Chapter 14
RUBY
I wake to a quiet house.
Sunlight filters through my curtains, and for a few seconds, I stare at the ceiling, my body still warm beneath the covers. My peace is interrupted when everything from last night comes crashing back.
The bar.
The way that man looked at me.
The warning in Catcher’s voice.
Then later, standing in the bar with everyone crowding me as the truth I’ve avoided for days spills out of me.
My brother and the mess he’s brought right to my doorstep.
The kind of trouble that has somehow attached itself to my family like a shadow when it comes to Robby.
Then there’s the fact that Catcher stayed the night.
He’s here now in my house. That single fact presses heavily against my heart, causing dread to settle in the pit of my stomach.
I tossed and turned for hours last night, wondering why the hell he insisted on being the one to watch over me.
For a man who has made it clear he wants not one thing to do with me, he sure seemed insistent he was up for the task.
Not wanting to overthink the situation and spiral like I did last night, I force myself out of bed and pad over to the door.
I press my ear against it, listening for any sign that Catcher is awake.
When silence greets me, I slowly crack open the door and shuffle into the bathroom across the hall.
Taking a deep breath, I brace my palms against the sink and take in my reflection.
The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
My hair is a mess, plus shadows sit under my eyes.
I don’t linger before reaching over and turning on the shower and letting the water heat while I brush my teeth and wash my face.
When I’m done, I step into the shower and under the spray.
Closing my eyes, I lean into it, letting the heat loosen my shoulders.
It helps, but not enough. There’s no way for me to fully relax when all I can think about is what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door.
Catcher knows about my brother now. He knows I’m in danger.
The anger I saw in him last night wasn’t aimed at me, but for the man who hurt me.
Truth be told, Catcher’s reaction shocked me.
He was furious in a way I have never seen before.
But why? He’s made it clear I’m nothing to him.
Shaking those thoughts away, I rush through washing my hair.
Once I’m finished, I shut off the water, dry quickly, and pull on a pair of gray sweats and an old T-shirt.
Drained of energy, I pile my wet curls into a messy bun at the top of my head.
I then hesitate before opening the bathroom, and I even contemplate hiding out in there.
It’s the smell of bacon and my tummy rumbling that has me changing my mind. Shoulders squared, I exit the bathroom and slowly make my way down the hall. The aroma gets stronger with each step I take. My steps halt when I reach the kitchen and freeze.
Catcher is at my stove, broad shoulders bare, jeans sitting low on his hips as he works a skillet.
He flips the eggs like he’s done it a thousand times before, completely at ease.
Morning light spills over him through the kitchen window, highlighting every familiar line.
The sight of him steals my breath in a way that hurts more than it should.
Seeing him here, in my kitchen, dredges up more emotion than I’m ready to deal with.
This isn’t adrenaline or chaos pulling us together.
This is quiet. Normal. It feels comforting.
He turns, as if he senses me watching, and for a long moment we stare at each other.
His gaze sweeps over my face, searching and assessing.
Then his expression softens, tension easing from his posture.
“Mornin’,” he says, his tone light. “Sit. I’ve got breakfast.”
I move on autopilot and take a seat at the table while he plates eggs and bacon and sets them in front of me. The simple act sits heavy in my chest. “Thanks,” I murmur.
He grabs two mugs. “Coffee or juice?”
I blink. “Since when do I have juice? Or bacon, for that matter?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Had one of the guys drop off clean clothes. Told him to hit the store too.”
That’s when I notice the duffel bag sitting near the couch. My stomach tightens.
“Juice,” I say after a second.
He pours it and sets the glass beside my plate. “Eat.” Catcher leans back against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me as I take my first bite. His attention is steady, protective, like he’s noticing every reaction I have.
“Are you not eating?” I ask quietly, as if this whole scene is not weird.
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Yeah,” he says. “I ate earlier.”
Catcher continues to watch me as I lift a piece of bacon to my lips. “How long have you been up?” I try to make small talk to avoid how unnerving and awkward it is to have Catcher standing shirtless in my kitchen.
“Coupla hours,” is his curt reply.
His staring starts to unnerve me, and suddenly I’m no longer hungry.
