“You’re so violent for someone so small.”
I add a few pieces of iron from the chest to my inventory. They’ll help with my upgraded sword. “I told you. I’m not small. I'm average. You’re too tall. It’s not normal.”
Ryland approaches the chest when I walk away to see what spoils of war I’ve left him — not much. “Small. Average. Either way I'm scared of you.”
I laugh at him and then continue on deeper into the cave we picked to explore for treasures. Aspen never told me you kill bad guys in Dragons Reborn. She talked about big castles and dragons. Simone’s no better, she’s under the delusion she's a fashion designer in the game. No one mentioned swords and treasure chests.
Forty minutes ago when we sat down to play, Ryland created a new character for me and outfitted it with armor and a sword. It was all I needed. We started by killing small rats at the base of a cave, but I’ve quickly progressed to bigger objectives. I have Aspen to build me a castle and Simone to create my character a better wardrobe. I'll take care of our assassin needs.
The Dragons Reborn graphics are simple in nature — even a little pixelated. I haven’t played many video games in my lifetime, but graphics have advanced from the types of images on the screen now. Yet, somehow it works.
“Don’t you think we should break and give you time to fix your armor?” Ryland asks.
“No time. Let’s do one more chest and then count our loot.” I lead our characters through a small opening in the cave. The good finds are always down a small hole. "How do I make my character eat again?” I’ll at least feed the virtual me before I put her back in harm’s way.
Ryland closes the small distance between us on the couch and leans over to show me which buttons I need to pull food from my inventory. His body presses against my side and I freeze from the closeness. I’m hyper aware of every movement he makes. With each button pressed, his elbow pushes against my exposed skin.
“Thanks.” Excited to continue with our quest, I turn my head to him expecting empty space between us, but there isn’t.
Ryland’s face is mere inches from me. Even sitting he’s taller, so my eyes meet his chin. But when I raise them, he stares down at me with fascination.
“Marissa,” he smooths the sounds of my name out like honey.
I struggle to think of a witty comeback, but Ryland lowers his head in one swoop and captures my lips in his. It’s gentle and exploring until he opens his mouth and my lips follow, allowing his tongue access. My hands reach up to wrap around his neck, the controller falling to the floor. A heart beats erratically as our kiss turns more forceful. Is it his or mine? Ryland shuffles closer and closer until I’m thrown off balance and forced to lean back on the couch with an arm to brace myself on a cushion.
His body follows me until he rips his lips from mine, both of us panting heavily. “Fuck.” He stares at me wide-eyed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
His rejection bites and I tense, my good feeling from seconds before draining away. “It’s okay. It was nothing.” I turn back to the television and blindly grab for my controller to try and bring my breathing under control. Who kisses a woman and then apologizes? Well, screw him. If the kiss meant nothing to him, it meant double nothing to me.
“We should get back to the next chest, right?” Ryland asks while repositioning himself on the leather couch.
A small part of me screams to tell him yes. To go back to the stupid game and pretend my heart isn’t cracking a little more every moment I sit here. Dragons Reborn has lost the excitement it held a few moments ago.
I need to get out of here and back to the safety of my apartment. “Um, it’s late,” I lie. It’s ten to nine on a Friday night. “I should head home.”
“Right.”
My crutches lay on the floor in front of the couch. I grab them and walk to the door on mushy, uneasy legs. Crutches make it easy to pretend my unsteadiness is their fault rather than the lingering feelings from Ryland’s lips on mine.
“I’ll walk you there.” Ryland jumps from the couch and walks twice as fast to the door holding it open for me. His free hand holds my purse. He looks ridiculous with the bulging tan leather bag swinging in front of him, but I can’t even force myself to smile at the sight.
I stop outside his entryway and take my purse. He leans on the door casing with a bent arm. His body leans over me highlighting those short comments he made earlier.
“Marissa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Oh my God. Shut up, Ryland. It was a good kiss. I liked the kiss. Stop apologizing.” I’d swing my purse at him, but I don't have enough arm control with the crutches. He’s safe for now.
