Roughing It With Ryan (5 page)

S
UZANNE DROVE HOME
from the Café Meridian on autopilot, numb from shock. She was unemployed. How could that be? Lately, her life seemed to be a really bad comedy—only she wasn't laughing.

Some of that numbness wore off as she parked in front of the building she'd promised not to move out of yet had no means to pay for.

Work removing the tree was underway, leaving the front yard of the building little more than a mountain of fallen branches and wood rounds. Men moved around, intense and concentrating. Not surprisingly, Suzanne's eyes honed right in on one in particular. Ryan.

Even from a distance, he had an authoritative quality to him as he worked, talked, coaxed, gestured. There was just something in his movements that set him apart, made her stomach quiver with recognition—and more.

Still walking, still gesturing, he turned, vibrant and charismatic, and lost in the passion of his work.

Ryan.

He wore denim and cotton, same as everyone else, but he didn't look like anyone else. His chest was broad, his arms well toned, his belly flat and corded. Muscles, muscles everywhere, she thought, a little dazed. And every one of those muscles was in defined relief as he moved in and around the fallen tree, calling out orders, picking up a saw, bending over a large branch himself.

The oak tree had been pulled off the building and lay across the front of the yard, looking almost harmless as the crew of men worked on it with chainsaws.

Harmless, ha! Given the gaping hole left in the wall—her wall—the loft apartment would be out of commission for a good while. Suzanne felt bad for Taylor, but it was hard to concentrate on that with her own life in the toilet.

And now that she was no longer numb—thank you lust hormones, and thank you Ryan,
not
—she vibrated with anger over what had just happened to her at work. Fingers shaking, she tore her gaze off Ryan's body and went through her purse for her cell phone. She found a pen out of ink, her plain Chap Stick and a half-burned vanilla votive candle, but no cell phone. Dumping out the contents of her purse, she pushed aside her unpaid Visa bill and a letter from ex-fiancé number two, begging her to try again,
and
finally
located the phone. She could only hope she had an operating battery.

She did, but there was no reception. Great, because heaven forbid anything go her way today. She got out of her car, not forgetting to grab the bag with the gallon of ice cream she'd helped herself to from the café.

But still no reception.

Eye on the digital readout, she kept moving. Every few feet she paused, waiting, her rarely indulged redheaded temper gaining speed the longer the phone refused to work.

She backed up, moved to the side, even stomped her foot, and
finally
her phone obediently beeped its working status. Punching in the number for her ex's office, she sat on a round of wood and opened the bag with the ice cream. She'd thought ahead to grab a spoon as well, and had just taken her first mouth-watering bite of decadent double-fudge chocolate ice cream when Tim came on the line.

“Suzanne.” His voice was kind. His voice was always kind, which now that she thought about it, annoyed the hell out of her. Did he have any other feelings like anger or frustration?

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

What could he do for her? Die a horrible, painful death, for starters. “Tim, I thought you were okay with our break-up.”

“Well…I still miss you, you know that. I'll always miss you.”

A load of dog poop, as she knew damn well from his sister that he had moved on from boinking the cleaning lady to boinking his secretary. “If that's true, why did you—”

“Suzanne?
Hello?
You still there?”

“Yes! I'm here. Tim, you—”

“You're breaking up. Hello?
Hello?
”

Damn it, she could hear him loud and clear. She was going to break
him
up. Instead, she tucked the ice cream container under her arm, stood and backed through the yard a little further.
There.
“The reception is fine,” she said through her teeth. “So please, tell me why you've decided to wreck my entire life.”

“A little melodramatic, don't you think?”

“What?”
In the Carter fashion, she laughed in the face of emotion. Better they see you laugh than cry. “Melodramatic? No, I'm not being melodramatic. But I can give you melodramatic if you'd like.” She stopped to shove a huge bite of slightly melted ice cream into her mouth. She almost groaned with pleasure at the rich flavor, but dragged her mind back to the task at hand. “Why did you get me fired?”

