He glanced at his screen a final time as the next squad took the court, seeing a picture of pastries from Ryleigh captioned ‘for you!’ that simultaneously warmed his heart and turned his stomach.
“Ms. Reyes?” Peter entered the office, harboring no intention of moving from the entryway.
More and more, that room felt like a den filled with snakes, and he did not have the energy nor the patience to fend off whatever flirtation rolled off her tongue this evening.
He had something to say, and by God, he would say it.
“Peter. Back so soon from the cheer competition? I didn’t think men needed an incentive to spend extra time interviewing sweaty teenagers in tight skirts, but you continue to surprise me.” The recess of her dimples intensified. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just going to come right out and say this, and I don’t mean it as any disrespect to you, the paper, or the company as a whole.” Peter planted a hand on his belted hip, gesticulating with his free arm. “I’m wondering if my talent is being underutilized. I’ve worked in this industry going on 15 years. I can assure you, I’m more than capable of handling a beat role, something with substance. All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
“Say no more. I happen to agree.”
Had he heard her right?
“I beg your pardon?”
“You understand I can’t give you a beat. You’re new, and I don’t have enough stories to dump on you from one area without pulling work from other staffers, and well, we can’t have that. However,” she paused, kicking her high heels off beneath the desk, “I do agree that you’re experienced in the field, and you could take on more responsibility and handle it in tandem with your articles.”
His intrigue pulled him from the doorway; he found himself in the familiar acrylic chair in an instant. “It isn’t writing related? Listen, if it’s photography, I don’t know if my old boss briefed you but I don’t exactly have an eye for composition.”
“I can assure you, it has nothing to do with photography, though I appreciate your candor regarding your shortcomings. It’s refreshing.”
Peter was unnerved waiting for more info about the mystery opportunity that may have carried with it the chance to boost his career; meanwhile, Ms. Reyes gave off the vibe that they were on their first date, splaying her toes in the plush rug, palm to her cheek and a dreamy look in her eyes.
“What does this responsibility entail, exactly?”
“We’ve had a new project brewing behind the scenes for a while. You’re just the guy we need to launch it.”
“There better be a good reason you asked me to pack heels for the weekend. You know I don’t get along well with shoes that throw off my center of gravity,” Ryleigh called out as she dropped her stuff in Peter’s entryway before migrating to the living room. Her thoughts froze upon noticing his dressy, unfamiliar outfit. “Did you get new clothes?”
Normally, she might have told him he looked attractive, but she did not want him to think she approved of his body’s current state.
The black button-down and matching slacks fit relatively snug to his weathered frame.
Rather than admiring the pearlescence of his silk tie or the fresh shine on his shoes, Ryleigh found herself struck by the shirt cuffs hugging his rail-like wrists and the belt which drew more attention to his sparse waist. She had a feeling Peter knew what she was thinking; though, it was sometimes difficult to see past his indifference.
He gave a blank stare. “What?” Looking at his outfit, he waved a hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Ryleigh sunk into the couch and propped her feet on the coffee table. “Does this big news you’ve been torturing me with all week have any connection to us getting dressed up like we’re going to a benefit hosted by a bunch of rich yuppies?”
“What class did you have to take to make these profound statements? Survey of obvious connections?”
Peter fell to one knee in front of her and a quiet, irrational surge of paranoia crept into her mind, insisting he may do something as rash as proposing. Of course he isn’t proposing, you idiot. You haven’t even slept with the guy. “The paper is starting up live coverage on their website.”
Locking her arms around his neck, she cocked her head to the side and tried to bite back a smile at the eager gleam alighting his eyes. “And this is exciting because?”
“Because,” he pecked her lips, “you’re looking at their primary anchor.”
She leapt from the couch like a rogue bottle rocket, fueled by a racing heartbeat and a surge of adrenaline. “Are you serious? Peter, that’s insane.”
“I know. Anyone who trusts me with any degree of broadcasting is in serious need of a psychiatric evaluation.” He aimed a finger at her. “Get dressed. I’m taking you out.”
“Maybe we should start celebrating a little early,” Ryleigh said, fingers hooking in his belt loops.
The number of mornings she awoke and nights she fell asleep in his bed with nothing more than a brief kiss had gotten to her. She had bought Peter’s excuse of not being ready, but she had come to believe it was a lie; that it had nothing to do with his willingness to sleep with her and everything to do with the fact that, more and more each day, he resembled one of those bleached roll-away skeletons sitting idly in the corner of every anatomy class.
Lifting his chin, Peter looked away, glancing back at her to mutter, “Get dressed, sweetheart.”
While his employment of sweetheart made her heart balloon, it was not enough to anchor it in place. It fell onto the floor, a grotesque, deafening smack on the linoleum audible only to her ears, a private horror show of romantic dejection.
As Ryleigh knelt to dig her dress out of her bag, a knock sounded at the front door.
“Who is it?” Peter asked.
She spied the visitors through the peephole, wholly unprepared for who lurked on the other end of the one-way glass. “Holy shit, it’s your parents.”
