Page 18 of Beautiful Ruins
I grabbed a crisp navy shirt from a hanger and pulled it on.It swallowed me whole—fell almost to my knees, sleeves brushing my wrists.I wasn’t small, but this thing was built for someone broader, taller.Someone who filled rooms without trying.
It would have to do.
I rummaged through a drawer and found a pair of drawstring linen pants.Not exactly a fashion win, but better than nothing.I stepped into them and tightened the string as I walked back into the bedroom, focused entirely on making sure they stayed up.
Which was why I didn’t notice him until I was already there.
I startled, hand flying to my chest—and the pants chose that exact moment to give up on life.They slid straight down to my ankles.
Fantastic.
I froze.He didn’t move.His gaze flicked down, then back up, sharp with amusement he didn’t bother to hide.
“Nice shirt.It’s one of my favorites.”
Heat crept up my neck.I tugged the hem down instinctively, painfully aware of how thin the fabric felt against my skin.Of how nothing separated me from it.I crossed my arms, too late to be subtle.
“I couldn’t find anything else.Unless you’d prefer I wander around naked.Which feels like a boundary we should probably discussbeforecommitting to.”
One corner of his mouth tipped upward.
“I’ll keep it in mind.Though for the record—you wear it well.”
My eyes narrowed.“You say that like it wasn’t designed for a man twice my size.”
“True.”His gaze lingered, unreadable.“But you’re improving it.”
I was suddenly hyperaware of the way the shirt clung, of the way the cool air brushed places I very much did not want him thinking about.I cleared my throat.
“You did tell me to make myself comfortable.”
A beat.Then, softer—almost amused.
“That, I did,” he agreed.“I just didn’t think you’d getthatcomfortable.”
7
Raze
After she recovered from her initial embarrassment, I told her dinner was ready.The look in her eyes told me she was starving—properly so—even though she’d had full access to my kitchen earlier.I hadn’t seen her eat a single thing.Either she didn’t trust my food or she’d been too busy casing the place like a raccoon with anxiety.
We walked side by side to the kitchen, and Little Miss Chatty filled the space with questions.Where was I from.How long had I lived here.Did I actually cook or was this a once-a-year performance.I answered maybe half of them.Generous, all things considered.
She took one look at the plate.
Just one.
Then she blinked slowly, like she needed a second to process what she was seeing—and
“This smells like something I’ll regret ingesting.”
I stared at her across the island, spoon hovering uselessly over the pan.Steam billowed up between us, carrying the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and apparently betrayal.
“It’s pasta.”
“It’sovercookedpasta,” she amended, leaning in closer as if the dish might confess under pressure.“And whatever that sauce is trying to be—it’s failing.Impressively, actually.”
I waited.
