Just One of the Guys(40)
He’s returning my look just as intently. My knees nearly buckle. “From the paper?” he asks softly. Nice voice, quiet and deep and gentle, and I can just imagine him saying, Chastity, I’ve been looking for a woman like you all my life.
“Mm-hm,” I squeak, unable to form actual words at the moment.
“Great.” He smiles, my girl parts clench, and he turns to the class. “Chastity here did a perfect job!” Ryan announces. “In fact,” he continues, “Chastity, why don’t you come up here with me? We can demonstrate how to break a choke hold.”
He takes my hand—Pause for a moment, Chas, let it sink in—yes, he takes my hand in his own warm, strong, brilliant surgeon’s hand and leads me to the front of the class. There are many sour faces looking back at me, and I smile modestly (I hope. Frankly, I feel as triumphant as Attila the Hun conquering Europe. Take that, you size zeroes!).
This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me. I mean, sure, I’ve been attracted to men other than Trevor in my lifetime. But does drooling over Derek Jeter and Aragorn really count? The fact that Ryan—Mr. New York Times himself!—is holding my hand, even if he’s preparing to strangle me, is stunningly wonderful. Aside from the helpless, discouraging love I feel for Trevor, I can easily say that I’ve never before been so drawn to a man.
“Great, Chastity,” Ryan murmurs. He places his hands on my neck—gently, even reverently, it seems—and then tenderly pushes some of my hair out of the way. Is it my imagination, or are Ryan’s beautiful green Jeter-esque eyes filled with that magical combination of wonder and attraction? My face grows warm, my chest expands almost painfully. Whatever we’re about to do, I want to do perfectly. I want Ryan Darling to be proud of me. To be in awe of me. To fall in love with me, marry me, have babies with me or, at the very minimum, to ask for my phone number.
“Okay,” Ryan says, turning to address the class. My God! Those cheekbones! I stare at the beautiful angles he’s presented me and register the length and heft of his eyelashes. Unbelievable. “Obviously, if you’re being choked, you have to act immediately. If your airway is compromised, you’re going to lose the fight. Chastity, you’re young,” he continues, looking down (yes, down from the lofty two and a quarter inches he’s got on me), “you’re in great shape”—Suppress exclamation of joy and triumph—“and you’re obviously strong.”
I smile again. Young, great shape, strong. I love these words! More than that, I love these hands on my shoulders, the thumbs resting just on my collarbones as he lectures the class about walking strong, looking strong, etcetera. I can barely hear. All I feel is the heat from those hands pouring into me, filling me with a kind of languid slowness, as if warm honey is flowing into me from this man—my future husband—and I imagine more: imagine him sliding those hands down my arms and back up again, warm against my bare skin, him pulling me against his golden chest, his mouth lowering to mine—
Suddenly, my throat is being squeezed—not hard, but squeezed, mind you—and before my brain catches on, my knee goes up. Goes up hard.
And Ryan goes down like a bull in the stockyards. My throat is free, but the man I plan on marrying writhes on the floor, clawing at the mat, because it seems I’ve just seriously compromised his ability to father our children.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“MY DAUGHTER KICKED a black belt’s ass!” Dad announces at Emo’s the next night. It’s happy hour, two and a half platoons are here, three of my four brothers, a cousin or two, and Trevor, who is talking to Lindsey the Kitten Waitress.
“It was his groin,” I mutter into my Scorpion Bowl. Yes, Scorpy and I are back together, which gives you an idea of how good the past twenty-four hours have been.
When Ryan collapsed, the entire class rushed to him, and I was pushed aside in the stampede to administer first aid. Except for calling out mortified apologies as he baby-stepped to his car, I didn’t actually speak to him. Furthermore, I didn’t get the story and had to throw together an article on James Fennimore Cooper’s influence on current fiction. I’m guessing an entire four people will read that one.
I take another slurp of Scorpy and stare at the bar, carving my initials into a solidified puddle of margarita, ignoring the noise of happy hour. My empty social calendar yawns in front of me. Tomorrow night, I’ll be editing next week’s features from home, since I must cover the Daffodil Festival during the day. The radiator in the kitchen needs to be scraped. Buttercup could use a bath. And on Friday, I head for Lucky and Tara’s house to be abused by their children while my brother and his wife head to Saratoga, where they will hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes. It seems about as close to a romantic weekend as I’m going to get.
I sigh with gusto and stuff a handful of pretzels into my mouth. Mr. New York Times—that is, Ryan Darling, M.D.—was my great hope. For a moment, however brief, I knew that he was attracted to me. I felt it. He checked me out. He was interested. Until, of course, I’d squashed his testicles into pancakes.
Was it so unexpected, honestly? I mean, there he was, choking me. I’d just flipped Angela and acknowledged four older brothers. Ryan had already commented on my strength, my “great job” at throwing friends through the air. According to my mother and Angela (who have bonded greatly over this incident, by the way), I was supposed to bring my arms down—or up (we all know I wasn’t listening)—and break the choke hold. My knee was supposed to stay out of it. But come on! It was a self-defense class for women! What’s the first thing they teach? Go for the groin, girls. Kick him in the balls. I probably have it on a T-shirt somewhere.