“Oh, that. It was too painful for me to know you were working at my sister's restaurant. I could never go there without being reminded of the emotional
distance, the break-up…so I found someone else better suited for it, that's all.”

“
What?
You found a better chef than me? Who?”

“Someone who will love me the way I deserve.”

She winced. “Tim, what does
that
have to do with cooking?”

“It's my new girlfriend. She's thrilled, so thrilled she promised me all sorts of favors.”

“You—
Argh!
” Forget calm. Calm was gone. Her redheaded temper overpowered all typical Carter family behavior. “You got me fired so you could get an assortment of sexual favors?”

“No, I got you fired so I could get an assortment of sexual favors
you'd
never perform for me. I never realized how much we didn't connect sexually,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe you need a therapist, Suzanne.”

She tipped her head back, studied the bright blue sky and counted to ten. “I do not need a sexual therapist.”

“Suzanne, seriously. I'm worried about you. You really should get help.” He sounded sincerely concerned, which was totally at odds with his selfish manipulating that cost her a job. Boy, she'd really done a number on him. This post-Suzanne Tim was nothing like the sensitive, weeping Tim she'd first known.

“I've got to go, Suzanne.”

“Tim—”

She heard nothing but static.
Fake
static.

“Don't you hang up on me— Damn it!” Yanking the phone from her ear, she glared at it. “I'm going to kill him,” she decided and stuck another huge spoonful of ice cream in her mouth.

“But then you'd have to go directly to jail without passing Go.”

Whirling around, she faced…oh, good Lord.
Ryan.
Ryan, now shirtless, and damp from what had undoubtedly been hours of hard, physical work. A fine sheen of sweat covered his chest and the light dusting of dark hair that ran from pec to glorious pec. She could feel the heat of him and suddenly could barely breathe.

Yeah, right, she needed a sexual therapist! What she needed, apparently, was a cold shower. Slowly she reached up and took the spoon out of her mouth.

“No man is worth jail,” he said in the same voice he'd used on her last night, the one that made her shiver and quake from the inside out. “Even a scum like…Tim, did you say?”

Great, he'd heard it all, the entire, humiliating listing of the recent events of her pathetic life. “You were eavesdropping.”

He didn't defend himself, just slowly crossed his arms over his chest and gave her that same crooked
smile, accompanied with a raised brow that made her look around.

With growing horror, she realized that in her quest for phone reception, she'd backed herself right in the middle of his work zone. She was surrounded by wood rounds, chain saws and a sea of sawdust.

On either side of Ryan were two younger workers. When they caught her staring, they smiled sheepishly and turned back to their work.

Not Ryan. He just stood there looking at her. She put the spoon into the container and looked right back. From the bottom of his work boots to the top of his dark hair now decorated with wood chips, he was even more amazing than she'd remembered from last night, and she remembered him as pretty amazing.

Tim had been very good-looking, in a scholarly, professorly sort of way. Medium height, lean.

Not hard and sinewy tough, like Ryan, who looked as if he'd spent years and years honing that body with hard physical labor. She'd never really gone out with anyone like Ryan.

And didn't intend to! She was through with men, done with destroying them. She really needed to remember that.

It felt odd to be standing here like this, exchanging their first words since he'd had his arms around her the night before. When it had been dark. Raining.

Urgent.

Where she'd probably, if he'd kept on kissing her as he had, would have been willing to perform any sexual favor he wanted.

What would a sexual therapist say about that?

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Me? Oh, sure.” She managed a laugh and hoped she didn't have a chocolate mustache. “Dandy.”

“You lost your job.”

“What?” Taylor came out the front door of the building, reached for Suzanne's hand. “You lost your chef position at Café Meridian?”

“Her ex got her fired,” Ryan offered helpfully, still watching her very carefully. “Sounds like good riddance, wouldn't you say, Taylor?”

“Definitely.” Taylor hugged Suzanne close, and while her free hand lifted and hugged back, she stared at Ryan over her shoulder. Not just because he was shirtless and magnificent, but because of the way he was looking at her.

