different from the last time I saw her, more than two years ago. Her raven-black hair is longer, past her shoulders, where it used to be styled in a short cut that made her look like a punk rock princess. Ryan looks thinner, a fact I’m concerned about even if I haven’t seen her in years. She still has the same dark and mysterious personality, like she might kiss you one second and throw you down a well the next. Her amber eyes, the color of smooth whiskey, connect immediately with mine.
And even though I’m already sweating my balls off, being within her vicinity makes me feel as if the sun instantly started burning a thousand degrees hotter.
The first time I met her was at Presley and Keaton’s wedding, when they were trying to set her up with my twin brother. Forrest and Ryan are both hackers, or coders depending on who you talk to. While my brother now worked with local law enforcement to catch cyber criminals, Ryan was a consultant. She took jobs all around the world with different companies, protecting their data and testing their computer forensic weaknesses. Her life is glamorous and expensive, whereas mine is as cheap and rundown as the motel out on the outskirts of town.
Swiftly, I avert my gaze, because I know that if I look too long, I’ll start to want things I can’t give her.
When I got sober, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t be with another woman until it was the real deal. I wouldn’t touch another female until the relationship was so serious, I was thinking about making her my wife.
After years of blacking out night after night, ending up asleep in bushes, or on couches at houses where I woke up and didn’t know a single soul … it was a miracle I wasn’t dead, riddled with STDs, or in debt to five baby mamas. It might sound ridiculous, but it’s true; I don’t remember a single sexual encounter for the last almost ten years of my life because of how fucked up I’d been.
Ryan Shea … she’s the type of temptation that I need to avoid at all costs.
She’s the type of woman who could make all of those cravings slam right back into my throat.
She’s the exact type to become an addiction. And that means talking to her, looking at her, hell … even breathing in her direction.
It’s all off limits.
3
Ryan
“You’re sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the guest room?”
Presley eyes me as I unpack the bigger of my two bags.
I shake my head. “No, I want you two to have your privacy. Plus, if I have any hysterical crying fits, it’ll be nicer not to have Keaton hear them.”
My best friend chews her lip as a frown of worry marks her pretty, freckled face. “Ry, I’m not going to rush you, but just promise me you’re not as bad as you seem?”
Does she want me to tell her that I’m not suicidal? Because I’m not. Though, I am so heartbroken and damaged, that someone like Presley couldn’t understand. My best friend, although I love her, can be a bit dramatic about being the outcast of her family. And now that she’s been all about worshipped by the Nash clan, she feels a type of compassion that I will never experience.
Because while other people have at least one person they can turn to if all else fails, I have no one. I was raised in the New York state foster system, bouncing from house to house until I was eighteen and could finally, legally, make decisions for myself. I was an orphan, my only living relative was my biological mother who … the damage she’d done was something that can never be forgotten.
Shaking my head to clear it, I paste on a smile. “I’ll be okay. I’m better now that I’m here, okay? Now will you go inside and kiss your adorable husband and stop worrying about me?”
“Fine. But there is so much food in the fridge, I wasn’t sure if you were still eating meat or not. So I stocked up on everything I know you like, including those disgusting chocolate Twizzlers. Come into the house whenever you like, and I have a yoga class at three that has your name on it.”
It’s kind of sweet that she prepared things for me, and I know it’s to keep my mind off my breakup with Yanis. Ugh, just thinking his name