Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(56)

That’s because you are a sex-starved hussy, begging him to whip out that lumberjack wood and logjam you into next week.

“Shut it, choo-cha.” It’s most certainly my choo-cha talking. She feels empty and tortured every time she’s around Ryder. I will not be steered by my personified vagina.

I swipe open my phone. Please, I type. I’ve heard lumberjacks are notoriously clumsy when they’re out of the woods and in the bush.

Ryder reads my message and rolls his eyes. He has the audacity to shove the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and chew, like some hypersexual hungry woodsman. My thighs rub instinctively. The wind picks up and my already tight nipples pinch, poking into my shirt. Undeterred by layers of bra and tank top, they make themselves glaringly obvious. Ryder looks up from his sandwich and gives me a calculating once-over. His gaze snags on my chest, but he recovers quickly. Reaching into his crossbody bag, he pulls out a UCLA hoodie and tosses it at me.

Greedily, I tug it over my head and huff the delicious evergreen scent. I can feel the frizz his hoodie causes in my hair and do not give a shit.

“Thanks, Ry.”

He nods, his eyes locked on mine. His stare lasts longer than normal.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He finally blinks, then sweeps up his phone and types in his rapid-fire way. I’m wondering if after you wear that hoodie, I’m going to be cursed with hair as frizzy as yours.

I lean across our food and punch his arm. When I sit back, I make a point of jamming my fingers into my crazy hair and only making it crazier.

Ryder’s face breaks into one of those rare, wide grins, and my heart skips a beat. He lifts his hand to the air in front of his face, swirls his fingers until they’re pinched together, then opens them as if releasing a burst of magic. It’s sign for something that I don’t know.

A shiver rolls up my spine, but it’s not because of the breeze swirling across the grass, making leaves dance between us. Wind whispers through my hair and plasters Ryder’s shirt to his body. Time suspends.

“What’s that one mean?” I ask.

Balling up the empty paper from his sandwich and tidying our mess, Ryder slides his bag up his shoulder and stands. His fingers ruffle my hair as he smiles down at me. Then he walks off, leaving me in a haze of unanswered questions and cedar-scented air.

Damn mind-fucker of a lumberjack.





“Beckett Beckerson, get your rank-ass hands out of the taco meat!” Tucker smacks Becks’s fingers away, then shoves him, nearly sending Becks crashing into me as I close the front door.

“Sorry, Willa,” Becks mumbles, straightening me out.

“Wilhelmina!” Tucker shouts.

I flick him off. “I requested Swedish meatballs.”

Tucker shrugs. “Ryder didn’t get home until fifteen minutes ago. He asked me to do him a solid and get taco meat cooking.”

Huh. That’s weird. I hate to admit it, but there’s no point in denying I have Ryder’s schedule memorized. He should have been home hours ago.

Becks goes to the fridge, pulling out taco fixings. “You like tacos, right?” he asks from inside the fridge.

I drop my bag on the table and wave my hand, already making my way toward Ryder’s room. “I love them. Thanks, guys.”

“Cool.” Tuck nods, jamming to some music he has playing quietly from his phone.

Knocking twice on Ryder’s door, I let myself in. He’s on his laptop, squinting at something with headphones on. He looks so intensely focused, I’m wildly curious to know what he’s watching.

When I step closer, he does a double take, eyes widening as he rips off the headphones, slams his laptop shut, and practically sits on it.

Tipping my head to the side, I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, Brawny?”

He nods and swallows loudly. Pushing off the desk, he grasps my elbow and steers me out of his room into the main living area. One hand guiding me, he sets the other at his sternum. Fingers splayed with the middle one higher than the others, he swipes up his chest.

How are you? he signs. What’s up?

I’ve noticed him using a little more sign in the past few weeks. We still talk our texting way plenty, but it seems like sometimes he just wants to look at me and have some conversation.

“I kicked my Feminist Literature final paper’s booty, that’s what’s up.” He releases my elbow now that we’re safely away from whatever’s on that laptop that he doesn’t want me to see.

He smiles, and signs, Good!

Becks is organizing tiny little bowls of all the toppings, Tucker warming up tortillas. I glance from the kitchen to Ryder. “Putting your minions to work, eh? What happened?”

Ryder’s face slips slightly. I’m sorry, he signs. He hesitates, frustration pinching his face as he retrieves his phone from his back pocket and quickly types, Forgot about a doctor’s appointment. I cook them dinner nightly. They owe me. You love tacos though, right?

Something melts a little inside me. He’s right. I don’t like tacos. I love them. They were, until his Swedish meatballs, my favorite food.

“Yep, I say.” Reflexively, I clasp his hand and squeeze. “Everything okay at the doctor’s?”

I try to ask it in a way that isn’t invasive but shows I care because I do. I can’t pretend I’m not invested in Ryder’s wellness. He gently tugs a curl of my hair, then steps past me, into the kitchen, typing as he goes. My phone dings.