His bottom lip drops as he stares at me from his higher position, and I give him my best pissed off look. Maybe I’ll hit him with my crutch. It’d make a bigger impact than a soft purse.
“So I didn’t totally cross the line?”
I roll my eyes at him and throw my head back so I won’t commit assault. He’ll need his legs to run after soccer balls soon. When I lower my head again, he’s still gaping at me in disbelief. Does the man not see the reaction he causes in me? Ryland isn’t that clueless. Girls must throw themselves at him all the time.
“Well then. Maybe we should do it again.” It’s definitely not a question, but rather a statement as his lips curl up in a half-smirk.
“What? Kiss? Right now?” Great, now I sound like the stupid one.
He steps back from me and stands in the middle of the hallway. “Yeah, but not now. Later.”
He chuckles at my puzzled expression, his eyes sparkling in the hallway lights and turns toward his own door.
“Later?” I ask the empty hallway. What the hell does later mean? Oh right. We’re going to kiss again later. What have I gotten myself into now?
CHAPTER EIGHT
555-7845: What are you doing?
The text, from a number not already in my phone and an area code I’ve never heard of, flashes on my phone screen until I’m curious enough to open it. 555 Where is that, Oz? I almost don’t respond, but my Good Samaritan wins out in the end. It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m stuck in my teeny tiny apartment with nothing to do but watch television. Even worse, reality television.
Anyway, in the end I text back because there’s a chance it’s a random cutie… I mean the Good Samaritan thing.
Me: Who is this?
555-7845: Your favorite sexy landlord.
Ryland. No one at my last complex could be considered sexy. A few hundred questions come to mind. Where is he? Why is he texting me? How did he get my number? When did Mr. Runs Ten Miles Every Morning decide he’s too lazy to walk across the hall? They’re important questions, which I'll ask eventually, but I can’t miss my chance to screw with him a smidge first. The man’s a tad uptight at times. Humor will do him good.
Me: Rico? When did you get a new number?
I switch the contact over to Ryland’s name while I wait for his reply. It takes considerable effort to not list him as Rhino, but I refrain over concerns he wouldn’t find it as funny as me.
Ryland: Who the hell is Rico?
Me: This isn’t Rico?
Ryland: Where can I find this Rico? He and I need to chat.
Me: Oh you know Rico. He likes to pop up on occasion.
Ryland: Is he from your old building?
The man cannot pick up on a joke. For fear he’ll burst over here demanding I take him to Rico, I move on since he won’t play along. But not without a heavy sigh to the empty room.
Me: What do you want, Ryland?
The texts volleyed back and forth between us with mere seconds in between each. I visualize him sitting on his couch waiting for me to respond each time. I don’t feel so crazy when Ryland’s as crazy as I am.
Ryland: HA! I knew Rico didn’t exist.
All righty then. I make a mental note to remember Ryland does not understand the fun to be had in fake texting.
Me: Rico would never get
a new phone and not tell me in advance. How did you get my number, Ryland?
Ryland: Wow you’re testy for a woman who texted me. Do you have cabin fever?
Me who texted him? Is the man on drugs? Does he say this shit to rattle me? I can’t figure him out… or why I can’t stop smiling at the silly things he does. I shake my head at him even though he can’t see. My phone buzzes with another text before I respond.
Ryland: I’m wondering if my fair tenant has plans today and if she’d like to come with me to procure lunch?
I’m always interested in lunch.
Me: What kind of lunch?
Ryland: Something tasty.
This whole back and forth is ridiculous. I’d walk over to his place, but I’m the injured one in this situation. The least he could do is come to me.
Me: Would you just come over so we can talk in person?
Ryland: No can do, good buddy. Grant’s here and you don’t want his kind classing down the place. Trust me.
What, in the super-rich and kind of cute guy-next-door way? Yeah, I certainly don’t want Grant over here ruining my view of the wall.
