Page 23 of The Waiter at Table 6

“Definitely,” he answers without any hesitation. Then he perks up, turning to me with excitement in his eyes. “You should come in on a night I’m in the kitchen. I usually only do it when someone calls out and we’re in a pinch, but I can put myself on the schedule.”

His eagerness makes me giddy. “I can do that. But what happens if I don’t like your food?”

Ryder doesn’t hesitate. “Well, then I’ll need to close the restaurant down and move far away to a random town in the middle of the country. Obviously.”

Chuckling, I pat his arm. “I’m sure the food will be great.”

For a moment, he just stares at the place I touched him. When he looks back up at me, the playfulness has dimmed, to be replaced by the version of Ryder who doesn’t beat around the bush about what he wants.

“Or you could let me cook for you,” he says simply.

I send him a sidelong look. “Ryder…”

Please don’t make me say it out loud. It’s not you, it’s me.

He doesn’t shy away. “What? It’s food. It’s literally my job.”

I quirk an eyebrow in challenge. “Then let me come into the restaurant for that.”

He shrugs as he turns his attention forward. “Okay.” And I think that’s the end of it, but then he adds, “As long as I can show you the best ice cream place afterwards.”

“Ryder…” I start carefully. “I’m not looking for?—”

“A friend?” he interrupts. “I get it. I put a cap on how many friends I allow myself to have, too.”

For a moment, I can only blink. “You…what?”

He turns toward me, his gaze knowing as he holds mine. But he doesn’t say anything, he just waits.

My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—you—Ryder, come on, you don’t want to be my friend.”

“Actually, I do,” he says. “You said you don’t know anyone down here. So why can’t we just be friends?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

“Come on, Vanessa… It’s hardly a marriage proposal.”

“I guess that’s true,” I say warily after a moment.

Which is when he hits me with the full force of his grin. “So it’s settled, then. We’ll be friends.”

“Friends,” I repeat, not loving the way the word tastes to describe him but swallowing it down anyway.

And of course, that’s the moment we reach my house, so I can’t really press him on the importance of just friends. But even as we both look toward my front door, I notice Ryder doesn’t look anything less than happy.

When he extends his hand toward me, I look at it in confusion. Is he seriously asking for a handshake? Is this some kind of reverse psychology?

The corner of his lips curls in amusement. “Do you have your phone on you? I’ll put my number in.”

“Oh,” I mumble, awkwardly digging through my purse. I don’t even know how to handle someone asking me for my number.

And yet, when I press it into Ryder’s hand, it takes him a second to pull it away from me.

He’s too busy looking at my lips.

Our almost-kiss from earlier flashes through my mind, and suddenly, I’m looking at his, too.

But once more, Ryder is more aware of my line than I am. Because he rips his gaze away and starts to punch numbers into my phone. It’s only after he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own, now vibrating with a call, that he meets my eyes again.

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