Bound

Kate & Ryke

Kate

Kylie's greeting on the other end of the phone was more like a groan than an actual word, which was what I deserved for calling her at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.

"Hey," I said. "I know it's early, but I need some wardrobe advice. If you were going to the farmer's market with a pro hockey player, you'd wear . . . ?"

"What?" She was awake now.

"I have a job! I'm the assistant of a hockey player. And we're going to the farmer's market. I'm not sure if I should wear a sleeveless tunic and leggings or jeans and a t-shirt."

"Back up," she said. "You're the assistant of who?"

"His name's Jason Ryker."

"Holy shit, Kate! He's famous. He does tons of endorsements. He was on the list of most eligible bachelors in Chicago last year." Kylie was my polar opposite when it came to gossip and pop culture; she stayed up on everything.

"And he's gonna pick me up in like 15 minutes, so . . . the jeans or the leggings?"

The squeal on the other end of the line was so loud I had to pull the phone back from my ear. "You're going to a farmer's market with Jason Ryker? Take pictures of him, okay? And when are you gonna introduce me?"

"Kylie."

"Wear the leggings. And send me a picture!"

"Bye." I rolled my eyes as I hung up to slide on my cropped black leggings and pink tunic. I'd blown out my hair the night before.

Mom looked at me over the top of her reading glasses at the kitchen table as I poured myself some coffee. Reading the newspaper had always been part of her morning ritual.

"You look nice, honey."

"Thanks. I decided to take that job after all, and I'm starting today." I took the coffee to the living room, where I peeked through the front curtain as I drank.

"You aren't driving?"

"No, Ryke's picking me up." I looked up and down the street. Not a car in sight.

"His name is Ryke? That's different."

I said nothing, just sipping and staring. Glancing down at my flip flops, I wrinkled my face when I saw my toenails were painted red. I wished I'd changed them to pink.

"I'd like to meet him, so don't run out the door when he pulls up."

"It's not like that, Mom. It's not a date."

A red Jeep slowed and turned into the driveway, and I called a hurried goodbye over my shoulder as I ran out.

When I saw Ryke grinning at me from the driver's side of the Jeep, I wished I'd packed extra panties in my purse. He wore a backwards black baseball cap, dark sunglasses, and a gray t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the tear extending all the way down to his waistline so I could see the cuts of his toned muscles.

I needed a cold shower and a slap across the face. This was my new boss.

"Hey," he said. "I'd open your door, but . . ." The Jeep's doors had been taken off, and I could see it would be a breezy trip since the top was off, too.

He backed out of the driveway and I caught a flash of blonde hair in the front window as we left. I'd relinquished my adulthood when I moved back home.

The whipping wind made conversation difficult. I gathered my long hair and tucked it under my shirt to keep it from slapping my face. At every stoplight, Ryke drew the attention of women in neighboring cars and on the sidewalk, though he seemed not to notice.