Sometimes I caught him staring at my chest, but then his eyes would move up to my face. So I didn’t call him on it.
“How’s everything going with the farting therapist?” Ryder had been ordered by the hospital and by Lucah to attend therapy several times a week. Even though he hadn’t meant to kill himself with his overdose, it was still disconcerting.
“I swear, I feel like I want to give the guy some Pepto Bismol or something. I don’t know. Dude’s go issues.”
I snorted and stirred the pasta so it didn’t stick together. “Your therapist needs fart therapy.”
“Seriously,” he said, laughing. “But the first step in solving a problem is admitting you have a problem, and I don’t think he’s there yet.”
He asked me about my day, and I broke down and told him about my quitting interns. Once upon a time, I’d wanted to hire Ryder to work for me. Yes, he probably didn’t know a damn thing about making clothes, but he would have been fun to be around and stare at. He’d probably model for me if I asked him to. God, that would be nice.
I’d gotten a peek at the goods, and they were damn good. I didn’t think I’d be attracted to someone like him, but damn. His body told a story and I wanted to know about it.
“You’re staring at me,” he said, and I realized I’d been mentally undressing him. Oops.
I looked away and into the boiling pot. Shit, hopefully the pasta wasn’t overcooked. I’d have to toss it. You couldn’t do anything with overcooked pasta. I grabbed a slotted spoon and dipped out some of the pasta so I could taste it to make sure it was cooked right. And of course I burned my tongue. I was a little distracted by Ryder.
“Aren’t you going to throw it at the wall? That’s how my father always did it. Then my mother would come in and yell at him for it.”
I shook my head. “No way. Not in my kitchen. Not ever.” I shuddered at the thought.
“Bummer.” He grabbed the spoon from me and fished out a piece, putting it in his mouth. “Tastes good.”
“Well, it should. I’m making it.”
He raised one ginger eyebrow at me. “Cocky much?” he said.
“Just in the kitchen. And with a sewing machine.” Hell, I could barely get my shit together to pay my bills.
“Uh huh,” he said, skeptical. I rolled my eyes.
“Whatever.”
I went back to tending the pasta, getting out the colander. Ryder stood off to the side, but he started whistling. The tune sounded somewhat familiar.
“What song is that?” I asked as I drained the pasta.
“I Touch Myself,” he said.
Now I was the one raising eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Are you trying to suggest anything with that particular song?”
He grinned at me. “Maybe.”
I didn’t know what to do with this piece of information, so I just tossed the pasta into the colander and didn’t say anything. Ryder kept whistling, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot and red, and it wasn’t from the steam of the hot water.
Normally, something like that wouldn’t make me blush, but Ryder did something else to me. I liked it much more than I would admit.
He stopped whistling and I returned the pasta to the pot. We were now ready for the cheese sauce and truffle mixture. The vegetables were roasting in the oven, and I really needed a glass of wine. Or, as I liked to call it, Chef Juice. But I hadn’t gotten any wine out because of Ryder.
There was a knock at the door, and Ryder let Rory in.
“We almost done? I’m starting to get hangry. I didn’t get to eat much today.” She looked tired, but that was what happened when your father’s software company, that you also worked for, went through a PR nightmare. Rory was working mega overtime to smooth everything over and help her dad as much as possible.
“I’m sorry, babe. We’re almost there. I have some snacks if you need something right now.” I’d had a feeling she was going to want something, so I’d gotten out some carrots and hummus.