Page 88 of Ryker

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It’s been a few days since I left the Monarch. I haven’t heard from Ryker at all. Not that I expected to, but my heart won’t listen to my brain. I’m not in love with the man, but I could easily see myself getting there if he wasn’t such a prick. A prick who didn’t want me. A prick who wouldn’t even kiss me.

Lord knows I have a type. The ones who don’t give me the time of day are the only ones I work harder for. Talk about toxic traits. I really should consider therapy.

What time is it? Shit, I’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes if I’m going to make brunch with my family in time.

My doorbell rings, and dread consumes me. Earlier, I got a message from the Monarch’s concierge service saying my bags would be delivered this morning. It’s the finale. The last cord to sever between me and that club.

After Dmitri told me to leave, I washed my hands of the place and refuse to think of it ever again.

“It’s open!” I yell, while applying another layer of lipstick in the mirror of my bathroom. “Just leave my bags at the door.”

Fixing my hair one last time, I smooth down my sundress and sigh at my reflection. Talk about trying hard. My stepfamily is another group of people I’m not good enough for. No matter how hard I try, I can’t win them over.

I hate bowing down to men, and it’s all I’ve done since I was a teenager.

When my mom married William Brisbane, I was fifteen. I went from having a tiny dresser stuffed with t-shirts and shorts, to a walk-in closet overflowing with designer dresses, bikinis, and jeans. Don’t get me started on the shoe collection.

I loved it.

I still do. Who doesn’t like nice things?

What I don’t like—and never have—is the expectations that come with having those nice things. I have to sit pretty. Be sweet. Stay polite. Pretend I don’t notice old bastards eye-fucking me while I sip champagne at fundraisers. Play along with clients when they flirt atrociously with me over dinners at stuffy restaurants when my stepfather isn’t paying attention.

He’s never once treated me like his clients do. In fact, he almost values my work and opinion like I’m his equal. It makes working with him easy—and working with Garret, his son, impossible. Garret’s been jealous of me since the day our parents got married. No amount of time has changed the way he loathes me. And ever since we graduated college, and both took heavier roles in Brisbane Realty, Garret’s done all he can to make my work life hell.

“Looks good,” I say to my reflection. This floral print will make my stepfather happy. He loves flowers on me and my mom, even though I have no idea why. But I’ll forever do my best to stay on his good side because I don’t want my mom to have stresses in her life because of me. William can be a bear when he’s angry. My mom’s the one who has to put up with his attitude.

Clasping a bracelet on my wrist, I enter my living room and see two suitcases in front of my coffee table.

And Ryker sitting on my couch.

“What are you doing here?”

Dressed in a black suit, he stares at the coffee table with his elbows on his knees. His jaw clenches several times before he finally looks up at me. Then he stands up and saunters over to me. The intensity of this man is off the charts. Ryker silently wraps his finger around one of the curly tendrils I made to frame my face. “You look stunning, Tara.”

Tara. Not Butterfly. Not Miss Reed. Not baby or good girl or any other thing he’s called me this week. I want to slap him. I want to hug him. I want to cry and laugh and melt into him. I’ll never understand why him saying my real name stirs so much emotion in me, but here we are. Enigmas.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Stepping back lets me find my courage. “And I have to go.”

He swallows hard. Then silently takes a step back from me, too.

“I have an appointment.”

Ryker nods. “Brunch. I remember.”

Whatever. I’m not delusional enough to believe he memorized any part of our time together that didn’t somehow suit his motives. Moving towards the door, I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s with me. He’s not. Ryker’s gone back to my couch.

Damnit.

“You have to leave,” I say. “I have to go.”

He sits down again.

“I mean it! You have to leave!”

He stares at me.

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