gesture.

Heat crawls up my neck. “The humidity from cooking tends to make my hair get bigger, yes, you butthead.”

He cocks an eyebrow and smirks as his thumbs fly over his phone. My phone dings.

Does wonders for it.

I growl, shoving his phone into his chest and making sure he can read my lips. “Delete it. Didn’t your mother teach you not to take a lady’s photo without her consent?”

My phone dings almost immediately.

Didn’t know I was dealing with a lady.

“Out of my kitchen, Bergman.” I throw a hand in the direction of the dining room table as I pick up my phone to type. And let me be clear that if you were not my obligatory partner for this class, and my GPA wasn’t resting on our working together, I’d have kicked your ass to the curb five minutes ago.

My phone dings.

Duly noted.

Turning back to the food, I roughly toss the pasta, shrimp, and some sauce, perhaps with more force than necessary, but I need something to channel my fury. My hair is a sore subject. I’m constantly exercising and showering, so while everything I read about taming thick, curly waves like mine says I need to wash less and condition more, that’s just not practical for how active I am. I also hate that my unruly hair obviously came from the sperm donor, since Mama’s hair is poker straight. Every day, my hair is a reminder of the guy who fucked and trucked my mom, who wanted nothing to do with me. Ryder doesn’t know any of that, but it doesn’t matter. He teased me about it, and now he’s going to pay.

I glance at the container of cayenne sitting in the spice rack. Quickly, I add some to a bowl, pour sauce into it, then whisk it around and set it aside for Ryder’s serving. Just enough to get his tongue sweating, then make him shit fire in a few hours.

Behind me, I hear Ryder unpacking at the table, the click of his laptop on the hardwood surface, the dance of his fingers across the keys. My phone dings.

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.