3. Ruby
Chapter Three
RUBY
“Clay?” I call out.
No answer. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights and the tick of the vintage clock on the exposed brick wall.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at the empty hallway where Clay disappeared moments ago.
I thought my dad was being ridiculous, hiring Clay as my personal bodyguard. But right now, with Clay out of sight and that sound still ringing in my ears, I’m grateful he’s here. The thought of facing this moment alone is something I don’t even want to think about.
I glance at my phone sitting on the counter, wondering if I should call for help. But who would I even call? The police? My dad? The mere thought of contacting him makes my stomach knot.
Fortunately, Clay emerges from the hallway a few seconds later, his broad shoulders filling the narrow space. His eyes immediately lock onto mine, and his face softens.
“Everything’s okay,” he says as he walks toward me. “Just a shelf that fell over in the storage room.”
Relief washes over me in a dizzying wave. I force a smile, trying to hide how freaked out I actually am.
“See? Told you nothing to worry about.”
Clay stops a few feet away, studying my face with those intense blue eyes that seem to see straight through my bullshit.
“You okay?” he asks.
I start rearranging the ink bottles on my counter, desperate to appear busy and unbothered.
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Clay takes another step forward. “You’re shaking.”
Am I shaking?
Before I can process it or object to it, his arms are around me, enveloping me in warmth and security. I stiffen for a half-second, my body’s automatic response to unexpected physical contact.
I’m not used to being touched like this. Not by clients who respect my professional boundaries, not by the few casual dates I’ve been on, and certainly not by a man my dad hired.
But there’s something about the solid wall of his chest against my cheek and the steady beat of his heart under my ear that melts my resistance. My body betrays me, relaxing into his embrace as if it’s where I belong.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest and into mine. “I’ve got you.”
This isn’t me. I don’t fall apart. I don’t lean on others. I don’t need protecting.Yet here I am, drawing strength from his embrace like it’s oxygen.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble against the soft fabric of his shirt. “I swear I’m not usually like this.”
His hand strokes my hair, gentle despite its size.
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says. “There’s no need to apologize.”
I pull back slightly, needing to see his face. “I wasn’t scared. I was just surprised.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close. “Of course. My mistake.”
His arms are still around me, and I’m still not moving away. This close, I notice details I’ve been trying not to see. The faint scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw that would feel rough under my fingertips, the way his blue eyes have flecks of gray near the pupils.
“This is weird,” I say before I can stop myself.
“What is?”
“This.” I make a vague gesture between us. “You working for my dad. Following me around. Now... this.”
His arms loosen, giving me space without fully letting go.
“I don’t work for your dad, Ruby. Hunt Security does. I work for them.”
“Semantics.”
“Details,” he corrects. “Important ones.”
I step back, and his arms fall away. The absence of his warmth is immediate, but I ignore it. “Still weird.”
Clay watches me for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here to keep you safe.”
“From falling shelves?”
“From whatever comes.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly chilled despite the shop’s steady temperature.
“Well, crisis averted. You can go back to... whatever it is you do when you’re not saving me from rogue furniture.”
Instead of moving away, he glances at his watch.
“It’s past noon. How about we get some lunch? I think we could both use a break.”
My first instinct is to refuse. To insist I’m fine, that I have work to do, clients to prepare for. But the thought of sitting alone in the shop with my jangled nerves makes my stomach clench.
“Okay,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “But I pick the place.”
* * *
The walk to Piney Creek Diner takes less than five minutes, but it feels longer with Clay walking beside me. I’m hyperaware of his presence—the way he shortens his stride to match mine, how he positions himself between me and the street, the occasional brush of his arm against my shoulder that sends little sparks through my body.
“So this is the famous Piney Creek Diner,” Clay says as we approach the cheerful blue building with its vintage neon sign. “I’ve driven past it a few times but haven’t stopped in yet.”
“Best food in town,” I tell him as he holds the door open for me. The familiar scent of coffee and homemade pie wraps around me like a hug. “And it’s owned by my best friend, so I’m completely biased.”
The lunch rush is in full swing, but there’s an empty booth in the corner.
I lead Clay through the maze of tables, nodding at the regulars who recognize me. I feel their curious glances at Clay, and I know the town gossip mill will be churning by dinner time. Small towns and their obsession with new faces. Especially when that face looks like it was carved by a sculptor with a thing for dangerous-looking men.
We slide into the booth, and I’m suddenly very aware of how small the table is, how our knees almost touch underneath. Clay’s presence seems to fill the entire space, making it hard to focus on anything else.
“Your friend’s place is nice,” he says, looking around at the retro décor and the black and white photos of the diner’s history that line the walls. “Has character.”
