Trusting Ryan. Tara Quinn Taylor
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“Eating what?”
“I’m not telling you until you tell me why you identify with that movie.”
“Fine.” The word was clipped, but her tone wasn’t nearly aggrieved enough to convey any real irritation. “I’ve always thought that kind of relationship would be perfect.”
“What kind? The kind where they end up dancing in the street?”
“No.” Her voice had quieted. Lost the playfulness. “I’d love to have a best friend, a significant other, someone to come home to, without messing everything up with sex.”
Not what he’d expected to hear. Where was his opportunity to tell her that she was gorgeous? That she had no reason to think herself anything but beautiful? It was all about what you saw in the mirror, right? The way you see yourself, as opposed to how others see you.
“So get a roommate.”
“Roommates leave. Get married. I want a lifetime companion.”
He couldn’t believe she meant that. “A sexless one.” Hell, everyone knew that part of the movie was crazy. Even the stars of the movie found that out.
It didn’t work. Couldn’t work. Unless maybe one of the parties was gay…
“At least one where the relationship isn’t based on sex,” she said slowly, as though choosing her words with great care. “If, after we’ve lived together for a while, we decide we want to do that some time, that would be fine. As long as we both want it. And it isn’t a big deal one way or the other.”
The woman was nuts. Sex, not a big deal? She couldn’t really expect any guy with blood in his veins to live with someone as beautiful as she was and not burn up with a need to make love with her. Could she?
“So you’d do it once?” he asked, out of morbid curiosity. “Or do it once in a while?”
“I don’t know.” She drew the statement out. “That’s the whole point. Whether we ever did it or not wouldn’t matter. If we both wanted to, we could. If one of us didn’t want to, no big deal. The relationship would be based on mutual respect. Trust. Great conversation. Just enjoying being together.”
If one of us didn’t want to. Alarms went off in Ryan’s head. The kind he’d honed to perfection.
“Are you gay?”
The question was inappropriate. Disrespectful. Uncalled for. And not what he’d really wanted to ask at all. He just didn’t know how to find out what he suddenly needed to know.
“No. But that’s a typical guy response.”
“I’m a guy.”
But not a typical one.
“I’m not gay.”
“But you’ve been abused, haven’t you?” He wasn’t pleased with himself, with the words. His tone had lowered enough that maybe she hadn’t heard him.
“If you’re asking if I was raped, the answer’s no.”
Thank God. Thank God in heaven. Shocked at the emotion pricking at the back of his throat, his eyelids, Ryan grabbed a carton of juice from the refrigerator and took a huge swallow.
“But you’ve been in a relationship where you had sex because you felt like you had to.”
“That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I told you why I liked the movie. Now I want to know what you’re having for breakfast.”
Fair enough. But he figured they both knew she wasn’t getting off the hook permanently. “Tuna.”
“You made a sandwich?”
“No. Just tuna.”
“With dressing?”
“Nope. Couldn’t find any.”
“You’re eating tuna out of the can.”
“Ate. It’s gone.” Thanks to Delilah. She wasn’t great at sharing.
“And that’s all you’re going to have?”
“I’m on my way to bed,” he reminded her, trying not to remember the images of her that he’d taken to his repose the last time he’d been there.
“What time do you get up?”
“Depends on the day.”
“Today.”
“I’m planning to crash until I wake up. No alarms. Which means I’ll probably make it until around three.” If he was lucky.
If not, he’d be up in an hour. Even with room-darkening curtains he couldn’t lie in bed during the day if he was awake. There was always someone to see, or talk to, who wasn’t available in the middle of the night.
Like the cable company that was supposed to be adding Sportzone to his monthly service—had charged him, but failed to turn on the games.
“You think you’ll want some breakfast then?”
“I’m sure I will.” If you could call stale bread and peanut butter breakfast. He hadn’t been to the grocery store. Saturday nights were usually reserved for that because it was the only time of the week the place wasn’t milling with people.
“I make a mean omelet.”
Ryan’s blood started to pump harder again, all signs of exhaustion taking a hike. Had she just invited him to her place?
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I have a seven-o’clock meeting tonight, but nothing after court this afternoon. If you’d like to stop by, I could show you my ham-and-cheese.”
“Okay.” Sure. He crossed one scuffed wing-tipped shoe over the other. Nonchalance was called for.
He just had to find some.
“If you want to, that is,” she added in a bit of a rush. “I mean, you’ve provided dinner the past two Saturday nights. I thought I should return the favor.”
He’d ordered pizza.
“That’d be great,” he said with a tight rein on himself. Don’t make anything out of it, Mercedes. The woman’s beautiful. And not interested in sex. Or you. Or she’d be interested in sex.
And he wasn’t interested, either. His obsession with her was a blip. Like the flu.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “I mean, I’m just offering one friend to another.”
“Hey, Audrey.” He added a teasing chuckle to his tone—he hoped. “It’s fine. I’m a bachelor. I never say no to homemade food. No strings attached.”
“Good. Fine.” The confidence had returned to her voice. “Say, around five, then?”
Five was fine. That left him seven and a half hours to get his libido under control and forget that he’d ever had one intimate thought about a stunningly desirable guardian ad litem.
He was not the least bit interested in a long term relationship.
And one thing was certain. Audrey Lincoln was not a woman a good man had casual sex with. She was the type of woman he loved.
CHAPTER THREE
THE OMELET didn’t happen. The phone rang, instead, and Audrey only had time to scramble some eggs and take five minutes to eat them with Ryan before running off to be at Mollie Anderson’s mother’s house when the confused twelve-year-old’s father came to pick her up for visitation.
Neither of Mollie’s