“Yeah, that’s hilarious,” he said, joining Ryleigh in the hall. His head jerked back instantly upon glimpsing in the peephole. “Holy shit.”
She tapped his forearm. “Let them in, moron.”
He opened the door, neck corded and a single eyebrow raised. “Hi. Hello. What the hell are you guys doing here?”
Gideon glared at his son as he brushed past him into the apartment. “That’s no way to greet the people who raised you. No respect.” Upon encountering Ryleigh, he dropped his bag and pulled her in for a hug. “Ryleigh, isn’t it? How have you been, darling?”
“Fine, Mr. Rosenfeld.”
She could hardly manufacture the basic response, too transfixed on Janet, who had not moved from the doormat just outside the apartment.
The silent fear etched into his mother’s face pricked bumps on Ryleigh’s skin. Janet’s watery gaze did not stray from Peter. Their eyes searched each other, communicating a million things without saying anything at all. She took his wrist in her hands, but he yanked it out of her grasp and stared at the ground, face turning ashen.
Janet gripped her purse strap and managed a strained smile. “Ryleigh, dear.” She glanced between the folded dress in Ryleigh’s arms and her son. “Were you two on your way out? I hope we haven’t interrupted anything.”
“As a matter of fact, we were.” Peter shut the door and swept past everyone else into the living room.
A heaviness weighed on Ryleigh’s stomach as she stood in the cramped hallway with his parents. She saw no other solution than the one which would inevitably incite fury from her boyfriend. But he had left her in that hallway and now she had jurisdiction.
“He’s heading up a new project at work. We’re going to dinner to celebrate. Would you guys like to join us?”
Peter sulked behind the group as they were escorted to their table at Cucina, seething at the memory of phoning the restaurant to change their reservation from two to four while crossing his fingers that they would not be able to accommodate them. Much to his dismay, the hostess had
been all too eager to pencil in the change, yammering on about having a positive guest experience as he had cursed under his breath and pressed his forehead to the bathroom wall.
This was supposed to be their night. The night when they would go out for the first time as a couple, where Peter would open doors and pull out chairs for Ryleigh, staring down any man who dared a glance in her direction because she was with him and that truth ignited a fire within his soul.
How was it—with no prior knowledge of the news—that his parents had landed on this weekend for their inaugural visit?
Timing had long been an arch nemesis of their relationship.
In spite of his grand irritation at having their evening ruined, Peter resolved to still be a gentleman and pulled the chair out for Ryleigh once they arrived at their table. His lips grazed her waves in passing; he spoke where only she could hear. “You look gorgeous in that dress.”
His chest soared with pride as he took his seat and noticed the intense blush surfacing through her layers of cosmetics.
No less than five seconds after they had been given menus, his father had to open his mouth and make a mess of things.
“I’ll bet you two have been at it like rabbits, not seeing each other in so long.”
The unexpected comment gave Peter a nasty case of mental whiplash. Heat flushed throughout his body as he tensed in his seat. He wondered why he bothered to bring Ryleigh around his parents when on both of those occasions he had wound up wallowing in embarrassment. Before he seized the rare chance to reprimand his father, Ryleigh spoke up.
“I’m a virgin, Mr. Rosenfeld.”
Peter’s blood ran cold as embarrassment suddenly became a gross underestimation of how he would feel by the end of the night. He shot his girlfriend a pointed look that he hoped said, ‘Why on Earth would you say something like that to my father?’
“Gideon is fine. Just Gideon.”
Covering his mouth, a bemused smile tugged at his lips as Peter drank in his father’s lifted brows and bulging eyes.
“You’ll have to forgive him, Ryleigh. He’s not quite himself since—”
Peter mimed a cutting motion at his neck so his mother would stop talking. Though he loved her with everything he had, he would have no qualms lunging across the table to tackle her had she let any more words slip.
He was a fool for thinking Janet Rosenfeld could be silenced.
“Since what?” Ryleigh goaded.
Take me to the village square and burn me at the stake, why don’t you?
“Peter Zayn, this is a new level of low for you. Who do you turn to if not your girlfriend?” Stone-faced, Janet slowly shook her head. She softened a bit as she addressed Ryleigh, “Gideon had a stroke, just last month. I was sure my son would have shared that with you by now, but clearly I’m mistaken.”
Why was it when you desperately needed the waiter they were nowhere to be found and when you wanted nothing to do with them they were at your table every other minute?
Tongue in cheek, Ryleigh said, “First I’m hearing of it.”
Peter could have gotten up and walked out of the restaurant. They had yet to order drinks; it was not like any financial obligation tethered him to that chair. But Ryleigh was already pissed at him so it was best that he stayed to do some damage control.
He ventured a change in subject. “Mom says you’ve been dabbling in real estate again.”
“Commercial properties, mostly. Not very exciting, but it gives me something to do. Retirement’s for the birds. All of that idle time, it’s maddening. Your mother—”
Peter scraped a hand over his face before weakly pounding his fist against the tabletop. “Do you think that’s a good idea? With your health up in the air?” Squinting, he continued, “And what about mom? Have you considered the fact that maybe it worries her, your going back to work?”