“Lainey inherited it from her dad after he passed away a few years ago,” I say, pride for my friend evident in my voice. “She’s kept all the charm but updated everything else. The place was practically falling apart when she took over.”
Clay’s eyes return to mine, and there’s something in them that makes my stomach flip.
I clear my throat. “How did a guy like you end up in a place like Cooper Heights?”
Clay grins. “A guy like me?”
“You know what I mean.” I gesture vaguely at all of him—the military-precise haircut, the way he scanned the room when we entered, the scars that hint at a life far more dangerous than anything Cooper Heights could offer. “You’re not exactly small-town material.”
He picks up a menu, but his eyes stay on mine. “Maybe I got tired of big places with bigger problems.”
“So you just randomly picked our little dot on the map?”
“Not randomly.” He sets the menu down. “I did my research. Cooper Heights is pretty safe, has good proximity to nature, and...” he pauses, a hint of something softer crossing his face, “it reminded me of where I grew up.”
“Where was that?”
“Small town in Montana. Population even smaller than here.” His fingers tap lightly on the table. “My dad was the local sheriff. Mom taught at the elementary school.”
I try to picture a younger Clay, running through Montana wilderness, and the image comes surprisingly easily. “So you were a small-town boy before whatever turned you into...” I gesture at him again.
“Into what?” There’s amusement in his eyes now.
“Into whatever you are now.”
I’m not giving him the satisfaction of saying it out loud—that he looks like the human embodiment of danger and sex wrapped in a tactical package.
His smile widens slightly. “I was in the military. Ten years. Special forces for the last four.”
That explains the way he moves, the constant awareness, the scars I’ve been trying not to stare at—the one at his temple, another peeking from beneath his collar. I force myself to look at my menu instead of wondering where else his body might be marked.
“Special forces,” I repeat, finding myself leaning forward slightly. “I bet that wasn’t quiet at all.”
“It had its moments.” His voice drops a notch, and something in his tone tells me those moments weren’t the good kind. “But that’s behind me now.”
“And now you’re babysitting tattoo artists in small towns.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “Quite the career change.”
“I’m not babysitting you, Ruby. I’m protecting you.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice interrupts us.
“Well, well, well. Ruby Tuesday bringing a man to my diner? Mark it on the calendar, folks.”
I look up to see Lainey standing beside our table. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes sparkle with mischief. She’s wearing her usual uniform of jeans and a Piney Creek Diner t-shirt, and a pen is tucked behind her ear.
“Clay, this is Lainey, owner of this fine establishment and professional pain in my ass since third grade. Lainey, this is Clay. He’s working with me temporarily.”
Lainey’s eyebrows shoot up at “working with me,” and I know I’ll be getting twenty questions later.
“Nice to meet you, Clay. Any friend of Ruby’s is a friend of mine.” She gives him an appraising look that’s about as subtle as a neon sign. “What can I get you two today?”
Clay orders a burger and coffee, and I go for my usual grilled cheese and tomato soup. As Lainey walks away, she throws me a look over her shoulder that clearly says “we’ll talk later.”
“Friend since third grade, huh?” Clay asks once she’s gone. “That’s a long time.”
“She’s the closest thing to family I have here.”
“It’s good to have people like that. People who know the real you.”
“And who knows the real you, Clay?” I counter, desperate to shift focus back to him. “You’ve been in town, what, a month? Made any friends besides your gun collection?”
He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. It makes him look younger, less guarded. Something flutters in my chest at the sight.
“I’m not much of a people person,” he admits. “But I’m getting to know a few folks. The guys at the gym. The barista at that coffee shop on Main who no longer looks terrified when I walk in.”
I giggle. “You do have a bit of a scary vibe going on.”
He frowns. “Do I scare you, Ruby?”
Yes, but not in the way he means. He scares me because of how my body responds to him, how I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his arms around me earlier, how I wonder what his mouth would taste like.
“Please,” I scoff instead. “I’ve dealt with drunk bikers who want misspelled tattoos of their ex-girlfriends’ names. You’re a teddy bear in comparison.”
His smile turns predatory in a way that makes my pulse quicken. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Lainey returns with our drinks, her eyes darting between us with undisguised curiosity. “Food’ll be up in a few. You two need anything else?”
“We’re good,” I tell her, silently pleading for her to go away before she says something embarrassing.
She lingers anyway. “So, Clay, what brings you to our little town? Besides Ruby, of course.”
I glare at her, but she just grins.
“Change of pace,” Clay says smoothly. “After my last contract ended, I wanted somewhere quieter.”
“Well, you picked the right place for quiet,” Lainey says. “Though things have gotten more interesting lately.” She gives me a pointed look that I steadfastly ignore.
When she finally leaves, I take a sip of my water, trying to cool the heat in my cheeks. “Sorry about her. Subtlety isn’t her strong suit.”
