Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(15)
I watch him with grinch-like glee. But after two bites, he’s acting completely unaffected. He should be squirming in his mountain man britches by now.
He takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. No discomfort. Nothing.
Dammit. Of course, the lumberjack is one of those freaks with virtually no capsaicin receptors. My luck.
Ryder’s eyes are on his plate. I could tap the table, but I’m not sure if he finds that helpful or offensive. I don’t know that waving will work because his eyes are shut as he chews a bite of pasta. Tentatively, I slide my foot under the table until our toes touch.
His eyes snap open, then meet mine.
“Taste okay?” I ask.
He frowns, setting down his fork. Lifting one hand, he wiggles it side to side, the universal gesture for so-so.
Heat rises in my cheeks. As my temperature skyrockets, his smirk deepens. Suddenly, he turns toward his computer, quickly followed by a ding from Messenger on my laptop.
You’re fun to tease.
I scowl at the laptop as I type, And you’re a pain in my ass.
Another soft sound leaves him, as he turns toward his pasta. I spend the majority of my meal, glaring at the crown of his head, barely tasting my food.
That’s a bad idea, he types.
No, it’s a great idea, I write back.
Our eyes dance from our laptops to each other, our positions mirror images of stubborn intractability across the table. It’s ten o’clock. We finished dinner two hours ago, and we have yet to agree on a business project.
Nonprofits for special needs children are chronically under-resourced, I write. Nonprofits geared toward outdoor and sports activity for those kids are even rarer and less well-funded. This model relies on not only outside donors but also athletic and outdoors competition fundraisers, as well as internal sales that market the kids’ creativity—crafts, artwork, baked goods and—
No one pays ten dollars for a dozen campfire cookies, he types. And this is kid art, not a Monet at auction.
Okay, I write, so maybe that part of the budget’s a stretch.
Stretch? It’s delusional. I’m with you on a business geared toward sportswear and outdoorsmanship, and sure, gear and training for different needs and abilities. But this nonprofit idea is a waste of time.
My eyes snap up to his as I shut my laptop forcefully. “You’re being obstinate.”
He rips off his ball cap, raking both hands through his hair.
An odd feeling comes over me, watching those long fingers scrape through his dirty blond locks, tugging, combing repeatedly. Tendons in his arms pop, and the bulk of his bicep presses against his shirtsleeves. With one hand, he sweeps up his phone and types faster than I could ever dream of doing.
My phone dings.
I’m not being obstinate. I’m being practical. You need to be, too. You know how little the NWSL pays. You’re going to have to support yourself with sponsorships and savvy business agreements. You’re talking like business isn’t entirely about shrewd negotiation and profit. That’s all it’s about, Willa.
A growl leaves me as I stand, slapping my palms on the table, then leaning in. “You’re great at shutting down ideas, Ryder, but you know what you suck at? Offering good ones.”
Storming away, I sweep both of our plates off the table and toss them in the sink so roughly, I might have just cracked one.
His snide criticism highlighting my weak spot is the last thing I needed to hear. I hate that he’s right, that the National Women’s Soccer League, while not paying ideally, is going to open doors for me, doors that will require I do what I’m terrible at—tough negotiations, having uncomfortable, aggressive talks about payment and percentages that make me head-to-toe hive and freak out. I am nervous about how I’m going to succeed and support myself while playing, but I am trying to learn. Ryder’s needling just hit that tender, insecure part of my plans for my future.
Maybe he said it, like almost everything else he does, teasingly, merely to get under my skin, but he doesn’t know how thin my skin is, how breakable I feel most of the time.
Standing slowly, Ryder swipes his phone off the table and pockets it, then walks from the dining table into the kitchen area. He pauses, dragging a fist over his heart, just how I did earlier. I’m sorry.
I glare at him. I’m hurt and pissed, annoyed that for every nice thing he has to say, he has twice as many zingers. I’m tired, and ready for bed after an exhausting day. “Whatever, Ryder. Come up with an idea, and let’s meet next week.”
His jaw ticks, before that cool mask he wore in class descends over his features. A hefty shrug is all I get, before he spins, sweeps up his laptop, and shoves it into his bag. I’m well trained to expect disappointment in men. I’m positive he’s about to walk out that door without so much as a thank you. But instead, he returns to the kitchen and sidesteps me to the sink.
I move to block him, but his hand grips my elbow. With very little effort on his part, Ryder drags me toward the other end of the room. A palm comes up. Stay.
Frowning, I cross my arms and stare at him. He turns away before I can say anything else, quickly running the water on the plates, scraping them clean, and using the in-sink garbage disposal. Ryder bends to open the dishwasher door and sets our plates and silverware inside, then tugs it shut. I watch him bring the pans, utensils, and bowls I used into the sink, squirt soap on them, and wash, then rinse them. Once he’s set everything to dry on the rack, he wipes my work area clean, folds the dish towel with military precision, and sets it on the counter, exactly parallel to the edge.