Page 129 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
Ryder searches my face. “With me?”
I hesitate, my hands still fisted in his shirt. “Yeah, I think so.”
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.” His tone is light, but there’s vulnerability in his eyes.
“I don’t know what anything means right now,” I reply. “But the storm is happening and I’m not having a panic attack. So... yeah. Maybe with you.”
His expression eases, and he opens his mouth to say something, but my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Loudly.
We both freeze.
Then Ryder’s lips twitch. “Was that...?”
Heat floods my face. “I need to eat.”
He smiles. “You want to eat?”
I nod, the corners of my lips curving upward. “Mm-hmm. Do you want to go to the kitchen with me?”
Ryder’s eyes light up. “Are you going to cook again?”
“Nothing too extravagant.”
Ryder grasps my hand as he peels off the window seat. He sniggers, looking over at my bed. “Dang. Was Ellie watching us the whole time?”
I snort a laugh, playfully hitting his chest. “You goof.”
“I mean, it’s weird, right?” he jokes, moving past the bed with me. “Was she just staring at us while we made out?”
I laugh again, but feel the intensity of my blush. I know it’s just a stuffed animal, but the thought of someone watching me with Ryder, in an intimate moment, has all my alarm bells ringing.
Ryder must feel the shift in me, and his hand leaves mine.
“You good?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I squeak.
Good. Yes, the kiss was good. What this means, who the heck knows?
Twenty-Four
Thekitchenfeelsdifferentnow. The same granite counters, the same stainless steel appliances, but the air between us has changed. Charged with something between electric and dense.
I only have the capacity to make a sandwich. Ryder pulls bread from the pantry while I retrieve cheese and deli meat from the fridge. We move around each other carefully, like we’re both hyperaware of the space we occupy. Of how close we are. Of what just happened upstairs.
The kiss.
My fingers tremble slightly as I set the cheese on the counter. I still feel the ghost of his lips on mine. The warmth of his hand cradling my face.
“Mayonnaise or mustard?” Ryder asks, his voice slightly rough.
“Both.”
He nods, retrieving the condiments without looking at me.
The silence stretches, weighted with everything we’re not saying. I focus on layering cheese and turkey onto bread, trying to ignore the fact that my heart is still racing.
Ryder assembles his sandwich with the same careful attention. When our hands accidentally brush reaching for the same knife, we both pull back as if we’ve been burned.