After a week on the crutches, I’m off the pain meds and get around well on my own… for the most part. The few times I’ve hit a crutch in a rogue doorway or loose chair haven't been all my fault.
This time one week ago, I considered Ryland a major douche nozzle. A big jerk who came around to enforce an outlandish set of arbitrary rules he created for the sole purpose of making my life miserable. Look at how far we’ve come in seven simple days.
I know Ryland’s door is unlocked, as is my own, but since Grant’s over, I go for polite and knock. Less than thirty seconds pass before the condo door opens, a smiling shaggy haired Grant waiting for me on the other side. He’s shorter than Ryland, but still taller than my average height, which means he too looks down at me.
Grant does some weird version of a secret handshake with me, but I fumble it as he goes through each step. By the time the complicated move is done I’m left laughing at his antics.
“We’ll get you there one day. What’s up, Kitten?” Grant's faded blue jeans and multi-striped sweater soften his face full of a few days of stubble. While Ryland is hard and chiseled, Grant reminds me of the kid who decided he’d never grow up. It’s a chore to not laugh the entire time when he’s around.
“Don’t call her kitten!” Ryland yells from the living room couch turning around as he does.
Grant’s eyes widen at Ryland’s command.
“No, it’s okay. Grant’s allowed.” I pat Grant on the shoulder and walk farther into the condo.
It’s the same apartment I practically ran out of last night. The couch where the nonexistent kiss happened hasn’t burst into flames overnight. Everything looks the same, but I don’t feel the same standing here. The room lets off a different current today. An electric sizzle.
Ryland stands and switches off their current game of Dragons Reborn. “Why is he allowed?”
I turn back to Grant with the sweetest succulent smile I have in my depository. “Because I like Grant.”
Ryland’s mouth falls open in accusation. I’ve met Grant many times at Cosmo’s. Is Ryland’s reaction from Grant and my apparent friendship or because I gave him the honor of calling me kitten?
“Ryland told me about you and him last night. I have to say Marissa I didn’t see it in you,” Grant says a few feet behind me.
Ryland told his friend about our kiss that wasn’t a kiss? What the hell happened to the don’t kiss and tell rule? It hasn’t been twenty-four hours.
Rather than beg forgiveness or at the least pretend to be properly upset over his betrayal, Ryland’s lips spread into the widest smile I’ve ever seen. If it gets any bigger, I worry he might suffer medical complications. I can’t believe the giant douche nozzle told Grant what happened between us and now doesn’t feel any remorse about it. I take back all the good things I thought about him.
“Yes, I told Grant you’re a killer with the sword, but he doesn’t believe me and wants to see it for himself.”
My shoulders slump and I blow out a slow relieved breath at his words. Oh right. Dragons Reborn, the other thing we did last night. Not the kiss. Oops. I’m flushed, my cheeks hot to the touch when I bring a hand up to check. I hope it’s from anger and not embarrassment.
“Right… the fighting.” I search for anything else to keep the conversation moving in this new direction. “I would’ve been better, but Ryland didn’t give me a very good sword.”
Grant feigns a proper amount of outrage over the bit of information I share. “That’s horrible, Marissa. How can you be expected to kill zombies, ogres, and skeleton warriors without the proper equipment?” He guides me to the couch where a third controller’s been plugged into the game box. “Luckily for you, I do believe I have an extra enchanted sword in one of my rooms. If you come to my section of the castle, I’ll gladly let you use it.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Grant. Thank you,” I answer with my best Southern Belle impersonation. This is a guy who understands how to play along.
“I’ll take care of you, Kitten,” Grant replies grabbing a hand to keep our charade at full steam.
Ryland scoffs on his side of the couch. “Oh get off it, mate.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but speak to Grant. “Do you know where to buy a bike? A parking spot recently opened up.” Let’s see what Ryland does when he comes home to find a bike in one of his precious parking spaces.
“Like a pedal bike?” Ryland narrows his eyes right back at me. The man caught on quicker than I expected. Game on.
