Rush Me (New York Leopards 1)

He showed me his watch. The craftsmanship and shininess were much more noticeable than the actual numerals

“Ugh. That’s like taxi-taking time.” Last time I’d left Ryan’s at a decent enough hour, especially for a Friday night. Twenty-somethings always packed the subway, so I never felt alone or unsafe. Still, I didn’t particularly want to push my luck.

Then again, I really didn’t want to spend my grocery money on a taxi to Brooklyn. Who did I know in Manhattan whose apartment I could crash at?

“You could just stay here,” Ryan said, a little too casually. I narrowed my eyes at him. He narrowed his back.

Then I ruined it by yawning again.

“Come on.” He moved my legs off of his. “I might even have a spare toothbrush.”

“Why?”

“Why? What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t have a spare toothbrush.” I sleepily pushed to my feet and stumbled after him. Boy, I was tired. Collapsing on the sofa sounded a hell of a lot better than trekking across town.

“Here.” Ryan handed me a toothbrush still in its casing. “I have a whole bin of them.”

I squinted at the brush, and then slowly unwrapped it. “Is it so your one-night stands can be hygienic?”

“What? No! It’s so I don’t have to buy cleaning supplies! I also have extra toothpaste and dish soap and packs of dental floss! You have a one-track mind. Here’s the toothpaste.”

“Thanks.”

Ryan disappeared while I got ready for bed. When he came back, he had a jersey. “Clean, I promise. So are the sheets.” He led me to a guest room. I hadn’t realized New York apartments could fit guest rooms, but this was spacious and well lit, the bed bigger than mine, and the quilt and pillows like something out of a hotel. “Do you need anything else?” Ryan asked. “Water? Anything to read?”

I shook my head, taking the red and black jersey from his hand. “I’m good. Thanks.” I hesitated. Part of me wanted him to lean forward, just the smallest distance, and kiss me.

But I felt like Ryan wanted all or nothing. Especially when I was here, in his apartment, staying the night. How could I start anything if I wasn’t sure I could finish it?

He lingered in the doorway, his eyes darker than usual, his smile a touch softer. “Good night, Rachael.”

Neither of us moved, and my heart sped up. Maybe I could do this. I liked him. I wanted him.

And I was scared out of my mind.

His hand lightly brushed my cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He hesitated one more moment, and when I said nothing, he retreated.

I closed the door and leaned against it. Damn. What was wrong with me? Why had I tensed up? I stepped out of my dress and pulled his jersey on over my tights. Maybe I should go knock on his door and walk in and...I couldn’t think past that. Then what was I going to do? Excuse myself when my walls slammed up and I freaked out, and come back to the guest room?

Disappointed in myself, I burrowed under the thick comforter. The jersey smelled of soft detergent and a slight wisp of cedar, and I thought of its owner as I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

When I woke up, I smelled cinnamon.

After I slipping my bra on under Ryan’s jersey, I stepped into the living room. Maybe I should have thought about my crazy bedhead too, because when I entered, Ryan froze and stared at me.

I swallowed. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his skin gleamed gold even late in September. For a stretched moment, I stared at his abs, and then my gaze dipped a little lower. Cheeks burning, I wrenched my eyes up, expecting to see a smirk curving those perfect lips. Instead, they had parted slightly, and he studied me with an odd light.

Self-consciousness descended quickly. I was wrapped in his overlarge shirt, fresh out of bed, and somewhat surprised to find that I had actually slept over at Ryan’s. Awareness cracked between us as our gazes touched and parted.

Good thing I’d thrown my bra on.

To cover my confusion, I gracelessly dropped onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. I stared at the thick slices of leftover challah drenched in cinnamon-flecked egg batter and frying away on the stovetop. “Mornin’. You know how to make French toast?”

He finally blinked and pulled himself together. “I’m not totally incompetent. And I do live by myself, you know. What do you think I eat?”