Chapter 15: Dreams

“Not like that. Have you seriously not been in the kitchen before?” I asked, utterly amused. Ryan frowns and returns his gaze to the vegetables he is trying to murder—because there is no way I can call that dicing. He arrived at my doorstep holding grocery bags, and his eyes had been bright as he announced he would make dinner. I have no idea what got into him, but it has been amusing, watching him skewer the carrots and onions. Hell, he doesn’t even know how to hold a knife properly. It is in his grasp like he wishes to stab someone. “Leave it,” I say, walking around the counter and shove him lightly with my hip. “I’ll take care of it.” Ash’s soft footsteps fill the air as he races across the sitting room to the kitchen door, holding his favorite toy up for Ryan to see. “Got this last month. Mommy bought the newest one!” he squeals joyfully. A smile teases my lips and I push my hair out of my face. I’ve never seen him this excited before. He has been showing Ryan all his toys since he walked in. My usually reticent Ash is running about the house, yelling, “Ryan!” I chuckle when he runs off to bring the next toy and I incline my head toward the chopping board. “Could you pass that?” Ryan reclines, stretching over to grab it and my eyes follow the biceps exposed by his rolled up sleeves. I swallow as I am suddenly assaulted with images of what it felt like to be held with those strong arms. Something clatters to the floor, startling me and I blink, looking away from him abruptly. I shudder, suddenly feeling hot and cold at the same time. It has to be the weather. Or perhaps it is because I have not been with a man for a while. My eyes keep gravitating back to him and I am shamelessly ogling his broad back and tight ass when he bends to pick what has fallen. Christ. I need help. “Here,” he says, placing it on the counter beside me. His arm brushes against mine slightly and my traitorous heart slams into my ribcage, racing wildly. What in the world is going on with me? Calm the fuck down, Amber! “Why did you choose to bake?” Ryan asks after a moment of awkward silence that even the sound of knife hitting the board could not overpower. I shrug as casually as I can as I transfer the now diced carrots into a bowl. “It’s been a dream of mine since my childhood. There is nothing else I would love doing other than that.” “Congrats. . .on fulfilling it,” he says after a slight pause and my hand stills, hovering over the board. Hearing it from him makes something inside me squeeze. The only other person who knew how much it meant to me was July, and only she had congratulated me on it. “Thank you,” I whisper, blinking back the tears that spring to my eyes at the thought of my mother’s utter disdain when I had refused to delve into the area of specialization she wanted me to, and instead devoted my time to ovens and bakeries. It is still fresh in my head, my heart. Our first falling out, and it had been because I had chosen to follow my dreams. The air is suddenly heavy with melancholy and I do not need to look up to know that Ryan is watching me. It is strange. I can feel his gaze on my like a tangible weight. His eyes bear holes into me and it almost feels like being touched by him. “And you?” I ask to diffuse the situation. The last thing I want right now is to be asked about my life and my parents. I do not guarantee that I won’t break down, and I don’t need Ryan seeing me that way. “Is being CEO your dream?” He pushes back from the counter and walks in my direction as I move my head to flip my hair without touching it. “I am not much of a dreamer, Red,” he says and I freeze when his hands begin to thread through my hair, in a braid of some sorts, I assume. “You have such beautiful hair.” How did we—when did we even get here? His fingertip touches my scalp and panic shoots through me, causing me to jerk out of his reach and turn to look at him wide-eyed. “What are you doing?” His lips purses and he looks down at his still raised hands like he doesn’t understand how he got there. He drops them and sighs. “You kept flipping it. I thought braiding it would make it easier for you. I’m sorry. I won’t—I will refrain from touching you since it irritates you so much,” he says and I don’t miss the slight bitterness in his tone. I don’t bother telling him that he is mistaken and his touch does not irritate me. I don’t bother telling him that his fingers on my skin jolted something awake within me and the panic had caused me to flee from him. It had struck me all the way to my core and heated it. And I don’t bother to stop him as he walks away from the kitchen, his shoulders tight with tension.