Page 26 of In Bed with Mr. Wrong

Ryan took a package of brown sugar out of the cupboard and set it next to the stuff in front of her. “What about you? How did you end up in sleepy Wellingford? You’re from California, right?”

Though she didn’t particularly want to talk about herself, this seemed a safe enough subject. “I researched small towns with openings—or soon-to-be openings—within their library on the East Coast, and Wellingford was the top of that list. I didn’t expect Mrs. Cleaver to retire quite so quickly, but things just sort of worked out.”

“It has to be hard to live so far away from your family.”

She stared at her nails. “I don’t have any.”

He must have picked up on her reluctance to go deeper into the subject, because he didn’t push the issue. “So you did the equivalent of throwing a dart at one end of the map, then up and moved? That’s pretty spontaneous.”

If he had any idea what she would have done to get out of Los Angeles, he wouldn’t have thought so. Even though she knew it wasn’t the city’s fault her parents died in that car crash, she couldn’t help hating it. Wellingford was something fresh and new and untainted by her past. “I suppose, though it didn’t feel like that at the time.” She took the offered bowl of oatmeal and dosed it with milk and brown sugar. The first bite nearly made her eyes roll back in her head. “Every time I’ve tried to make oatmeal from scratch, I always end up with mush. This is so much better than mush.”

He laughed. “Practice and self-preservation.”

“Thank you.”Thank you for cooking for me. Thank you for sharing a little bit of your past. Thank you for listening to a sliver of mine and not pressing for more.

The peace between them lasted the rest of the fifteen minutes it took for them to eat the entire pot of oatmeal. For all the anxiety still swirling inside of her, the silence was…comfortable. Maybe they’d reached some sort of common ground?

Ryan stood and reached for her bowl.

Bri held on when he tried to pull away. “What are you doing?”

Ryan gave it another yank, a familiar frown settling over his face. “The dishes.”

“Absolutely not. You cooked. I can do the dishes.”

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of them.” He tugged on the bowl.

Apparently now that sharing time was over, he was back to making her feel completely inadequate. She tugged back harder, not even sure why she was bothering. She hated the dishes. They were one of those necessary evils that marrying a billionaire reformed playboy would solve. Not that she’d know what to do with one if she met him. “I said I’d do the dishes, and I will.”

“You’re just arguing to argue. Again. Knock it off.”

“Youknock it off.”

“Just let it go, Bri. With your luck, you’ll probably find a knife to cut yourself on.”

She was so surprised, she let go of the bowl. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Considering how well things went this morning, I believe it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

When she’d fantasized about meeting her very own alpha male, she hadn’t stopped to consider that they were giant pains in the backside. Not that Ryan was hers, but the same principle applied. The women in her books never seemed to have problems like the ones she kept coming across. “I’m not some damsel in distress who needs to be saved.”

He gave her a look like she was stupid. “I didn’t say that. You’re a grown-up. I’m sure you manage to get dressed each morning, pay your bills, and show up to your job on time. What you can’t do is be left unsupervised in a kitchen.”

“Says the man who can’t be trusted near an open flame.”

Jaw clenched, he dumped the rest of the dishes in the sink and turned on the faucet. “If you want to keep me away from anything flammable, go grab some more firewood from the lean-to so we don’t have to cling to each other to keep warm.”

“I’d rather freeze to death than touch you again.”

“You’ve said that before.” He didn’t even look at her. “Good thing I chopped a shitload of firewood, huh?”

Bri stomped back to the bedroom to look for her boots, because the alternative was to grab one of the cast-iron pans and try to pound some sense into his thick head. She slammed out of the back door, not sure what she was so angry about, only that it was Ryan’s fault.

Everything was his fault.

If he’d just been some nice guy—like Drew and Avery claimed—then she could have smiled politely through their interactions up to this point and gone on her way. Even being stuck in this cabin with a nice guy wouldn’t be so terrible. But no, from the moment he’d shown up at her door looking like temptation personified, he’d proceeded to push her buttons, then turn around and shake her world to its foundations by making her feel things she never could have anticipated.

As if that wasn’t bad enough—and it was plenty bad—he’d gone and changed the game. How was she supposed to keep her distance if he insisted on showing her glimpses of a childhood not so far off her own? Hadn’t she run from LA like the hounds of hell were chasing her? The similarities weren’t comfortable.

---