Page 27 of Hungry Hearts

“You love kissing and telling. Makes me think Ry-dog has no stories to tell.” Drake adds. He’s supposed to be Switzerland, the one who doesn’t take sides and breaks up our stupid arguments.

“Benton must be on his period if he didn’t get laid last night.” Nolan snorts.

“He is kinda moody this morning,” Trey adds.

I flip them all off and take a swallow of my coffee.

“For the record, no, I didn’t get laid last night. But I kind of needed a rest after Wednesday night. That's why they call me Ryder Hard.” It’s not exactly a lie. I was tired, especially since I had to get up early this morning to meet Maia, but if she wanted another all-nighter, junior and I would have easily complied.

“No one calls you Ryder Hard but you, dumbass,” Trey mumbles before shoving another donut in his mouth.

“Since when do you need to come up for air?” Nolan wipes his mouth with a napkin and chucks it across the table at me.

“He’s getting old.” Drake opens his laptop and projects a spreadsheet of numbers on the wall in front of us. “Here are our earnings from last week’s high roller tournament. I imported the winnings and—”

I tune the rest out. Listening to him talk about numbers, projections, budgets, and all things nerdy puts me to sleep. But today I’m thankful for the distraction. Drake doesn’t need us todoanything with the stuff he puts together.

But since we’re all business partners, he likes to be upfront with the earnings, losses, and future project plans. Full transparency. I trust him with my life and with my bank account. All I care about is the quality of food I purchase for my restaurant and that my kitchen equipment is running.

Fuck, it was painful outfitting the kitchen. Drake had spreadsheets upon spreadsheets of price comparisons of walk-in freezers, refrigerators, ovens, mixers, knives, cookware. You name it. There were pros and cons lists. Comparisons between cost and durability and longevity.

I’m particular, but not that particular. He did most of the research and I made the final decisions. It made him happy to do his part and it made me happy to point to an item and tell him to buy it.

It was a win-win.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I slide it out hoping it’s Maia. My smile instantly falls when I read the text from Gina.

GINA:I’ll be in town this weekend. Some girls and I are going to The Club Saturday night. Come by after work?

I don’t give my phone number out to every girl I sleep with. Just a few I don’t mind giving the occasional repeat performance. Gina is one of those. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. A New York socialite, I don’t worry too much about her wanting something more. I’m pretty sure she has a guy in every city she visits.

She’s hot. Long legs, impressive rack, even if surgically enhanced, long hair I wrap around my hand. Although, one time I tugged too hard and loosened her hair extensions. She wasn’t crazy about that.

As much as she’s most men’s wet dream, thinking about fucking her isn’t doing anything to my dick. It’s finally not hard because I went a solid hour not thinking about Maia and listening to Drake moan.

That’ll soften any man’s dick. Maia’s had me hard since I first noticed her sitting at my bar, so alone and sad.

Christ.My dick stirs in my pants. Hell, I’m not even thinking about the taste of her on my tongue and I’m already going hard. I shift my seat and adjust myself and return Gina’s text. If I don’t, she’ll keep texting and—gasp—call. Calling is the fucking worst.

ME:Busy weekend. Not sure I’ll make it. Have fun with your friends.

“I thought I told you not to text your booty calls during my presentations.” Drake directs his red laser pointer at my chest.

“Yes, Dad.” I tuck my phone away and don’t correct him that I was doing the exact opposite. Avoiding a booty call.

There’s only one booty I want. And it’s currently on the opposite side of town.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It isn’t until I’m lying in bed on Sunday night that I have the courage to text Ryder. The past few days have been out of character for me. First, flirting with a stranger and giving him my room key. Then, asking him to do sinful things to my body.

Now I’m about to ask him on a date. I’ve never been the initiator before, although I don’t think I’m being too forward. Ryder is the one who not-so-subtly suggests all of the above then sits back and waits for my move.

No pressure. Not once.

I rub my hand over my chest. The pressure building up inside isn’t a bad or forceful feeling. It makes me feel alive. Something I haven’t felt in four years. Rolling to my side, I reach for my phone on my bedside table and open my texts.

The last one Ryder sent me was Friday morning an hour after he left the salon.

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