The thought of hiding out in my room becomes more appealing.
I’m about to excuse myself from the table when Catcher picks up a pile of envelopes from the counter, and in two strides, he’s standing beside me.
The stack of bills smacks the table in front of me.
My mouth instantly goes dry, but my embarrassment quickly turns to anger.
My fork pauses midair as my eyes track the uneven pile—white and off-white, some folded, some torn open.
My stomach churns in a way that has nothing to do with food.
Slowly, I look up at Catcher.
He’s still leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me in that quiet, assessing way of his like he’s been waiting.
“You went through my mail?” I ask. The words come out calm, but there’s a sharp edge underneath that I don’t bother hiding.
Catcher doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”
Just like that, he admits it. No apology. No hesitation.
I set my fork down harder than necessary. “That’s not okay.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “You want to talk about what’s not okay?”
My pulse jumps. “You invaded my privacy.”
He straightens, setting his mug down with deliberate care. “I picked up a stack of past-due notices addressed to you, Ruby. From credit card companies. Collection agencies. Some of them stamped final notice.”
My skin prickles. “That doesn’t give you the right—”
“I wasn’t snooping,” he cuts in. “Your mail was laid out.”
“That’s still my business,” I snap. “This is my house, of course, my things are laid out. What you should have done was mind your damn business.”
His eyes harden. “It stopped being just your business when some motherfucker cornered you in the bar last night and put his hands on you. It stopped being your business when your brother brought that trouble to your doorstep.”
Silence snaps between us.
I push my chair back and stand, nerves buzzing under my skin. “You don’t get to bulldoze into my life just because you decided to play protector.”
He steps closer, invading my space even more. Not threatening, just solid and unyielding. “I don’t play at anything.”
I lift my chin. “Then you should know better.”
Catcher crosses his arms over his bare chest, muscles tightening. “Know better than to ask why you’re drowning in debt while telling me everything’s fine?”
Anger burns hot and fast. “I didn’t ask for your help, and I certainly didn’t ask for your input.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You didn’t, but you damn sure need it.”
“That’s not your call.”
“It is when you won’t make it.”
I laugh sharply, more brittle than amused. “You think you can just come in here and interrogate me?”
“I think…” he says, voice low, “… that something is seriously wrong, and you’re bleeding from a dozen places you keep pretending don’t exist.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sneer, ignoring how right he is.
He reaches for the stack of bills and holds each one up to my face. “Visa, American Express, Mastercard, store cards… several different collection agencies.”
My hands curl into fists. “Put those down.”
“No,” he growls.
I step closer, refusing to back down. “You don’t get to tell me no in my own house.”
Catcher doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “You don’t get to lie to my face.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re hiding too,” he shoots back.
I open my mouth, then close it. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. Every instinct is screaming at me to shut this down, push him out, and protect what little control I still have.
Catcher doesn’t back off. “Talk to me,” he says, softer but no less firm. “Because I’m not walking away from this.”
I shake my head. “You already crossed a line.”
“I’ll cross ten more if it keeps you safe.”
His confession causes my breath to catch. “That’s not your decision to make!”
“It is if you won’t,” he snaps.
The air between us feels thick. “You think I don’t know how bad it is?”
His eyes narrow. “Then explain it.”
I say nothing.
“How bad?” he continues to push.
I blow out a breath and look away. “Bad enough that I don’t open my mail some days.”
Silence stretches.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks.
I laugh quietly, bitter. “Because it’s my problem. I was handling it.”
“Not very well,” he says sharply.
“Obviously,” I snap, feeling defensive. “Again, not your concern. So, if we are finished here, I’d like to get ready to go to my parents’ house.”
Catcher turns away, dragging a hand over his face. His shoulders are tight, coiled. When he looks back at me, there’s fire in his eyes. “He stole from you.”
“He’s sick,” I say automatically.
“He committed fraud,” Catcher snaps. “Identity theft. He buried you in debt and put you at risk.”
“He didn’t mean—”
“Stop,” he growls. “Stop making excuses for him. Stop protecting someone who wouldn’t do the same for you.”
The word cuts through me.
Hearing someone say it out loud hurts because it’s true.