12
Pia
Ryker hadn’t called since his mom had passed, and I fought off the desire to wallow in self-pity, thinking I’d been nothing but a b***h to get his rocks off with. Replaying the conversations we’d had through my head kept me in the game, though. We’d connected on a few levels from coffee to lasagna, from pot roast to the Patriots.
But I liked cats—he liked dogs.
I enjoyed frou-frou drinks. He preferred beer and shots of whiskey even though he claimed he wanted to quit both—I expected his father influenced those wishes, too.
I liked to dive deep into emotions and what triggers them. He avoided admitting to what he felt beyond l**t and anger.
I wondered over his emotional state and the lack of grief I’d noted on his face when he’d gotten off the phone with his sister Jenny. While