Ryleigh and Janet looked ready to intervene, like reservists at long last being called up. The waiter beat them to it.
“Good evening, my name is Tyler and I’ll be taking care of you all tonight.” He poised a pen over a miniature pad. “Have we decided on drinks?”
“Three glasses of pinot noir, and whatever the lovely young lady would like,” Gideon said. His father was not supposed to be drinking but his mother looked content to keep her opinion under lock and key. Though, if there were talks of a second glass, Peter knew she would step in.
“Make that four glasses.”
“Can I see your ID, miss?”
Peter watched in abject horror as Ryleigh slid out a phony ID from behind her real license and surrendered it to Tyler. He returned the illegitimate document after a half-second glance, gave a curt nod, and retreated to the kitchen.
Leaning into her, Peter produced a menacing whisper in her ear. “We will discuss this later.”
She bit back: “Oh, believe me, that’s not the only thing we’ll be discussing.”
“As I was saying,” Gideon went on as if Peter had never interrupted him, “your mother sort of followed in my footsteps. She started a gardening club in our neighborhood.”
Janet waved a hand. “It’s mostly friends of mine, but we’ve welcomed a few new faces: other retirees, new mothers who are in desperate need of an outlet.” Stress-stricken wives of husbands recovering from strokes. “It’s a nice way to pass the time. But none of that’s important, honey. We’re here to celebrate you. This is your big night.”
“Tell us about this new opportunity, son,” his father encouraged.
Peter, ever the cynic, did not buy the interest. Rising, he said, “It’s funny but, for once, I don’t feel like discussing work.”
He tugged at his collar, neck on fire as he stalked off toward the bathroom.
When Peter returned from the men’s room, he barely said a word the remainder of dinner, leaving Ryleigh to do most of the talking. Even during the car ride home, he was steely and mute, and altogether unapproachable.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress and glanced out the window at the passing illuminated buildings, losing herself in the warm blurs of light.
A breath caught in her chest as she remembered Peter complimenting her appearance. Something about it bothered her, how he constantly referred to her as gorgeous, beautiful, pretty, but never hot, never sexy. Why was that, she wondered. However foolish it may have been, it stirred up some level of insecurity within Ryleigh.
“What’s up with this fake ID business?” Peter finally asked.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
They rolled to a halt amid the weekend traffic. He looked over at her, voice losing its usual power. “I don’t know, I feel like it’s something you should’ve told me about.” Oh, that’s rich. “If you had been at a party and something had happened to you…”
Irritation hardened Ryleigh’s laugh. “Trust me, I haven’t been to a single party. Min-ji begged me to go with her when she had her fake ID made, and I said, ‘Why not? I’ll get one, too,’ because I thought it’d be nice if, when you moved here, we’d be able to go out and do anything we wanted, like a regular couple.”
The silence in the cabin grew with the distance between the cars as the traffic thinned out. Her posture slumped in the passenger seat. Peter’s foul mood had landed its hooks in her. Ryleigh sat there, a quiet, exhausted mess, and chewed on the realization that he had not uttered one syllable about the dinner bombshell.
And why would he have? He seemed quite content keeping it to himself up until that point.
“Are we going to address the fact that your dad had a stroke and you didn’t bother to tell me about it? Or am I supposed to pretend that didn’t happen?”
“Ryleigh, I—”
“I’m your girlfriend, Peter. We are in a relationship, and people who are in relationships don’t keep stuff like that from each other. They don’t.”
Parking across the street from her dorm complex, Peter turned to her. “You’re right.”
She shook her head. “You have to come up
with something better than that.” Her throat tightened, feeling as though someone was strangling her. “Lately, I’ve been wondering if you’re ready for a relationship. If you can’t open up to me, then clearly, you don’t trust me. And I’ve been patient with you on intimacy but I’m starting to get the impression that you just aren’t interested, and the thought of that hurts like hell.”
The hand on his thigh curled into a fist. It curled and uncurled as Peter released a lengthy exhalation. “You’re my first healthy relationship. I’m sorry if I don’t know how to be in one. We have to accept that it’s going to, naturally, be a learning experience for both of us.”
Ryleigh often forgot that, though Peter would soon be 37, they were on pretty comparable ground where their romantic histories were concerned. That knowledge struck her like a lightning bolt, electrifying her with love and gratitude.
Heart racing, she looked Peter dead in the eye. “I want you to spend the night.”
He glanced away for a beat, concentrating on the stationary steering wheel. “What about Min-Ji?”
“It’s a Friday night. She’s out.”
She brought her face close to his, close enough to smell the wine on Peter’s breath. “Nothing we discussed in this car is coming upstairs.” Ryleigh kissed him painfully slow, whispering against his lips, “And so we’re clear, I’m not inviting you up to chat.”
Peter stood against the opposite wall and watched in amusement as Ryleigh hovered a dry erase marker inches from the whiteboard on her door.
Grimacing, she turned to consult him. “What do you think I should write?”
He let out a stilted laugh and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you need to leave your roommate a message? It’s not like we’ll be in there fucking.”
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 6