Page 23 of Stick Break
“Healthy ego.” I give him a slow nod. “I like it. But seriously, I’m all about paying my own way, Rip.”
“You will.” He flashes a grin, on hand on the doorknob. “I’m not letting you off that easy.”
My stomach flips. What exactly does he mean by that?
He pauses, his smile softening. “The truth is, I’m benefitting too,” he continues. “A man can’t live on fish alone and I wouldn’t know how to put a salad together with a step-by-step YouTube tutorial.”
I laugh. “A fish you have to buy because I make you throw that one back.”
“It’s possible I’m still bitter about that,” he teases, even though it’s clear he’s not.
“I’ll make up for it by making salads all week.”
“Then you’re forgiven.”
“But hey, you know what they say buy a man a fish and you feed a man for a day, teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”
He lets out a loud snort and I have to say, I love our easy banter. “I did teach you to fish and look how that turned out for my dinner.” He laughs. “Honestly, you’re saving me from living off takeout and junk,” he says, patting his admittedly rock-solid stomach. “I’ve missed my morning runs lately. When this vacation is over, I can’t roll back into real life looking like a couch potato. I don’t want…” he catches himself, hesitates a beat. “I mean “…yoga is a good replacement for running.”
I don’t ask him why he can’t run. I already know. “Well,” I say gently, “That makes me feel a little less guilty for crashing your solitude.”
“Guilt is overrated.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me a list.” Just as he taps the screen, it buzzes. He goes still.
A flicker of something—tightness in his jaw, the subtle flattening of his mouth. He reads the message, doesn’t respond, just swipes it away and opens a notes app instead.
Maybe it’s his ex. Maybe she’s ready to be “on again.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, heading for the fridge.
“Yeah.” The answer comes a beat too quick. He taps again, posture casual but eyes just a little distant. “Tell me what you need.”
Wow. Loaded question.
But no, girlfriend. You do not need to see this man naked. You do not need his hands on her body, his mouth on yours.
That’s a want, not a need, and I don’t give in to wants anymore.
I open the fridge. It’s practically empty, just energy drinks, milk, and bottled water.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“A couple of weeks.”
I glance over my shoulder. “We seriously need to get something green into you.”
“You’re not wrong.”
I rattle off a list of vegetables, and when I’m done, he tucks his phone away.
“Back soon,” he promises, voice low and sure.
The door closes with a soft click, and silence folds in around me. I cross my arms over my chest and stand still, just for a second, letting the quiet settle. I thought I wanted quiet. After months of grinding it out in noisy bars, after weeks on that chaotic reality TV show, I was craving peace. Stillness. Anonymity.
But now…I don’t know. Maybe it would have been different had I not woken up to find Big Bear in the kitchen. He’s easy to be around. Too easy. I’m adjusting to his company faster than I should be. Craving it even.
I move through the small cottage, checking the cupboards and drawers. It’s a single guy’s setup—oatmeal, protein powder, cereal, Pop-Tarts. Of course Rip Hart eats Pop-Tarts. Somehow that tracks. I shake my head, smirking, and head for the door.
Outside, a warm ocean breeze kisses my skin. I sink into one of the folding chairs and let the sun work its magic. Somewhere down the beach, kids are playing, their laughter drifting on the wind. Seagulls circle overhead, scavenging like feathery pirates.
