Page 59 of The Right Move

Her brown eyes are soft with patience, not that I deserve it. I’m acting like a possessive caveman right now, but I don’t know how to fake it.

“I’m…I don’t know.” I look down at the sink where my knuckles are white with restraint. I haven’t cared about another person besides my sister in God knows how long and I have no idea how to feel or express it.

Her voice is kind. “You’re what, Ryan?”

“I’m…worried about you, Ind. I was worrying about you the whole game.”

Her lips lift mischievously, her tone teasing. “Ryan Shay, do you care about me?”

“No.”

“You care about me.”

“No, I don’t, but I’d rather you not get kidnapped while I’m playing a fucking basketball game.”

She moves her shoulders, dancing around the island. “Ryan Shay cares about me!”

“You’re annoying.”

Her hands go to her knees, and she sticks her ass out, twerking in my kitchen. “Yeah, but you still care about me.”

Shaking my head, I try my hardest not to laugh. “I’m going to bed.”

“Say it.”

“Not saying it.”

“Well clearly, words of affirmation are not your love language.”

I turn around to face her, continuing to walk backwards to my bedroom. “None of this has to do with love.”

“Ryan Shay cares about me!” Hands on her hips, she circles them, continuing to dance in my kitchen.

“How much caffeine did you have tonight? Jesus.”

“None. I’m high on life, baby!”

“You’re not paying rent anymore, by the way. So that should solve the whole driving random strangers home from the bars thing.”

Her dance moves halt. “Ryan!”

I roll my eyes. “I was saving it for you anyway. So just…put it towards whatever you’re saving for.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t.” I lean back on my bedroom door, not quite going inside yet. “Knowing you’re not out there alone driving drunk dudes home at two AM is worth far more to me than five hundred dollars a month. Besides, you should probably start coming to my games when you’re in town. You are the point guard’s girlfriend after all.”

“I’m not going to cry over this.”

“Congratulations.” I motion to Britney Spears on my twenty-seven-year-old roommate’s chest. “Cute shirt by the way.”

“You know it’d be a whole lot cheaper to just tell me you care about me.”

“Good night, you weirdo. Oh, and by the way, the dinner with the Morgans tomorrow night is an hour outside of town and we’re spending the night. So, pack something to sleep in.”

“Do footy pajamas work?”

“Yes, please. I want nothing more than to share a room with you while you’re wearing fucking footy pajamas.”

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