Page 26 of Nash
The plates are stacking up. Trash from the games is scattered across the yard. The balloon arch is listing to the left where Nasty Nash Jr. chewed through one of the anchor zip ties.
"I'll get it," I say. To nobody in particular. "I'll clean up."
Candace looks at me. "Ruby, you planned the whole thing. Let someone else."
"It's fine. Someone has to."
I grab a trash bag from the kitchen, then start collecting plates, cups, and streamers. The yard empties in stages. Darla and East first, her tiredness winning. Knox and Sloane next. Kyle leaves after a final standoff with the goat that ends in mutual distrust.
I'm tying off the second trash bag when I notice Nash.
He's at the edge of the picnic table, close to where I'm working, phone in his hand, thumb moving across the screen. He pockets it, looks up, and catches me watching.
My eyes drop to the faded red headband on his wrist. The worn fabric against his skin. Dark hair caught in the weave that isn't his. My stomach tightens the way it always does when I look at it too long.
"Venue rotation," he says. "Vesper. Arden's on days. I have to coordinate the night protocol before the end of the week."
"On a Sunday?"
"Threats don't take weekends."
"That was almost a joke, Sergeant-at-Arms." I toss the trash bag toward the bins. "So when are you taking me?"
"Where?"
"Vesper." I turn to face him. "You're there half the week. I've never even seen the inside. What's a girl have to do to get an invitation?"
His expression doesn't change, but something behind his eyes shifts. A heat that wasn't there a second ago, quick, controlled.
"You don't want that invitation, Ruby."
"How do you know what I want?"
His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to my mouth, hold there, then come back up. The look is slow, deliberate, and my skin prickles from my throat to the backs of my knees.
"When you're ready," he says in a low voice, "I'll take you."
My breath catches. The words land somewhere deep in my chest and stay there, heavy, warm. The yard is quiet around us, full of leftover light, and his mouth twitches at the corner.
"Goodnight, Trouble." He turns toward the clubhouse. I watch him go, the line of his shoulders, the cut hanging straight, the headband on his wrist catching the last of the amber light. Then I pick up another trash bag and keep working.
Chapter 8
Nash
Thetasteofthewords is still on my tongue when I push through the clubhouse door. I said them out loud to Ruby, about Vesper.
Before I make it past the bar, the fantasy from last night slams into me: Ruby on her knees in one of those rooms, her chin tipped up, her red lips parted. The word sir stripped of every joke she's ever attached to it. My hand on the back of her neck, the weight of it, the stillness she'd give me, the quiet underneath.
Fuck.
My hand hits the doorframe of the war room where Knox left the updated relay data on the table. I grab the folder, and my eyes catch the mug at Malachi's spot. Pink, oversized, BOSSBABE in gold script, left over from the girls' prank on the war room. Malachi hasn't moved it.
I take the folder and keep walking.
East is at the pool table, racking the balls with his big hands and sliding the triangle into position. He looks up when I enter.
"Thought you went home," I say.
