Chapter 11 Ruby
Ruby
Ispend the entire taxi ride clutching my bag like it’s emotional support therapy. My heart is beating too fast, my palms are sweating, and my brain is on a loop of:
This is not a date. This is not a date. THIS IS NOT A DATE, RUBY, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.
The taxi stops.
I look out the window.
Oh. Oh no.
La Maison isn’t a restaurant. It’s a statement.
Tall arched windows. Soft golden lighting. White tablecloths so crisp they probably have their own security detail. A host in a suit worth more than my rent.
I’m going to die here.
I step out, and the cold air hits my skin. A second later, my body warms again because…
He’s there.
Jaxon stands just inside the entrance, speaking with the ma?tre d’. He’s in a dark suit tailored within an inch of its life, the kind of fit that makes muscles look like they were hand-carved for the specific purpose of ruining me.
His hair is slightly tousled, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. His sleeves are rolled just enough to show a hint of forearm, which should be illegal. And he’s wearing a watch I’m pretty sure could buy me a house.
He turns.
Our eyes meet.
And the entire world goes quiet.
My legs go warm and numb at the same time. Amazing how the body just… quits.
He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like he’s trying not to spook me.
Or like he already knows I’m going to run and will not let me.
“Ruby,” he says softly.
God. His voice. I could bottle it and sell it as a weapon.
“You came.”
“I’m… here,” I say, which is possibly the dumbest sentence ever constructed.
His eyes move over me, not like a creep, not like a man undressing me with his gaze, but like he’s taking me in piece by piece, memorizing everything.
“You look beautiful.”
Cue heart malfunction.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice doing that embarrassing pitch wobble I hate. “You look… good. Fine. Decent. Acceptable.”
He almost smiles. “I’ll take acceptable.”
“I meant..." I stop myself. “Let’s go inside.”
He steps closer and offers his hand gently, not grabbing, not claiming, just a quiet invitation.
I stare at it.
He lifts a brow. “You’re safe with me.”
“I’m not worried about safety,” I mutter.
“What are you worried about?”
“You.”
His eyes darken. “Good.”
I let him guide me inside, our fingers brushing. Not a full touch, just enough to send heat up my arm.
The ma?tre d’ appears instantly like summoned magic.
“Mr. Cole,” he says with genuine respect, “your table is ready.”
Of course it is.
We’re led to a private corner table under soft lighting. Candles. Wine glasses. The whole setup screams romance, not professionalism, not a work dinner, not anything I can hide behind.
Jaxon pulls out my chair, and I sit like a woman who has lost all motor control.
He sits across from me, relaxed and maddeningly confident.
“So,” I say. “Business?”
He laughs quietly. “Sure. Let’s pretend.”
I glare at him. “Jaxon.”
“Ruby.”
We stare at each other, and something in the air shifts, heavy, warm, electric.
The server appears with menus.
“Would you like wine?” she asks.
Before I can answer, Jaxon glances at me. “Red or white?”
“I, red. I guess.”
He nods once. “A bottle of the Chateau Belloy.”
The server practically bows. “Excellent choice.”
When she walks away, I whisper, “Do you just… know fancy wines?”
“No,” he says. “I know what I like.”
“And you think I’ll like it too?”
“I know you will.”
I look down at my hands. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“You’re very unsure of yourself,” he replies.
My stomach tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
“Still not fair.”
The wine arrives. The server pours it like she’s performing a sacred ritual. I take a sip, and, dammit, it's delicious.
Jaxon watches my reaction.
Then says quietly, “Told you.”
I place the glass down too quickly. “Okay, ground rules.”
“Is this a negotiation?”
“YES.”
He leans back, arms comfortably resting on the chair, expression unreadable but very interested. “Go on.”
“One,” I say, “this is not a date.”
He tilts his head. “It is, though.”
“It’s NOT.”
“It feels like one.”
“Stop making it feel like one!”
His mouth twitches. “I can’t help that.”
I inhale sharply. “Two. No flirting.”
His brows rise. “Impossible.”
“Jaxon..."
“Ruby,” he says, lowering his voice, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you.”
My breath catches.
“But I’ll behave,” he finishes.
I look at him suspiciously. “Behave how?”
“I won’t touch you unless you ask.”
My thighs clench so fast I think I sprain something.
He notices.
Of course he does.
I snap my menu open like a shield. “Let’s just… order food.”
He smirks but lets it go. “Fine.”
We order. We eat. We talk.
And it’s… nice. Too nice. DANGEROUSLY nice.
He tells me about his early business disasters. I tell him about my first terrible article that got me hate mail from cat owners. He laughs. I smile. We forget to pretend.
Halfway through dessert, he looks at me with that deep, steady intensity that makes my pulse trip.
“Ruby,” he says softly. “I meant what I said earlier.”
“You say a lot of things,” I murmur.
“This one matters.”
His hand slides across the table, not touching me, just close enough that the space between us feels charged.
“One night wasn’t enough,” he says.
My chest tightens.
“Jaxon…”
He doesn’t look away.
“I’m not asking for yes tonight,” he says. “Just don’t walk away again.”
I swallow hard. “I’m trying to protect my job.”
“I’ll protect your job.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is for me.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He leans in slightly. “I don’t want to decide for you. I want you to choose me back.”
Silence.
Warm.
Tense.
Terrifying.
I whisper, “I don’t know if I can.”
He gives a small, devastating smile. “You will.”
My heart does a whole flip.
The server interrupts with the check, and I practically leap to grab my bag. “We should go.”
“Okay.”
We stand.
He guides me toward the door, not touching, not claiming, just close enough that I feel him.
Outside, the night is cool. City lights glow. People pass by.
And Jaxon looks at me like the whole world has slowed down.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say softly.
“Thank you for coming.”
I swallow. “Goodnight.”
He nods once. “Goodnight.”
I turn away.
I take two steps.
Then…
“Ruby.”
I stop.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t move closer. He just says, in a low, certain voice:
“This isn’t the end of tonight.”
My breath catches.
I turn back. “What do you mean?”
He gives me a look that feels like heat sliding over every inch of my skin.
“You’re going to think about me,” he says. “Every minute. Every hour. And when you do?”
He pauses.
“You’ll come back.”
My knees almost fail.
I whisper, “You’re too confident.”
He smiles. “I’m right.”
He walks away.
And I stand there in the street, heart pounding, breath shaking, absolutely ruined.
Because he is right.
And that is the problem.