Scott raises his hand and steps forward. “His daughter’s sick today. He had to wait for the babysitter, but then he’ll be here."
Charles nods. “All right well everyone else divide up into groups. Three of you on cleaning.” Three other marketing assistants raise their hands jumping on the chance of getting out of here semi-clean. “Okay, the rest of you grab a paint bucket, brush, and get started. Marissa… you’re on supervision duty.”
I walk over to the area Charles points in to our left. Two grey metal folding chairs rest against the cinder block wall. In the second chair sits a cute strawberry blonde haired woman in a blue polo with the youth center logo embroidered in the left corner.
“Hey, I’m Marissa.” I reach out and shake her hand.
“Clare. I’m the center director.”
Clare can’t be older than thirty max — she’s quite young to be in charge of the place — although my best friend’s dating a computer game mogul. I suppose we can’t judge based on looks alone. I lean my crutch against the wall and settle in for a day of conversation with Clare. “What do you do for the center?”
“Everything.” She laughs. “We’re run by the city and always short staffed. I have a few volunteers, but admin wise it’s mine.” She holds her hands out wide to encompass the room. “I really appreciate your office coming in to help out this year. I offered to work with you, but your boss told me I’m not allowed to move from this spot.”
Charles joined the group with Scott, those assigned to paint the entire gym a nice bright white. He’s a tad bit scary when angry, but a pretty great boss with a big heart.
“That’s Charles for you. On Monday he’s planned a company carnival to celebrate the week of service. It’s a good place to work.” The theme for last year’s employee day included a picnic complete with horseback riding lessons. I’m interested in how he plans to get a carnival to the third floor, but he’s mum on the details.
Our conversation continues as we talk about everything from favorite books to who’s dating who in Hollywood. Clare’s friendly and talkative, helping the first three hours of the day fly by. A giant party sub is delivered, and as people start to break for lunch, Scott walks over with a mesh bag full of partially deflated soccer balls.
“I found these in the cupboard do you want us to inflate them before we go?” he asks.
Clare sticks a finger in her mouth chewing on the nail in decision. “No, it’s okay. We lost the soccer volunteer so we haven’t used them in months. They take up less space flat."
Clare fidgets in place obviously troubled by the answer. Scott shrugs and carries the balls back to the large wooden cabinet in the opposite corner of the room as an idea brews in my head. I happen to know a guy who has soccer knowledge, and he’s always complaining about being bored. It sounds like a win-win situation to me. I rub my hands together with my evil idea to get Ryland out of the house and plot how I’ll ask as Clare offers to pick us both up a slice of sub.
When she returns I’m armed and ready with a subtle argument to help Ryland Bates become the center’s newest volunteer. A position he may not know he wants, but one he desperately needs.
“I have a friend who could get your soccer program off the ground again, if you’re interested?” I ask as casually as possible, which isn't much.
Clare hands me a plate with a turkey sub centered and plain potato chips creating a moat around it. Her eyes tighten and become doubtful. “Who?”
“Well…” Now it gets tricky. I probably shouldn’t promise Ryland’s services until I talk to him. There’s a small chance he’ll say no, but at the same time Clare might have concerns about his past. “He used to play soccer in England, but he's in San Francisco for a while. Ryland Bates. He’s a forward.” I rush to get it out in as few sentences as possible.
I ignore the fact he might leave any day. Maybe the chance to help out inner city kids will get him to stick around longer… not that I’m doing this for myself or anything. Definitely not.
Clare’s nail goes back in her mouth. “Hmm. I’ve never heard of him, but the most I know about soccer revolves around the one married to Posh Spice. The center needs all the support we can get. If he’s willing, I’d be glad for the help.” She brushes off her hand on a leg of her pant. “I’ll get you a business card. Have him call me if he decides he’d like to volunteer. There’s background checks and other paperwork he'd need to fill out.”
I finish my mini sub as quickly as possible and grab my phone to text Ryland the good news. Hopefully he’ll see it the same way.
