Ryen sees the exchange and pinches her eyebrows together, probably wondering what my problem is.
“So you live in Falcon’s Well?” Dane continues, taking my cue and changing the subject.
“Yeah.”
He nods, and they both stand there, falling silent.
“Okay, so…” Dane claps his hands together. “I heard you say you needed to eat something Lady and the Tramp-style?”
Not waiting for her answer, he reaches over the bar and digs in the garnish containers.
He holds up a lemon wedge, and Ryen winces. “A lemon?”
“I triple-dog dare you,” he challenges.
But she shakes her head.
“Okay, wait,” he urges, and I keep watching her, unable to tear my eyes away as I try to process that this is fucking Ryen.
Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters. The chin where I know she uses make-up to cover up a small scar she got from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. The hair she told me she ties back every night, because she says there’s no hell worse than waking up with hair in your mouth.
I’ve had half a dozen girlfriends, and all of them I knew ten times less than I know this girl.
And she really has no idea…
Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted marshmallow from one of the fire pits.
He walks up and shoves it at me. “Cooperate, please.”
And then he turns to her and grabs her phone. “Go for it. I’ll take the picture.”
Ryen’s amused eyes flash to me, immediately turning dark, because she clearly doesn’t want to eat anything Lady and the Tramp-style with me.
But she doesn’t back down or feign shyness. Walking up, she grabs a bar stool and steps up on the prongs to raise herself higher. She’s not short, but she’s definitely shorter than my six feet. Leaning in with her lips parted, she stares into my eyes, and my fucking heart is going wild. It takes everything I have not to unwind my arms and touch her.
But she stops. “I’m coming at you with my mouth open,” she points out. “You gotta show me you want it.”
And I can’t help it. The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile.
Fuck, she’s sexy.
I didn’t expect that.
And I fold. I hold up the marshmallow and open my mouth, holding her eyes as we both lean in and take a bite, pausing a moment for Dane to take the picture. Her eyes lock on mine, and I can feel her breath on my lips as her chest rises and falls.
My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan.
I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. Damn.
She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool. “Thank you.”
I nod. I can feel Dane’s eyes on me, and I’m sure he knows something is wrong. I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. He’s wearing a coy smile.
Fucktard.
Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I’d like to eat a dozen of them with her. Maybe I won’t rush home quite yet, okay?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing Annie’s name. I hit Ignore. She’s probably wondering where I am with her snacks. I’ll call her back in a minute.
“So…” Dane says. “All these pictures you’re posting on the page…you don’t have a boyfriend who’s going to come hunting us down, right?”
I tense. Ryen doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would’ve told me.
“Nah,” she replies. “He knows I can’t be tied down.”
Dane laughs, and I stand there, listening.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously.
“I find that hard to believe—”
“And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them…”
“So what happened?” Dane asks.
She shrugs. “I’d lowered my standards. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky.”
“Does any man measure up?”
“One.” Her eyes dart to me and then back to Dane. “But I’ve never met him.”
One. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me?
My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.
I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right.
I step up and take her phone, surprising her. Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. “A picture…”—I speak low in her ear, indicating our selfie— “of a picture” —I point to the guy behind us on the screen taking a pic— “of a picture.” And I gesture to the graffiti wall they’re standing in front of.