Page 26 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Ryder grins knowingly. “She offered you a job.”
“Not right away, actually. She’d watched me take over as manager, had seen the improvements I’d made, and the effect it had on business, and for a few weeks, she just asked me a lot of questions—about me, my son, my divorce, my finances, my dreams…everything, really. I had few friends, and it honestly was cathartic to unload all that on someone. And then, yes, out of the blue, she offered me a job.”
We’re downtown, now, stuck in the last dregs of rush hour traffic. “Mary-Jo’s passion project, after her husband died and she retired, was animal rescue. She and her husband owned a farm outside Chicago, and they rescued all sorts of animals—horses, cows, dogs, cats, pigs, even an ostrich. When her husband passed away suddenly, she had to sort of rethink things. She ended up selling the farm and sending all the animals to other farms and shelters, liquidated most of her assets, and bought a little condo downtown. Her husband had a hell of a life insurance policy, and when that kicked in, she was suddenly faced with having more money than she knew what to do with, but no purpose and no husband. The logical step for her was to start another animal rescue, but the thought of another farm without her husband was too much for her, so she opened a more traditional nonprofit dog and cat rescue. But she quickly realized she was passionate about animals, not running a business, and was looking for someone to take over the business aspect of things. She’d done several rounds of interviews with all sorts of people, and none of them fit what she was looking for.” I shrug. “For whatever reason, I fit.”
“The reason, obviously, is that you’re amazing.” He winks at me.
“Oh.” I laugh. “Clearly.”
He pulls up outside a restaurant, and a valet scurries over to take the car. Ryder waits as I round the hood, and then offers me his arm in a gesture of classical gallantry. “M’lady?”
I laugh, because his faux arch accent is funny, but the feel of his strong arm under my hand makes my stomach flip.
Our table isn’t quite ready yet, so we find seats at the bar and Ryder orders us a bottle of red wine. We sip wine and chat—and the conversation is easy, a loose and rambling series of rabbit trails, from movies and music to funny college drinking stories, worst dates, best dates, and everything in between. Then a hostess takes us to our table and we order steaks and more wine, and the conversation continues. It deepens during dinner, as we tell stories of the things from our childhoods that have scarred us, more meandering discussions of our respective exes, and a more lighthearted exchange about how neither of us really enjoy celebrating birthdays. Talking to Ryder is the easiest thing in the world. Even talking about Paul and raising Nate by myself is easy—and somehow not awkward or tense. Usually, talking about exes and single parenting is a no-no on dates, because it’s kind of a turn-off for most guys, I guess. But Ryder initiates the discussions and asks probing questions and listens with an attentiveness that tells me he’s really, truly interested.
He truly listens, and that’s just hot. A sexy man who can stare at you with expressive, attentive eyes and make you feel like you’re the only woman in the world while he’s hanging on your every word? It’s intoxicating. Arousing.
God, I was an idiot for trying to find reasons not to like him—it’s pretty much impossible not to, I’m realizing. He’s a good man, a decent man, and I’m screwed.
Finally, we’ve had dinner, finished the second bottle of wine, and spent another hour talking over a slice of cheesecake.
“You want to take a walk?” Ryder asks, once the bill is paid and we’ve lingered over coffee. “It’s a nice night, and I’m enjoying talking to you.”
I expected him to want to take this immediately to the hotel, and so this is an unexpected question.
“Sure,” I say. “A walk sounds good.”
I wore my most comfortable heels, and I did bring a sweater, and after all that food and wine and dessert, a walk along Chicago’s streets actually does sound wonderful.
We wander around the Golden Mile area for another hour at least, strolling casually, continuing our discussion of anything and everything. There are lots of people out doing the same thing we are, and the people watching is entertaining. At some point, his hand finds mine and our fingers tangle. Never has holding someone’s hand ever felt so amazing. It’s simple, nonsexual, and…intoxicating.
Yes, we’ve shared two bottles of wine, but that was over several hours and lots of food, so I know neither of us is even really buzzed. The intoxication is…emotional. Psychological. Neurochemical. Libidinal.
