“Your shampoo,” he says, somewhat puzzled. “It smells like raspberries.” A smile crinkles his eyes. “I . . . lost ya after that, didn’t I?”
Yes. He. Did.
Somewhere between him mentioning the smell of my hair and some shit about my eyes, I fell into a woodsy-cologned-Ryder-induced fog, my head warped in a matter of seconds. Hating that he knows how much he gets to me, I smile wryly. “Look, I’m sure you have hordes of girls who willingly spread-eagle for you on your command, but it’s not happening with me, buddy.”
“It’s Ryder,” he deadpans. “And believe me, we will happen.”
“I know your name.” I sigh. “And we won’t happen.”
With a chuckle, Ryder trails me as I try to locate the hall that’ll lead me to my bullshit Intro to Biology class.
“Besides,” I go on, shouldering my way through the crush of students, “I’m sure the blonde who so eagerly replaced my spot in your lap will slice your balls off—machete-style—once she finds out you’re trying to hook up with me.”
“Blondie watched me kiss you, and my balls are still intact, so if that doesn’t tell you she’s a hit-and-run kind of thing, I’m not sure what will.”
I mentally slap myself. He has me slightly irritated and beyond sexually frustrated, and because of that, I failed to remember that mammoth detail.
“And was that . . . jealousy in your tone?” he adds, his tone beyond wiseass.
I stop outside of the classroom, turn around, and find Ryder with his hand cupped behind his ear.
“Mm, yes. Yes. It’s jealousy.” He closes his eyes, thick, dark lashes and all, and lets out a deep, slow, tantalizing groan.
I come close to swallowing my tongue as I envision that groan snarled against my ear while he thoroughly fucks me from behind.
He opens his eyes, pinning them to my lips. “And such a sweet, sweet sound it is, coming from that pretty mouth of yours.”
“It’s not jealousy,” I insist. And it’s not. It’s . . . it’s . . . Shit, I don’t know what the hell it is, but I know it’s not jealousy. My fingers go stark white as I clutch the leather strap of my satchel. “You wish it were jealousy.”
He snags his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head as he slowly walks backward into the throng. “It’s jealousy,” he calls out. “But I’m okay with you not wanting to admit it. It only adds to your cuteness, so it’s all good.”
I roll my eyes, a mental ugh! shooting through my head.
“And you never answered my question,” he adds.
“What question?” With my hand poised over the doorknob, I pull my brows together. I know the last five minutes spent with him has me feeling like I just stumbled out of a psychiatric ward, but I don’t remember him asking me anything that I haven’t answered.
“What’s the name that belongs to the gorgeous face?”
I dig a hand into my hip. “You didn’t ask me that.”
“But . . . I just did.” He sends me a panty-dropping smile, continuing his backward pursuit down the hall. “Did I not?” He scratches at his jaw, mock confusion pinching his forehead. “I mean, I could very well be wrong about my assumption, it’s been a long day, but I swear to the good Lord above that I asked ya.”
This dude honestly finds himself entertaining. I guess some perverse part of me does too.
“Brock didn’t tell you my name?” I find that hard to believe. Guys talk, and considering they’re best buds, I have no doubt I was mentioned. “I’m sure you asked him what it was.”
“Ah, very, very true. And had I seen or spoken with him since the other day, I would’ve, but I haven’t. Hence the motivation behind me asking you.”
I blow out a breath, knowing this is a losing battle. “Amber.”
He halts, a slow smile curling his mouth. “Mm, it all makes perfect sense now.”
“What does?”
“The reason your parents named you Amber.”
I stare at him, having no clue what he means.
“The color of your eyes, beautiful girl.” He pitches me a wink, a genuine smile hinting at his lips. “And try not to take some of the shit I say too personally. It’s just . . . who I am.” His smile falls away, a sinfully delicious smirk replacing it as a group of students brush past him. “But have no fear, sweets, you’ll eventually get used to, and quite possibly fall in love with, all of my fucked-up personalities. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. If I have to annoy you every goddamn day, which, if I were you, I wouldn’t doubt my ability in doing just that, I will. Believe me, I will. By the time I’m done with you, I guarantee I’m gonna be the first thing that pops into that pretty head of yours when ya wake up in the morning, and the last image floating through it before you close those hypnotizing eyes at night.” A shrug, this one following the reappearance of his smile. “Just giving ya the appropriate fair warning you deserve.”
He turns around and, with a wave from over his shoulder, vanishes around a corner.
As I walk into the classroom, my breath hijacked by his statement, it occurs to me that Ryder Ashcroft—with all the annoying, sexually frustrating traits he doesn’t want me to take too personally—just may be correct about one thing. Maybe my parents did name me Amber because of my eyes.
Still, how can you ask your dead loved ones questions?
That’s right . . . you can’t.
CHAPTER 3
Amber