The Rush (The Siren Series) - By Rachel Higginson Page 0,50

the strong spices from even over here. I felt my insides melt a little at the picture of Ryder, holding his coffee cup with both of his absurdly masculine hands. I imagined his fingertips calloused from playing his guitar and his palms rough like sandpaper. His gray eyes were depthless silver, intense but playful. His lips twisted to a soft smile. This was Saturday morning Ryder, this was relaxed and playful Ryder and my heart started beating double time on instinct.

Because relaxed Ryder couldn’t be more dangerous.

Good thing he had Kenna.

Good thing I had Chase.

Or anybody else I wanted.

“I was just wondering what you were doing here and how you know the staff so well,” I improvised, dropping my gaze to the pastries in front of me.

“I know Tarryn because I work here too. I am the staff. I usually work after school though and Sunday afternoons. I’m here now because my dad has been in love with this place since we moved here and even though we live downtown, he makes me bring him coffee every Saturday morning…. and every night after work…. and every Sunday afternoon…. and every time we are in a ten mile radius.” Ryder’s face lit up into a huge smile while he talked about his dad. His home-life happiness was infectious and I couldn’t stop the smile that turned my mouth. I took a big bite of scone to hide my reaction and stared down into my drink.

“So does your mom like the coffee here just as much, or is this strictly Mr. Sutton’s addiction?” I asked with a mouth full of food.

“Dr. Sutton,” Ryder corrected gently. “My dad’s a music theory professor at the University of Omaha. A doctor of music theory.”

“Dr. Sutton,” I corrected in a soft voice. “And mom?”

“My mom passed away when I was little,” Ryder explained a bit roughly. “So it’s just me, and my dad and my Uncle Matt.”

“My dad died when I was a baby too,” I announced and then immediately regretted the casual proclamation. I meant to sound understanding but it came out like I was bragging. Or maybe not bragging, but definitely not remorseful. Ryder stared at me from across the table, taking me in. He didn’t offer a reply but his brow furrowed together between his eyebrows like he was seriously thinking this conversation over. Ugh. “Your uncle lives with you?” I asked just to change the subject.

“Yeah, he’s my dad’s much younger brother. He’s only ten years older than me and he’s living with us while he goes to college.” Ryder explained, the light returned to his face and I relaxed a little bit into the comfort of having an interesting conversation.

“So your house is like a bachelor pad? Three guys living together? I can only imagine what your laundry situation is like,” I joked even though my own laundry situation was currently a nightmare. My mother insisted on leaving everything for our housekeeper though and since I didn’t even know how to turn the washing machine on I was inclined to follow at least that edict.

“Hey, it’s not so bad. My dad has all the chores divvied up. Uncle Matt cleans the house, dad does the laundry and I do the cooking. We make it work,” Ryder’s grin widened and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or telling the truth about the division of work.

“You do the cooking? Like on a regular basis?” I almost choked on scone. I did not like knowing Ryder could cook, not at all. The knowledge did funny things to my bones, making them clack together at the same time they felt like they were melting into warm puddles inside my skin.

“Don’t look so surprised! I can grill a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the best of them,” Ryder laughed, reaching for what was left of my chocolate croissant.

“Did you say grill?” So obviously he was joking.

“Yes ma’am,” he answered seriously. “Are you telling me you’ve never slathered your PB&J’s in butter and then fried them?”

I shook my head quickly at the disgusting idea. I wasn’t allowed to eat peanut butter ever, let alone slathered it in butter….

“Ivy, you haven’t seen Austin Powers, you’ve never had a fried PB&J…. I’m starting to seriously worry about you. What kind of life do you live anyway?”

“You don’t even want to know,” I mumbled unable to keep the depressing truth out of my tone.

“Speaking of food, this is the most I’ve ever seen you eat. Hangover cure?” Ryder