Ryder:
She was slipping back into her jeans, tugging the waistband over those hips I’d worshipped hours earlier. The t-shirt she’d borrowed was mine—faded gray, soft from a hundred washes—and it hung off her like it belonged there. Like she did. Her hair was a mess of golden waves, still tousled from sleep, and her cheeks were flushed with the afterglow of everything we said last night.
She caught me staring.
“What?” she smirked, hands on her hips.
“Nothing,” I muttered, dragging my eyes away, slipping into jeans and a soft black Henley. Something easier than my usual button-down and slacks. Something that felt right for the moment. For her.
But the truth was, I couldn’t stop watching her. Couldn’t stop drinking her in like I hadn’t for years.
We ate together. The way her hips swayed