Me: Hey what are you doing?
Ryland: Playing DR with Finn and Trey at the office.
Me: Oh, well then I won’t bother you, but we need to talk tonight.
It’s impossible to sit still in my chair and I wiggle around, tired from doing nothing all morning.
Ryland: It’s just a game, Kitten. I can stop playing. Do you want me to call you?
“Good news?” Clare asks next to me.
“What? Um… nothing.” I work to wipe the stupid grin off my face, but it won’t leave. I’m finding way too much pleasure from Ryland’s offer to stop playing a game and call me.
Me: No keep playing. I’ll tell you after work.
Me: And don’t call me kitten.
I shake my head at my last text and hit send as I do, still annoyed at the smile I can’t force away. The stupid kitten nickname might be growing on me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Soft music greets me as I step off Ryland’s elevator later in the day. Classical if I had to guess, but I’ve never been into the finer arts and couldn’t tell you who. Someone long dead probably.
Halfway down his short hallway, the smell of cooking meat and sauce mixes in with the notes from a piano solo from speakers positioned throughout the condo.
“Beethoven?” I give it my best guess.
He stands with his back turned in his kitchen. “No, Bach,” he answers and I shrug. I know a limited number of dead composers.
I toss my purse on the side table I’ve claimed as mine over the last few days and grab my mail. Ryland’s started picking it up for me since it saves me a trip to the lobby. Don’t give me any crap. It’s no big deal. Just Ryland’s way to make life easier on me. It’s not like I’ve grown to enjoy the almost couple-ish routine we’ve found ourselves in the past few days. Not at all.
This week’s been calm. I haven’t walked in on any more rowing, but on Tuesday I caught Ryland painting a bowl of fruit. It wasn’t what he painted, but how. The man doesn't do anything half way. I found him decked out in full painter’s gear including the white coat and little tray for mixing colors. He sat studying his fruit subjects with one hand on his chin, rubbing his stubble while his other held up his little painter’s pallet, more than one color already mixed together.
I pestered him for a good ten minutes before he finally let me have a glance at his canvas and…well… he’s better at soccer. At least I hope so, considering what they pay him.
“Are you cooking?” It’s a legitimate question even with the obvious smells. Ryland hasn’t done more than heat up leftovers. On the smooth surface of his stove a metal pot sits with a wooden spoon handle poking over the top. It circles around as if Ryland only finished stirring the contents moments ago.
He turns from the stove and I suck in a breath at the sight before me. “Yeah, I thought we’d celebrate your big news.”
If I found the man hot in his normal gym shorts and white t-shirts, he’s moved the bar up into smoking hot material with his choice today. His lower body’s hidden by the tall kitchen island, but his upper half is covered by a long sleeve white dress shirt. He's rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, the muscles of his lower arms on full display. Sitting on my stool next to his counter, I hold my hand back from reaching out to run a finger down the large vein tracking across the expanse of his arm. Why are veins hot on guys? I can’t be the only woman who thinks this, am I? A few pieces of chest hair peek through the
opening created from his open top button. Throw in the clean shaven chin, and I could puddle on the floor at any moment. Thank God he never developed a strong British accent while in England or I’d be done for.
“I even dressed for the special occasion.” He tugs on his shirt collar until I nod in acknowledgment. Like any woman with a beating heart could have walked in the room and not noticed the upgraded attire.
Hot as Ryland is, I refuse to become one of those simpering women who drools over a man. With effort I avert my eyes and take on an unaffected demeanor. “You don’t know what the good news is yet. Maybe I met a very rich man and am moving out to a huge mansion on the water."
He laughs. “You’ve already met a very rich man and it doesn’t seem to matter. Plus, you wouldn’t consider moving away good news.”
My lips purse together, not exactly the response I expected. He still sucks at this banter thing. “Um… a mansion with servants. That’d be good news."
“It’s not your lifestyle. You’d hate the prim and proper life.”
