Exposed (VIP 4)

“You asshole,” I grind out, lurching up and stalking forward. “I know we’ve had our moments, but I never thought you’d sink this low.”

“Hey,” he cuts in with a shocked voice. “Hold on there—”

“No, you hold on.” I poke his chest. “This isn’t funny.”

His mouth falls open. “Wait a minute, you think I’m making a joke here?”

The outrage in his voice gives me pause. “What else am I supposed to think? You overhear me saying I’m…” God, I’m not going to repeat myself. I’m humiliated enough that he heard it the first time. I swallow convulsively, horrified that I might actually cry. “And now you’re, what, offering yourself up for the job? And I’m supposed to take that seriously?”

Rye sets his hands low on his hips and cocks his head like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Bren, this isn’t a joke. I’m completely serious here.”

My butt hits the curved arm of the couch, all the blood in my head rushing to my toes. He can’t be serious. Yes, there had always been a buzz of attraction between us, but we’d both knew it was unwelcome and unwanted. Rye would never fold like this, not after all this time.

But he reads me well and gives a short nod of confirmation. “I’m not trying to yank your chain or belittle you. What I’m offering is real.”

I touch my forehead and find it clammy. In truth, I’m reeling. “I need a drink.”

Turning my back on him, I march to the kitchen, wobbling on my heels. I never wobble. I kick my shoes off before pouring myself a glass of water from the fridge and then take several large gulps.

Rye walks up and leans his forearms on the counter. His expression is completely calm, but his thumb betrays him and taps an agitated rhythm on the marble. He clearly hasn’t shaved in a while, and his stubble has moved into beard territory. Over the years, Rye has worn a beard only once—one strange summer when all the guys decided to rock the lumberjack look. That quickly ended when people started sending them beard oil and toy axes.

Rye doesn’t look bad, however. Just the opposite; it’s hot, different. It changes his face enough that it’s as if I’m talking to a new version of Rye. And it throws me off even more.

He bites the inside of his cheek, creating a little dimple, before taking a deep breath and speaking. “Look, I realize this is uncomfortable as fuck. But I’m going to lay my cards on the table. When I first overheard you mention sex, yeah, I started eavesdropping because, yes, I can be an immature shit at times.” His smile is wry, and he squeezes the back of his neck. “But then I really listened to what you were saying and… Hell, Bren, I want that too. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m tired of moving from partner to partner. I’m tired of feeling…” A deep flush turns his face red. “Alone.”

I’m so shocked, a tiny squeak escapes my lips. I’m waiting for him to start laughing, to say he’s kidding, but Rye returns my stare without falter. Oh, he’s still blushing, his thumb twitches—a telltale nervous tic akin to me messing with my ponytail—but he is not laughing.

It takes me a good minute of intense silence to fully process that Rye has admitted he’s lonely. He’s never shown me any hint of personal weakness. I haven’t either. To expose our underbellies is to open ourselves to taunts. It’s just how we are with each other. But now Rye has gone and changed the game. I don’t know what to do.

After taking another steadying sip of water, I set the glass down and try to think. “Okay, so you’re not messing around with me, and you understand how I feel, but, Rye, to solve the problem by suggesting the two of us…” I can’t even finish the sentence without feeling both too hot and too cold. “It’s insanity. A total disaster waiting to happen.”

“Disaster,” Rye mutters under his breath.

“Come on,” I insist, feeling slightly frantic. “We’re like…like orange juice and toothpaste. Mix us together and we’re bound to walk away with a bad taste in our mouths.”

He ducks his head, and his fists curl on the counter, making the muscles along his arms bunch. All those lovely muscles working under smooth tattooed skin. At this point in my life, I’ve met hundreds of men, and none of them have arms as perfectly sculpted as Rye’s. Why him? Why does his body catch my eye and hold it like no other?

Oblivious to my gawking, he raises his head and gives me a look of pure, male stubbornness. “Yeah, okay, it could very well be a disaster.”

“I said it would be. Not could be.” Because it definitely would. Why are we still talking about this? The more we talk, the harder it is to keep certain images at bay. Images I’ve pushed to the haunted corners of my mind for a decade now. A picture of Rye’s naked back rippling with smooth, tight skin and bunching muscles as he works over my body, flashes in my mind, and I blow out a breath. No.