Page 9 of Nash
I push the door open. The bell jingles.
Ruby looks up. The grin arrives in full force. "Well, well. Look who actually came back." She tilts her head. "I stayed, by the way. Right here. Didn't go to the bakery, didn't go to the grocery." She ticks them off on her fingers. "Followed every one of your very specific instructions. You going to give me a gold star, or..."
"We need to talk."
"Oh, he's serious." She sets the pencil down and props her chin on her hand. "Okay. I'm all ears. But I want it on record that I was very well-behaved, and if there's a punishment for good behavior, I'd like to discuss my options."
My jaw clenches. Heat climbs the back of my neck.
"Ruby."
"Fine, fine." She holds up both hands, grinning. "Talk."
I close the distance between us until the counter is the only thing separating me from vanilla, coconut, and warm skin.
I pull the photo from my cut and place it on the counter between us.
Ruby looks down. The grin drops clean off her face. She picks the photo up, studies it, and turns it over. Her knuckles whiten around the edges.
"When was this taken?" Her voice is quieter.
"Within the last few days."
"And you found it where?"
"On my bike. This morning."
She sets the photo down. Her hands flatten on the counter. Graphite smudges on her index and middle fingers, tendons visible along the backs of her hands. Her breathing is even. Too even.
"So someone's watching me. And they're telling you they're watching me."
"Yes."
She nods once. Her jaw works. Her chin lifts, and a grin comes back. Smaller. Sharper.
"Oh good. My own personal shadow. Does he come with a smile, or is the brooding included at no extra charge?"
"Ruby."
"No, I'm serious. This is a great fucking development. Really top-shelf threatening. Do you think they'll send more photos? Maybe one of me getting coffee. I look incredible in morning light. They should know that."
I move around the counter into her space. She's on her stool, which puts her face level with my chest. Her chin tips up. Her grin flickers, but she holds her ground.
She smells the way she always does, close enough now that it fills my lungs. Her red lips are parted. The pulse at the base of her throat beating fast enough that I track each one.
"Stop," I say, low enough that the word is just for her. "Look at me."
Her mouth opens. Closes. The jokes die on her tongue. She swallows once, eyes lifting to mine, fingers curling against the countertop.
"I know what you do," I say. "You make it a joke. You make everything a joke. And I let you. But right now I need you to hear me."
The grin falls away. The movement falls away. What's left are the freckles across her nose, soft mouth, and wide eyes locked on mine. My hand twitches at my side. Every muscle in my arm is pulling toward her jaw, her hair, the side of her neck. I keep my hand where it is.
"I hear you," she says. Quiet. Her eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before they come back up.
My ribs pull tight. The warmth of her reaches me through the foot of air between us. My pulse hammers in my throat.
I step back.