I overdramatically roll my eyes, a move I’ve learned from Aspen over the years. “Trust me, I’d find a way to survive. The Mediterranean cruise he's promised me would help.”
“Oh so now you’re cruising too?” He turns back to the black pot on the stove stirring the hidden contents a few times.
“Of course.”
He laughs again, unable to let me have my dream. “You aren’t moving, Marissa. In fact, I think you’ve grown to like me." He quickly turns, winks, and then returns to his pot.
Holy shit. We haven’t had any hotter than hell kisses all week. There’s no way he’s figured out I think he’s the prettiest thing to walk the streets of San Francisco. Is there? Tack on his personality, which meshes with mine so well, and I’m completely screwed. If Ryland discovered my true feelings, it’d mess up the good thing we’ve got going on here. It’s bad enough Aspen suspects.
“Do you need any help?” I offer my assistance in cooking and try to get off our current topic of conversation.
He leans to the side of the stove, his back pressed against the counter. “Not from you. Now hurry up with this exciting news so we can eat your celebratory meal.” He motions me on with the wooden spoon, a few drops of water falling to the floor.
“It’s actually for you. We volunteered at the youth center today, you know. Well I met this girl there, Clare. She runs the place. She’s friendly. We talked for hours and she's kind of spunky like me, instant connection.”
Ryland’s face falls and he interrupts my ramble. “Marissa, are you trying to set me up with your new friend?”
“What? No.” My expression surely matches my horrified tone and I hurry to finish. “The center is short staffed and they lost the soccer volunteer." I pause and wait for him to make the connection.
He doesn’t. “Yeah and…” He waves me on with his spoon again.
“And… you could be their new coach. It’d be great.” I stretch my smile further so he’ll see what an awesome opportunity this is. It doesn’t appear he’ll figure it out on his own.
Rather than jump up and down in excitement like I would if I wasn’t sporting a twisted ankle, he puts his back to me and continues to stir whatever’s in the pot. “I don't think that’s such a great idea.”
“Ryland, it’s a fantastic idea. You love soccer. Now you could share that love with kids.”
“I’m not role model material, Marissa.” He lifts a shoulder but doesn’t turn around.
How can such a self-assured guy have such crappy self-confidence in other areas of his life?
“You’re teaching them soccer not taking them to the bar, Ryland.” I sigh in his direction as my first bout of unease settles in my stomach. I hope he'll let me talk him into this.
“I’m not sure,” he says finally turning from the stove. “Kids are kind of scary.”
I scoff at him. “That’s the reason why you’re worried?”
“Teenagers are the worst. All the back talk.” He shakes his head in worry.
“I’ll go with you and be there the whole time. If any back talk happens, I’ll hip check them.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, either because of my new soccer knowledge or skepticism I’d be able to take anyone out. Such little faith in my wicked skills.
“Ryland, they already inflated the balls.” I’ll admit I resort to a whine in the end, but if it works I’ll take it.
It’s his turn to roll his eyes, but he finally agrees on the stipulation I go with him. We shake on it and I send a short text to Clare letting her know we’ll be there Saturday. I may have already given her the go ahead to start a sign up with the kids who visited the center this afternoon. Worst case scenario if Ryland hadn’t agreed right away, I had a back-up plan to get him on board. Peer pressure from Grant.
A timer beeps from the side of the refrigerator and Ryland leans over to shut it off. “Okay, noodles are finished. Another ten minutes or so and we’ll eat.” He moves the pan to the other side of the stove and turns down the burner.
“You’ll like Clare and she’ll let you meet as much as you want with the kids. She said the whole program is yours.” I try to sweeten the idea of volunteering with the scary teenagers.
Back at his place on the counter, he grins. “Yes, I suppose. As long as you weren’t planning to try and set me up with her.”
“No. Trust me I’d never set you up on a blind date.” And not only because the idea of Ryland dating someone is my worst nightmare. "Blind dates are horrible. I’d never inflict that pain on anyone else.”
