I roll my eyes. “It’s March.”
“Whatever, don’t be so literal.”
I back the conversation up. “What gift?”
She’s always doing this—buying me things. The last present she bought me is clasped around my neck, a gold necklace that says Bless Your Heart. It does the talking for me when I have nothing to say.
She’s had flowers delivered to me on Valentine’s Day, and she got us matching pajamas last Christmas.
Mallory is both the biggest brat I’ve ever met and the sweetest. Sometimes both at the same time.
“The gift of love.”
“Awww.”
“No, seriously, I’m giving you the gift of love—don’t piss it away.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And who can hear her over all this noise? This room is so ridiculously loud; the acoustics are terrible.
Mallory’s lips are moving, but I can’t tell if any sound is coming out.
“Talk louder! I can barely hear you!”
She gets closer, bumping me with her boobs, her mouth so close to my ear I can feel her lips. “I said, I bought you Ryder Williams.”
Say what now?
“No you didn’t.” There is no way. She couldn’t have.
Wouldn’t have.
“I did, and you’re welcome.” Mal smirks.
“I didn’t say thank you!”
“Well then thank me so we can move on and have fun. My boy is on the block soon and I want to be focused.”
“Why? It seems like you’re warmed up already.” Wait… “How much did you pay for Ryder?”
My best friend shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Mallory! How much?”
“It’s not a big deal, Pipe. It was under two hundred.” She pauses. “Okay, it was under two fifty.”
Jesus!
“Mallory! Why would you do that!” Is she insane? That’s a stupid amount of money to spend on a guy I have absolutely no intention of inviting into my house for the day.
Panic has officially set in.
Ryder Williams will be expecting me to contact him to set up a time and date to fulfill his community service, and that is just not happening. Mallory might have won him for me, but I have no desire to follow through.
And by desire, I mean guts.
Desire? Yes. Guts? Not even a little bit.
“Relax, okay? Calm down, it will be fun. You can have him change light bulbs and mow your lawn.”
“We don’t have a lawn.”
“He can paint the fence.”
“We don’t have a fence, either. My god, why are you like this.”
“Because! No way was I going to let some Kappa get her paws on your man.”
He’s not my man—he’d have to know my name first.
“How…how many girls was it?”
“Bidding on him? Me and four others. There was no freaking way I was backing down.”
I laugh at that. “You were drunk with power, is that it?”
“Hell yeah! Give a girl an auction paddle and move out of the way. That thing is dangerous.”
“You know I’m not going to have him come to the house, right?”
“Yeah, I figured, but I didn’t want him slipping through our fingers just in case you change your mind…”
I won’t.
I don’t.
Two weeks go by and I still have that slip of paper Mallory gave me when she paid for him and used my contact information. The completed paperwork sits on my dresser, folded into thirds, Ryder Williams’ cell number on a piece of blue card stock beneath it. In his own handwriting.
With his schedule of availability.
Monday, wide open. Tuesday through Friday, after three o’clock. Friday, Saturday, Sunday—TBD, with enough advance notice.
I’ve looked at that sheet of paper a million times. Stared at it, memorizing his number and studying his script like a forensic analyst, as if it’s my job to analyze every scroll…the curve of the R in his first name…the Y with its long, dipping tail.
It’s a nice signature, masculine.
Once, last week, I almost added him to the contacts in my phone before thinking better of it and hitting delete.
No lady balls.
None.
Chapter Two
Ryder
When the library door blows open—partly from the gust of wind creating suction in the lobby, partly from my solid yank—the girl pushing on it from the other side loses control of the small stack of books in her arms.
Propping the heavy door open with my booted foot, I squat, intent on retrieving the textbooks. One paperback—a romance novel—escapes. I pluck it from the tile and suspend it between us, glancing down at the cover.
Black and white image of a shirtless dude holding a baseball bat, sweat dripping down his chest. The title is hot pink, something about hard balls and—
It’s yanked from my grasp before I can flip it over to read the back. “Thanks, I think I got it.”
The girl refuses to look directly at me, busying herself with stacking her books neatly, the sexy novel relegated to the bottom of the bunch. Even in this cold vestibule, I know she’s blushing by the way her head dips bashfully, burying her grimace in the colorful scarf tied around her neck.