Page 73 of Untying the Knot
“That’s great,” Huxley says. “What organizations were you working with? We just started a non-profit under Cane Enterprises that JP oversees. We work with affordable housing in expensive cities. Starting in San Francisco, but we plan on expanding.”
“Yeah, I think Ryot mentioned something about that. That’s pretty great. I know the housing market has been insane lately with corporations coming in and taking over, so for you not to capitalize on it, but rather help others, you’re changing lives.”
“That’s the plan,” JP says while wiping his mouth. “So who did you work with?”
Ryot’s thumb glides over my skin, momentarily distracting me as the soft touch shoots a rocket of lust straight up my leg. What’s he doing? It’s not like the guys can see under the table.
Clearing my throat, I attempt to focus on my answer, not on the way Ryot’s touch is heating my body. “An organization in Chicago that helped families in desperate need of home makeovers for various reasons like needing wheelchair access, a deep cleaning, or just a fresh start. Renovate Chicago is the organization. It was so rewarding, and I loved it. But when we came out here, I had to pivot, so I’m still trying to figure out my next venture.” I feel Ryot’s eyes on mine as I answer. I can feel the questions forming on the tip of his tongue.
Having to leave Renovate Chicago is one of the primary causes of my bitterness, and why I’m so angry about moving to California. Because we weren’t supposed to leave Chicago. We were supposed to stay there after Ryot retired. We were supposed to settle down and think about buying a lake house where we could relax. Even consider starting a family. I loved our house, our neighborhood, my work with Renovate Chicago, and the reasoning behind what I was doing. I was close to Nichole who—fuck—might be sick again. Everything was in Chicago. And after having to move from place to place to place with my Air Force parents, all I wanted to do was settle. I wanted a place I could call home.
That was the plan.
Until Ryot stole that by retiring earlier than he wanted.
“You should really have her meet up with Kelsey,” Huxley says. “I bet they’d get along. Ryot was telling us it’s been hard adjusting to California. Finding your tribe, so to speak.”
My cheeks flush as I glance toward him.For someone I feel so ignored by, it’s unexpected to see how much he’s talked about me.“Yeah, you know how it is. Making friends with adults is hard.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” JP says as he takes a large bite of his pizza.
“It’s hard not to fall in love with Myla, though,” Ryot says as his hand slides up higher on my thigh, kissing the opening of my robe. His fingers curl inwardly, and I catch myself gasping quietly from the feel of his strong hand. “Once she gets comfortable in her surroundings, there’s no doubt she’ll make friends. It’s something she’s so good at since she grew up in a military household.”
“Oh really?” Huxley asks. “What branch of service?”
Ryot’s pinky brushes up toward my underwear line, and I clamp my teeth over my lip, suppressing a moan.
“Air Force,” he answers for me. “She’s been all around the country. Illinois, Nebraska, Colorado, New Mexico, Ohio, and Arizona, which is where we met.”
Can’t believe he remembered all those states. I can barely keep up with where I’ve been.
“Ah, so you have experience moving,” JP asks. “So this move must have been easy?”
Ryot’s pinky is now stroking along the seam of my thong, not even bothering to be covert. My body is turning into a raging inferno, billowing heat in the pit of my stomach and then shooting through my veins.What the fuck is he doing? I thought he’d stop this after the last time.
“It was actually the hardest,” I answer before Ryot can. And when I feel his gaze, I decide to light him up the way he’s lighting me up, but for him . . . it will be different. “I was happy in Chicago, settled. You should have seen our house. Gorgeous. Once a mid-century modern near Lake Michigan, I spent time renovating it to keep the architecture of the era but add a modern twist. We had these expansive windows in the living room that allowed a brilliant amount of light in, even on Chicago’s gloomiest days. Mature oak trees surrounded our parcel, almost making it feel like we were living in a forest in the middle of the city. But you know, duty calls, right? Ryot was presented with an opportunity he couldn’t possibly refuse and took advantage of it, and here we are.” I gesture toward the coastal-style house that we’re now living in. It’s beautiful, but it barely has any personality, and that just adds to the depression of our move.
JP exchanges glances with Huxley and then says, “Yeah, but hopefully, this is the last move for you.”
“Chicago should have been the last one,” I say just as Ryot squeezes my thigh, clearly not happy with my answers, but oh well.You got us in this mess, so you deal with it. I smile at the men, take a bite of my pizza, and chew.
I’m sure I’ll hear about this later.
We spend the rest of the dinner eating our pizza, chatting about California and The Jock Report—of course, because that’s all I ever hear about. The freaking Jock Report, the numbers on it, how it’s the number-one trending app in the world, how it’s already changed the world of sports . . . blah, blah, blah.
During the praise for my husband and his magnificent idea carried out by the genius expertise of his brother, Ryot scoots his chair closer to mine, drapes his arm over the back, and every so often, he twirls my hair around his finger like he used to do to steady my nerves. Probably trying to keep me simmering so I don’t make another offhand comment about moving.
And do you know what I hate about his touch, about how he’s twirling my hair, massaging my neck, keeping me so close as if to claim me in front of these other alpha men? It’s that it feels so natural, so real, like in this small moment, nothing is wrong between us. But we all know playing pretend is not forever, and when this is over, I’ll be thrust back into reality where we just don’t seem to match up like we used to. Our goals are different, and our desires and needs are different. I might matter to him, but I don’t matter the most. And that’s the cold, hard truth.Which breaks my heart. We were once so incredible together.
While the men finish up their conversation, I pack up the leftover pizza, clear the plates, and then head back to my bedroom, where I open my computer and focus on the design I’ve been working on for one of my classes to get my mind off the way Ryot spoke about me with kind words and affirmations about my talents. That was a total mindfuck. I can’t recall a time when he spoke so highly about that stuff. And I don’t want you thinking that he’s an asshole who never appreciated me, because he wasn’t, we just . . . we never talked about those kinds of things around other people. Hearing him mention it to JP and Huxley was . . . weird, yet fulfilling, as if I’ve been waiting for that acknowledgment.
Not to mention, I needed to take a deep breath after sitting through a meal while he caressed my inner thigh and twirled my hair. It took me back to simpler times when we’d be resting on the couch together, watching mindless TV, and he’d have his hands on me in some way. It was his way of marking me, ensuring I was always with him.
After what seems like hours, my eyes feel blurry, so I decide to get ready for bed. Just as I shut my computer, there’s a knock on my door. Knowing exactly who it is, probably ready to chastise me for my comment about moving, I mentally prepare myself for a fight. I answer the door to find Ryot on the other side, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. No longer in his jeans and a T-shirt, he’s changed into a pair of shorts, and that’s it. My eyes roam his chiseled torso, noticing how much more defined he’s become. He’s always been muscular, but I’m not sure if it’s because I haven’t been cooking for him, so he’s just been eating protein bars. Either way, his stomach reads like a road map of strength, his abs like mini-islands all along his stomach.
“Can I help you?” I ask, finally pulling my gaze.
When his head lifts and his eyes focus on mine, he says, “I want my shorts.”