“Speaking from experience, huh?”
“Unfortunately, yes and I can’t tell my friends because they think I’m too picky.”
“Well are you?” he questions.
“Of course not. The last one had nothing to do with me. He was terrible.” I reposition my seat on the stool and try not to fidget with the possible lie. It’s probably a lie.
Mr. Know-it-all-who-dates-super-models laughs. “What was wrong with him?”
I stare up at his white ceiling deciding where I want to start listing James’ faults. There were so many it’s hard to pick the biggest one to make the most impact and prove it isn’t me. “He wouldn’t let me dump my M&Ms in the popcorn. I had to eat them separate.”
Ryland’s face scrunches up in disgust at my date’s behavior. “Why would you do that?” Okay, or maybe it’s revulsion at my M&M preferences.
“It’s sweet and salty.” Why am I always forced to explain this to people?
“So you won’t see this guy again because he wouldn’t let you mutilate his popcorn?”
My fingers tap on the countertop. “Well, when you put it that way…”
“You mean sanely?” His left eyebrow pops up with the question.
“There were other issues too!” I rush to support myself.
“Stop.” Ryland puts a hand up. “Before you list this poor man’s faults, let me ask. What were his odds of getting laid pre and post popcorn incident?”
I roll my eyes, but pretend to give it thought even though James never stood a chance on the first date. “Well, pre I’d say fifty-fifty.”
“So twenty-eighty then,” he responds.
“Huh? I said fifty-fifty.”
“Yes, but girls always lie. What about after the popcorn incident?”
That’s an easy answer. “Zero after.”
He taps his fingers on the counter mimicking my earlier movement deep in thought. “Really? Zero? Because you couldn’t defile the sanctity of popcorn?”
I nod my head. “Yes, it’s a deal breaker.”
“Obviously,” he deadpans.
“Plus he picked a bad movie. He led me to believe we’d watch the new movie Love Notes, but instead he’d already bought tickets to Killers on the Loose.”
“Killers on the Loose? I’ve wanted to see that.”
My eyes roll to the ceiling. “Men.”
“Dating is like playing video games.” He
grins and carries on in a way that makes me believe he’s put real thought into this analogy. "Every relationship has their battle tactic, the way a couple moves forward. Take you for example—”
“Me?”
“You’re the type of girl who requires a grind offensive.”
“Really, Ryland?” I shake my head at his implication someone needs to grind on me like a dog to a favorite pillow.
He chuckles. “A grind offensive requires a lot of repetitive action to advance forward. Similar to how you have to strike a dragon multiple times before you get the chest at the end of the cave tunnel.”
“Yeah, I’m still not picking up what you’re laying down.” He didn't compare me to a dragon did he?
“If a guy wanted to win you over, he’d have to work at it. Show you he’s not what everyone expects of him and make you enjoy spending time with him. Those other guys gave up too easily. The perfect one will stick it out and refuse to give up until you see.”
A timer — on the stove this time — goes off and Ryland turns back to his task while I contemplate what he’s said. I hate to admit there's truth to his assessment of me, but there is. I’ve never dated a guy because he showed up. Even Cody worked his butt off at the start of our relationship. He carried my bag for me around campus, helped me study, took me out to dinners. He tried. Kind of like the guy across from me right now. The one who offered me use of his elevator, taught me his favorite video game, takes me to work, and is currently cooking me dinner.
“Okay, it’s time to eat.” Lost in my own thoughts, I missed Ryland filling my plate. Spaghetti judging from the red sauce he's poured over a lump of noodles.
I take the plate from him and set it in front of me. “What did you have in the oven?”
“The meat sauce. It’s supposed to bake in the flavor more.” He positions a stool on his side of the counter and turns to make himself a plate.
“Do you cook this often?”
“No, but I saw it on television yesterday.” Ryland’s watching daytime cooking shows? This soccer coaching gig couldn’t have come at a better time.
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