“I like her,” Clay says, surprising me. “She cares about you.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to.” I wince internally at how pathetic that sounds. “So, are you seeing anyone? In Piney Creek or... elsewhere?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I immediately want to crawl under the table.
Clay’s eyes meet mine, steady and intense. “No. I’m not seeing anyone. Why?”
“Oh.” I fiddle with my straw wrapper. “I was just curious.”
“What about you?” he asks, his voice casual but his eyes anything but.
“No time,” I say with a shrug. “My job keeps me busy.”
“That’s the only reason?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What other reason would there be?”
“You tell me.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. “Are you psychoanalyzing me now? Is that part of your protection services?”
“Just making conversation.” His tone is light, but his eyes are still studying me too closely.
Lainey saves me by arriving with our food. As she sets the plates down, she gives Clay a warm smile.
“Enjoy. Ruby’s been coming here for years, and she’s my toughest critic, so you’re in good hands.”
“I’m sure I am,” Clay says, his eyes never leaving mine.
The double meaning isn’t lost on me, and neither is the way my body responds to it—a slow, liquid heat that spreads from my core outward. I take a bite of my grilled cheese to have something to do besides stare at his mouth.
“So,” I say after swallowing, “ten years in the military. That’s a long time. What made you leave?”
Something flickers across his face. “It was time. You can only live on the edge for so long before it catches up to you.”
“And now you’re here, in the most boring town in America, babysitting me.” I dip my grilled cheese into the tomato soup. “Must be quite the letdown.”
Clay takes a bite of his burger, chews thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
“No.” His eyes hold mine, and the intensity in them makes it hard to breathe. “There’s nothing boring about you, Ruby.”
The way he says my name—like he’s tasting it—sends a shiver down my spine. I’m suddenly very aware of how close our hands are on the table, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him.
“You don’t know me,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.
“I’d like to.”
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard.
I look down at my food, unsure how to respond. This is dangerous territory. Clay isn’t just some guy I can have a fling with and move on. He works for my dad. Getting involved would complicate everything.
But ugh, the way he looks at me makes me want to complicate everything.
“Tell me more about Montana,” I say instead, steering us back to safer ground. “What was it like growing up there?”
Clay accepts the change of subject with grace, telling me about endless summers spent fishing and hiking, winters with snow piled higher than the front door, the small-town dynamics that aren’t so different from Cooper Heights. As he talks, I find myself genuinely interested, picturing him as a boy with the same intense blue eyes but fewer shadows behind them.
I’m so caught up in his stories that I barely notice when Lainey drops off the check, giving me a thumbs-up behind Clay’s back that makes me roll my eyes.
“We should head back,” I say reluctantly, glancing at my watch. “I have a client at two.”
Clay nods and reaches for the check before I can even think about grabbing it.
“I’ve got this,” I insist, trying to snatch it from his hand.
He simply raises an eyebrow, holding the check just out of my reach. “Not happening.”
“Clay, seriously. This is my town, my diner, my friend. I’m paying.”
His expression doesn’t change as he pulls out his wallet. “Consider it a thank you for putting up with me following you around all day.”
“That’s literally your job,” I protest. “You don’t thank someone for letting you do your job.”
“Ruby,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, serious tone that somehow makes my name sound different. “Let me get this one.”
Something about the way he’s looking at me makes further argument feel pointless. It’s not about the money. It’s about something else I can’t quite name.
“Fine,” I relent with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m leaving the tip.”
As we walk back to the shop, I’m acutely aware of the decreased distance between us. He walks closer now, our arms occasionally brushing, and each contact sends little sparks across my skin. The cool autumn air does nothing to calm the heat building inside me.
I steal glances at his profile—the strong jaw, the slight crook in his nose that suggests it’s been broken at least once, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. He’s the most alert, present person I’ve ever met, and there’s something incredibly attractive about that intensity.
“What?” he asks, catching me looking.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just... thanks for lunch. It was nice to get out of the shop for a bit.”
His smile is small but genuine. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
The way he says my name shouldn’t affect me this much. It’s just a name, for God’s sake. But in his mouth, it sounds like something precious.
Back at the shop, I check my appointment book while Clay does another perimeter check. My two o’clock client has texted to reschedule, which gives me unexpected free time.
“I need to grab some supplies from the storage room,” I tell Clay after checking my messages. “My afternoon client rescheduled.”
Clay nods, following me as I head toward the back of the shop. “I’ll give you a hand.”
The storage room is barely bigger than a closet, with shelves lining both walls and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. When I flip the switch, everything is bathed in dim yellow light. The space feels impossibly smaller with Clay’s frame filling the doorway behind me.
“I just need to grab some white ink from the top shelf,” I explain, trying to ignore how my skin prickles with awareness of him standing so close. His presence seems to suck all the oxygen from the room.
