Page 54 of Nash
"I know." She steps in. Crosses to Leo. Puts her hand on his shoulder with a tenderness that carries eleven months of impossible caregiving. I look away.
"How much did he tell you?" she asks.
"Enough. Vampire. Eleven months. The ham sandwich is emotional support, and the heartburn is the last human thing he has."
"It's acid reflux," Leo mutters.
"Also, for the record, I know you're a witch." I cross my arms. "The candles that light themselves. Sage that never burns down. The way plants grow toward you when you walk past them. I've known for months. Honestly, I should get a medal. Or a plaque. 'Ruby Leighton: successfully identified a vampire AND a witch in the same building using nothing but observation and an unhealthy attention to detail.' The FBI should be recruiting me."
Frankie's mouth twitches. Then breaks. She laughs, short, surprised, the kind that escapes before she can catch it.
"There it is," I say. "Frankie Devereaux laughing. Leo, did you see that? Mark the date."
"I saw it," Leo says from his chair. "Historic."
Frankie shakes her head, but the tension in her shoulders loosens. She looks at me with those dark eyes that see six thingsat once. Underneath the calm, I can see what this is costing her. She's afraid I'll tell someone.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, I won't tell anyone. Your secret is my secret. Okay, whatever you need." The words come out easily. Automatically. "Someone has to know. Might as well be me."
"No conditions?"
"None. You saved someone you love. That's the whole story. The rest is details, and we'll get to them when you're ready."
Frankie's hand reaches for mine. Squeezes once, hard. Lets go.
"Come upstairs," she says. "My client is waiting."
She goes. Leo and I look at each other.
"She's going to make you soup," he says. "When Frankie trusts someone, she feeds them. The soup is aggressive."
"I can handle aggressive soup."
"You say that now."
Chapter 14
Ruby
Ilockthepadlockbehind me and climb into daylight carrying a secret that isn't mine.
Nash returns at noon. He takes his usual spot by the door, feet shoulder-width apart, and arms at his sides. I wait for the weight of his gaze to settle between my shoulder blades the way it has every day this week.
It doesn't come.
He watches the window. He watches the street. Professional. Correct. Everything he's supposed to be and nothing he was three days ago when he pressed me against a wall as he groaned into my mouth.
I work a back piece for a walk-in. My hands are steady. My chest isn't.
I glance at him twice. First time, he's scanning the street. The second time, his eyes are on me, but they cut away the instant mine find his. Quick. Practiced. A man actively choosing not to look at me.
My chest tightens. I wish to cross the room, then stand in front of him and saylook at me.The way he did to me. The way he made me take the compliment, made me stop running. I want to stand there and make him see what this distance is doing to me.
I don't. I work. I ink. I wipe.