And okay, partly because he was shirtless.

All right, mostly because he was shirtless.

But he wasn't smirking. Why wasn't he smirking?

He wasn't looking at her as if she was the biggest idiot on earth. Instead, his gaze was compassionate and seemingly sincere.

She didn't buy it. Didn't want to buy it. “I'm fine,” she said, and patted Taylor. “Really.”

“Of course you are.” Taylor pulled back and helped herself to the spoon sticking out the ice cream. “You'll just have to come up with something better, that's all.” Stabbing Suzanne's spoon into the air, she said around a mouthful, “the two of us together against the world. Mmm, this is heaven. Ryan?” She offered him a bite, which he leaned over and took, opening his mouth to get it all, using his tongue to lick off the corner of his mouth.

Suzanne stared at that mouth, torn between running for the hills and demanding another kiss, right here, right now.

“Let me help you move today,” Taylor said.

“But I'm jobless.”

“So?”

“So…jobless equals poor. How can you possibly still want me as a tenant?”

“Do you always have ice cream available?”

“Are you kidding? Always. And I cook a lot, too.”

“Thank you God,” Taylor said fervently. “That's good enough for me.”

“So why aren't you a caterer?” Ryan lifted his hands when both women turned to stare at him. “I'd think that would be a natural progression, from chef to caterer. And you could work for yourself. Not
some flighty jerk who's going to pass off your job to your ex's new girlfriend.”

Taylor turned to Suzanne, excitement lit in her eyes. “You haven't seen it yet, but the unit you're going to move into has a
huge
kitchen.”

“I cater all the time,” Suzanne said slowly. “As a hobby. But that's all it is, a hobby.”

“So make it more,” Taylor said.

Suzanne stared at her, then laughed. “It's not that easy. In fact, it's damn near impossible. Running a business just isn't my thing.” Too regimented and, as her mother would attest, she just didn't do regimented.

“Hey, Ryan,
you
need a caterer,” one of his laborers called out, making Suzanne realize everyone stood around listening even while they pretended not to.

The identical laborer swiped his arm across his forehead and bobbed his head. “Yeah, for our birthday party! Friday night, remember? You promised you'd have it at your place, cuz we're too young to hit the bars until next year. We need food, lots of it.”

“Lots,”
agreed his twin.

Ryan stared at them both, then shook his head with a little laugh. “That's not a bad idea, actually.”

When he looked at Suzanne expectantly, she let out her own little laugh. “No. No pity jobs.”

“Turning down a client, Suzanne?” Ryan asked, an
unmistakable dare in his gaze as he cocked his head and made her knees weak with just one look.

Her heart pounded, and not from the dare either. Her poor body apparently hadn't gotten the memo her brain had sent, that it wasn't going to get lucky with this man.

“Don't forget,
great
kitchen,” Taylor said. “And as your landlord, I give you permission to run your business out of your place.”

Suzanne felt like a fool with all of them looking at her, but she was putting her foot down on this one.

Opening a catering business was as bad as…as dating. A recipe for failure, and she'd failed enough. “I can't, I'm sorry.”

“Would you excuse us a minute?” Taylor asked the men, and hooking an arm around Suzanne's neck, backed them up a few feet. “Are you crazy?” she whispered. “This is an excellent opportunity. A job
and
a hunk, all in the same turn.”

“We swore off men,” Suzanne whispered back.

“No, we swore to remain single. Nothing was said about living like a monk. Suzanne, have you seen him look at you? Do this. Do
him.
It might relax you a bit.”

“Taylor!”

“Oh, it's just a job. A one-nighter at that. And hey, if I can sell off my beloved furniture to keep us in this
damn building, you can make a few snacks for a party.”

It burned, but Taylor was right. With a sigh, Suzanne turned back to the waiting men, then nearly swallowed her tongue at the way Ryan was looking at her, a little smile curving the lips she knew tasted better than even ice cream. “Okay.”