Chapter 13 Ruby
Ruby
Ido not sleep.
Not even a little.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the wall, my phone, the ceiling again, my phone again, and every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice.
It wasn’t just dinner. Let me make it simple. You’ll come back. Goodnight, Ruby.
My whole body tingles like I’m plugged into a socket.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to the empty room.
The empty room doesn’t argue, but it absolutely judges me.
I roll over.
Roll back.
Roll to the other side.
Kick the blanket off.
Pull it back on.
Consider screaming.
Eventually, I sit up, grab my phone, and stare at his last message.
Jaxon:
Goodnight, Ruby.
Nothing exciting.
Nothing suggestive.
Nothing inappropriate.
So why does it feel like he whispered it directly against the side of my throat?
I flop back on the pillow and groan. Loudly.
“STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM.”
My brain: Absolutely not.
I glance at the clock.
2:04 a.m.
I sit up again. I throw the pillow across the room. It bounces off the dresser and lands limply on the floor, a metaphor for my life, honestly.
I get out of bed and pace the room.
It’s just coffee tomorrow. Not a date. Not a follow-up to dinner. Not the next step in some slow-burn seduction arc that ends with me ruining my job and my dignity.
Just coffee.
I stop pacing.
It’s definitely a date.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I’m an idiot.”
I walk to the bathroom, turn on the light, and stare at myself in the mirror.
My hair is a mess. My mascara is smudged. I look like a woman who is being actively haunted by a very determined billionaire.
Which is accurate.
I splash cold water on my face and lean forward.
“You are not going,” I tell my reflection.
Reflection: Ruby looks unconvinced.
“You are strong,” I tell her.
She squints like she’s considering filing a complaint.
“You do not crumble for a hot man in a suit.”
She raises a brow.
“You are NOT THINKING ABOUT HIS HANDS.”
She absolutely is.
I turn the light off, grab my phone again, and crawl into bed.
I turn on a meditation video to calm my brain.
It works for thirty seconds.
Then my mind immediately replays dinner: the wine, the candles, the soft lighting, the way he watched me like he was memorizing every expression I made.
I squeeze my pillow.
“This is not my fault,” I whisper. “He’s too intense. Any woman would be feral.”
My brain agrees.
My body double agrees.
My ovaries are already writing wedding vows.
I drift in and out of half-sleep and fully-awake panic until the sun starts to rise.
When my alarm finally goes off, I sit up with the physical grace of a corpse.
I grab my phone.
No new messages.
Okay. Good. Great. Healthy. Normal.
I get ready for work slowly, pathetically, like someone walking toward her own emotional execution.
When I finally leave my apartment, I feel marginally more human, until my phone buzzes.
My stomach drops.
I stop walking.
I unlock the screen.
Jaxon:
Good morning.
The breath leaves my lungs.
Instantly, immediately, without hesitation, my heart kicks into a sprint.
My hands shake as I type back.
Me:
Morning.
He replies within seconds.
Jaxon:
Coffee?
My pulse stutters.
He’s not even pretending this isn’t happening.
My fingers hover.
I should say no.
I should set boundaries.
I should choose responsibility and self-preservation and professionalism.
Instead, I type:
Me:
… where?
There’s a tiny pause, not long, but enough for my nerves to bounce around like marbles in a blender.
Jaxon:
The café across from the office.
15 minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
FIFTEEN.
I stare at the message.
I should run.
I should hide.
I should turn my phone off, move to a remote island, and reinvent myself as a woman who never met a billionaire.
Instead, I look at my reflection in a shop window.
Red lips.
Soft hair.
A nervous wreck barely held together by caffeine and denial.
I whisper to myself:
“You’re going. Aren’t you?”
I am.
I absolutely am.