I drag the ancient wooden ladder from the corner, positioning it beneath the shelf I need to reach. It wobbles ominously on the uneven concrete floor.
“Let me get that for you,” Clay says, stepping forward.
“I’ve got it,” I insist, already placing my foot on the bottom rung. “I do this all the time.”
His frown deepens. “That ladder looks like a death trap.”
“Yet I’m still alive,” I quip, climbing higher. Each step creaks under my weight, but I’m focused on the black case of specialized inks just beyond my reach. “Almost there...”
I stretch up on my tiptoes, fingers just brushing the edge of the case. The ladder shifts beneath me, and suddenly I’m falling backward, a startled gasp escaping my lips as I brace for impact.
It never comes.
Instead, strong arms catch me mid-air. I find myself cradled against Clay’s chest, my heart hammering wildly as I look up into his intense blue eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice deeper than usual.
I can only nod, suddenly breathless. My arms have instinctively wrapped around his neck, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch—his arms supporting my back and legs, my chest pressed against his, the warmth of his skin seeping through our clothes.
He doesn’t set me down. We stay suspended in this moment, my breathing quickening as his eyes drop to my lips. The air between us feels electric, charged with something that’s been building since the moment he walked into my shop.
“Clay,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.
His grip tightens slightly. “Tell me to put you down,” he says, his voice rough. “Tell me to step back.”
I should. I know I should. But instead, I tighten my arms around his neck, my fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape. “I don’t want you to.”
Something flashes in his eyes.
He shifts me in his arms, pressing me against the wall, my feet still off the ground. The solid surface at my back and his firm body at my front create a delicious pressure that makes my breath catch.
And then his mouth is on mine, and everything else disappears.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s better, deeper, more consuming. His lips are firm but surprisingly soft, moving against mine with a confidence that makes my toes curl. I respond immediately, parting my lips as his tongue slides against mine. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him, and I’m instantly addicted.
Clay presses closer, his body pinning mine to the wall as one hand moves to cradle my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone with surprising gentleness despite the intensity of his kiss. I arch into him, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he’s giving me.
He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, and I tilt my head to give him better access.
“Your skin,” he murmurs against my throat, “I’ve been wondering if the ink makes it taste different.”
The words send a shiver through me. “And does it?”
His tongue traces the colorful pattern on my neck. “Better than I imagined.”
I gasp as his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot below my ear. My hands slide under his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. The muscles of his back flex under my touch, and he makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through me.
“Put me down,” I whisper, and for a second, disappointment flashes in his eyes before I add, “I want to feel all of you.”
He lowers me slowly, letting my body slide against his until my feet touch the ground. But he doesn’t step back. Instead, he keeps me pinned between his body and the wall, one hand beside my head, the other at my waist.
“Better?” he asks, his voice rough with desire.
In answer, I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him with all the pent-up attraction I’ve been fighting. His thigh slips between mine, creating pressure exactly where I need it, and I can’t help the soft moan that escapes me.
The friction of his body against mine sends sparks shooting through me.
I can’t help the way my body responds, pressing against his, seeking more contact. His hands slide down to grip my hips, guiding my movements against his thigh.
The pressure builds impossibly fast, a coiling tension that makes me tremble. I should be embarrassed by how desperately I’m moving against him, but I can’t stop.
I’m fully clothed in the storage room of my tattoo shop, grinding against this man like a teenager, and I’ve never been more turned on in my life. The combination of his hard body, his skilled mouth, and the forbidden nature of what we’re doing is intoxicating.
“I can feel how close you are,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t hold back. I want to see you come apart.”
That does it.
The pressure breaks, pleasure washing through me in waves as I cry out against his shoulder, my whole body trembling. Clay holds me through it, his hands steady on my hips, his lips pressing soft kisses to my temple as I come down from the high.
When I can finally breathe again, embarrassment floods through me.
I just came from dry humping my bodyguard against a wall. What am I, sixteen?
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, heat flooding my face. “That’s not—I don’t usually?—“
Clay’s eyes are dark, his breathing as uneven as mine. “Don’t apologize. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I laugh shakily, pressing my forehead against his chest. “Ugh, this is so embarrassing.”
“Baby, look at me.” His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Before I can respond, the bell above the shop door chimes and reality crashes back in.
I have a business to run. Clay has a job to do. And whatever this is between us just got a whole lot more complicated.
“I should go.”
Clay frowns. “Are you sure?”
I smooth my hair, straighten my clothes, and take a deep breath.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “We’ll talk later.”
Although I have no idea what I’ll say when that time comes.
As I walk to the front of the shop, I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my body, the pressure of his mouth on mine. One thing is certain. Whatever happens next, there’s no going back now.