Page 93 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“Oh, I bet it does,” I mutter.
Walker stands abruptly. “Dessert!” he announces, like he’s just pulled the fire alarm to evacuate a burning building. “Tiramisu. Made it this morning.”
Walker collects the empty plates. Like he’s not fazed at all. Like he didn’t just watch me connect the dots between my blog and their smug little performance. Ridge helps without a word, stacking dishes as though this is just another night. Cash hums something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a victory song.
Soon, we’re all back at the table, staring at a delicious tiramisu. The scent of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and cream fills the air as Walker cuts me agenerous slice, plates it like a damn chef, and slides it toward me with a small bow.
“Enjoy.”
I do. The first mouthful is so rich and creamy that I forget to be embarrassed for a full three seconds. The mascarpone melts on my tongue, velvety and just sweet enough to make my toes curl. The coffee hits next, and this is beyond addictive. I don’t just taste it; Ifeelit, like this dessert is trying to ruin me in a whole new way.
Then I moan. Like, an actual out-loudmoan.
All conversation dies.
“Jesus,” Ridge murmurs, ears visibly reddening.
Cash coughs into his napkin and mutters, “Guess shereallyneeded that sugar.”
Walker grins so hard he has to look down at his plate. “Glad you like it.”
“Walker,” I say, glaring at my tiramisu like it personally betrayed me. “This is amazing. You’re a menace.”
He leans in a little. “Full of surprises, remember?”
“I need a drink,” I mumble, and Ridge is already filling my glass with sweet tea.
“Hydration’s important after intense activity,” Cash adds helpfully, eyes twinkling.
I grab a roll and throw it at him. He dodges and catches it in midair like he’s been waiting for it.
“I’m fine, by the way,” I lie. “Completely fine.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ridge hums, calm as ever. “Just checking. Wouldn’t want our guest overheating.”
“Ihateall of you,” I say sweetly, biting another forkful of tiramisu like vengeance can be achieved through dessert.
But the worst part?
I can’t stop smiling.
We migrate to the living room after dinner, with my glass of sweet tea in hand, sprawling on the massive sectional. I end up between Ridge and the arm of the couch, hyperaware of every inch of my distance from them.
“Movie?” Ridge suggests.
“Don’t let him pick,” Cash warns immediately. “His collection is… specific.”
“I have normal movies,” Ridge protests.
“You have a whole shelf of documentaries.” Walker makes air quotes. “Very educational documentaries. About anatomy.”
Oh.OH.
They’re talking aboutporn.
Ridge has a porn collection.
My glass freezes halfway to my mouth. My face goes nuclear as the realization hits, heat creeping from my neck straight into my scalp. I glance at him, half expecting denial. But Ridge doesn’t even flinch.
