Chapter 7 #2
I look down at his hand. Look up at his face. He's watching me with that steady, patient expression that makes my knees unreliable.
"Ask," he says. Low. Just for me.
My mouth goes dry. "Can I have a fry?"
"Try again."
My stomach drops through the floor. The yard is loud around us. Kyle is telling a story, Darla's laughing, plates clink, and none of it reaches the two feet of air between Nash's face and mine.
"May I have a fry?" My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "Please."
His thumb strokes once across my pulse point. Then he lets go.
I take the fry. Put it in my mouth. Chew. My hand is shaking. The fry tastes like salt, adrenaline, the word please still sitting on my tongue. His eyes follow my mouth the entire time.
He picks up his burger and takes a bite. The corner of his mouth twitches.
I walk to the cooler on legs I can't entirely feel.
Kyle is at the far end of the table, holding court on a story about a supply run that somehow involves a flat tire, a raccoon, and a misunderstanding at a gas station in Tupelo.
"How the fuck do you misidentify a raccoon?" East asks.
Kyle waves him off without breaking stride. I slide into the empty seat beside him.
"Kyle. Tell me more about the raccoon."
He lights up. Launches into the extended cut, complete with hand gestures and sound effects. Amelia is across the table, chin in her hand, watching him with an expression she probably doesn't know she's making. Whatever is happening between those two, it's not my place to complicate it.
I lean in just enough, laugh a little louder than the joke deserves, tip my head back at the punchline with my throat in the light because I know exactly how that carries across a yard. Kyle is the stage. The audience is at the end of the picnic table with a burger he still hasn't finished.
I let my eyes drift toward Nash casually, like I'm scanning the yard.
His jaw is locked. His eyes are on me. The muscle near his ear jumps once. The look on his face is the one I've been chasing for fourteen months; it's the one that says I see exactly what you're doing and you're going to pay for it.
My whole body warms. I take a slow sip of beer, let the grin spread across my face, and hold his eyes while I do it. The thrill of it buzzes through me, better than the beer, better than the laugh, better than every joke I've landed all day.
Worth it.
The afternoon settles into the warm hum of the clubhouse yard.
Sloane and Knox are on the bench, her head on his shoulder.
Darla's feet are in East's lap, his hands rubbing her ankles while he argues with Kyle about something I can't hear.
Malachi and Candace are clearing plates together, their shoulders touching, moving around each other without looking.
James and Maggie sit at the far end, his arm around the back of her chair.
My chest aches. I look at all of it. The way they fit together, the ease of it, and the ache spreads.
The plates are stacking up. Trash from the games is scattered across the yard. The balloon arch is listing to the left where Nasty Nash Jr. chewed through one of the anchor zip ties.
"I'll get it," I say. To nobody in particular. "I'll clean up."
Candace looks at me. "Ruby, you planned the whole thing. Let someone else."
"It's fine. Someone has to."
I grab a trash bag from the kitchen, then start collecting plates, cups, and streamers. The yard empties in stages. Darla and East first, her tiredness winning. Knox and Sloane next. Kyle leaves after a final standoff with the goat that ends in mutual distrust.
I'm tying off the second trash bag when I notice Nash.
He's at the edge of the picnic table, close to where I'm working, phone in his hand, thumb moving across the screen. He pockets it, looks up, and catches me watching.
My eyes drop to the faded red headband on his wrist. The worn fabric against his skin. Dark hair caught in the weave that isn't his. My stomach tightens the way it always does when I look at it too long.
"Venue rotation," he says. "Vesper. Arden's on days. I have to coordinate the night protocol before the end of the week."
"On a Sunday?"
"Threats don't take weekends."
"That was almost a joke, Sergeant-at-Arms." I toss the trash bag toward the bins. "So when are you taking me?"
"Where?"
"Vesper." I turn to face him. "You're there half the week. I've never even seen the inside. What's a girl have to do to get an invitation?"
His expression doesn't change, but something behind his eyes shifts. A heat that wasn't there a second ago, quick, controlled.
"You don't want that invitation, Ruby."
"How do you know what I want?"
His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to my mouth, hold there, then come back up. The look is slow, deliberate, and my skin prickles from my throat to the backs of my knees.
"When you're ready," he says in a low voice, "I'll take you."
My breath catches. The words land somewhere deep in my chest and stay there, heavy, warm. The yard is quiet around us, full of leftover light, and his mouth twitches at the corner.
"Goodnight, Trouble." He turns toward the clubhouse. I watch him go, the line of his shoulders, the cut hanging straight, the headband on his wrist catching the last of the amber light. Then I pick up another trash bag and keep working.