Grant, oblivious to the turn of our conversation, tries to help. “Well I’m not sure you could get around with your foot still wrapped, but I might know of a guy if you need one after you’re off the crutches.”
“She’s not getting a bike, Grant. Marissa doesn’t get a parking space. Rule number five.”
“Ah the rules.” Grant laughs. “You can’t use that space anyway. It's mine.”
“What?”
“I need a space to park when I visit. The meters are outrageously priced. I actually came up with that rule for Ryland.”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling and ask for help in dealing with these two. “Do you know the crap he makes a person agree to before they can live next door?”
Grant laughs again and Ryland slyly goes back to the game, turning it on and waiting in quiet while the characters load. “Yeah. Aren’t they hilarious?”
I consider whacking him with my controller but I do in general enjoy Grant’s company, and I don’t want to end up banned from Cosmo’s for Brunch. Leaning back into the couch, I bite my tongue and wait for the game to start. I’m ready to claim my enchanted sword.
**
Grant tosses his grease smeared paper plate to Ryland as he walks past us on the couch. With his feet stretched out in front of him, he makes an exaggerated yawn moan type sound and stands.
“Thanks for the food, Ry, but now I have someplace I need to be,” Grant says as he steps over my feet and stops. “Do you still want the name of my bike guy, Marissa?"
“Yes, you never know when I’ll need it. I’ll store it in the hallway.”
I’m not facing Ryland as I flippantly say the words, but I’m pretty sure the audible grinding noise comes from his teeth.
Grant responds with a few chuckles. “What do you need a bike for anyway? How do you get to work?”
The few times I’ve been around Grant, he’s always been nice, but from time to time I get the impression his family money situation leaves him a little unaware of how the rest of us live. This being one of those times. How does he think I get to work if I can't park where I live? Am I hiding a driver in the closet?
“I sold my car since there’s no parking at my new place.” Grant flinches, but I didn’t aim to make him feel bad so I quickly move on. “Now that I’m in the city I don’t really need a car. My job’s close. I walk it in under thirty.”
<
br /> “Walk?” Grant’s horrified expression confirms my earlier suspicions of his disconnect with the average person’s reality. Not that he doesn’t work hard for his family company. I’ve heard him and Finn talk business a time or two, but I’m pretty sure Grant never did the mandatory stint in fast food during his teenage years.
“I used to. Since I hurt my ankle I’ve been taking a cab.”
“That must get expensive.” Grant rubs at the short stubble on his chin with a single finger. How is it Grant’s stubble makes him look young, but Ryland’s adds an extra layer of sexy?
Now it’s my turn to flinch as his words hit home. The cabs have been eating into my budget, but there isn’t a ton to be done about it. Aspen offered to have Jake, Finn’s… well something, I’m not sure what. Driver? Body guard? Assistant? Whatever he is. She offered to have him drive me to work in the morning, but I'm required at the office an hour earlier than her. It would be a logistical nightmare.
“You let this go on, Ry?” Grant questions.
Ryland takes a relaxed pose leaned against the back of his island counter, but his eyes narrow to inspect me. “Honestly, I didn’t know it was going on,” he answers.
“Didn’t know it was going on? Good God, man, didn’t you ask how your injured tenant got around?”
“Well…”
“Ryland lets me use his elevator and he bought me a coffee table to prop my foot up on.” I rush in to defend Ryland’s honor. Turning around to measure up both boys.
Even though they stand half a room apart, both are stiff as they stare at one another. Ryland still wears an easygoing pose, but his tight jaw and narrow eyes flick between Grant and me as if he’s deep in thought. Grant stands with his feet apart, a hand on his hip in a masculine fashion while his other moves around when he talks.
“Dude, you’re stupid to mess this up. Don’t be a dumb fuck and let her get away.”
“Me?” I ask from the couch my body tension now matching theirs.
My presence in the room all but forgotten, Grant doesn’t acknowledge my question but continues to berate Ryland for his lack of chivalry.
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