Page 14 of Nash
Now it's open. On my bed. Turned to that page.
The apartment is intact. Nothing taken, nothing moved. Just my most private sketchbook pulled from the bottom of a stack and left open to the drawing of the man who just walked me to my door.
My hand is shaking.
I pick up my phone and call Nash.
He answers on the first ring. "Ruby."
"Somebody was in my apartment." My voice comes out level. "While I was at the shop. My sketchbook is open on my bed. The one from the desk drawer. Nothing else is touched."
"Lock yourself in the bathroom. I'm coming."
"I'm not locking myself in the damn bathroom. I'm standing in my bedroom and I'm fine." A breath. "Don't tell my parents. My dad will have a SWAT team here by morning."
"Ruby." My hand stops shaking. "Five minutes."
The line goes dead.
I hear the Harley at the curb, then his boots taking the exterior stairs two at a time. His fist hits the door once, hard. I open it. He is past me before I've finished stepping back.
He goes through every room. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, closets, then presses each window latch with his thumb. Back door chain. Front door jamb, two fingers running along the frame. He clears my apartment the way he reads a room: systematic, thorough, every entry point tested.
He stops in the bedroom doorway, and his eyes find the sketchbook. His jaw locks. The muscle near his ear jumps. Both hands close into fists at his sides. Nash crosses to the bed and stands over the open sketchbook, looking at the drawing of himself. He stares at it until I want to slam the book shut myself. Then he reaches down and closes the book, one-handed, slow.
His palm stays flat on the cover.
I'm standing in the doorway in bare feet and sleep shorts, wet hair soaking the back of my tank top.
"They got in clean," he says without turning. His voice is low, stripped down. "No pry marks. Nothing taken."
He turns and closes the distance between us until he's standing in front of me. Sandalwood and leather. His eyes move over my face. My throat. My hands. Back to my face.
"You okay?"
His voice breaks on the second word, the control slipping just enough that I hear everything underneath it.
"I'm fine."
"Ruby."
My hand, which had started shaking again, goes still at my side.
His right hand lifts. Slowly. It stops an inch from the side of my jaw, his palm so close to my cheek that I can feel the heat of it without contact. His thumb hovers near the corner of my mouth.
I stop breathing. My whole body leans toward his hand, pulling, aching to close the gap.
"You're not fine," he says.
"I'm working on it."
His hand holds. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from turning my face into his palm.
"Okay," he says. To himself.
His hand lowers and the backs of his knuckles graze the hem of my tank top at my waist deliberately with a touch that barely qualifies as contact. Then his hand is at his side.
The spot on my hip burns.
