Chapter 10 Ruger #2
Hey, I say, finally announcing myself.
They both look up. Remi’s expression is somewhere between neutral and annoyed. Wrenley, though—she smiles.
You look surprisingly sober after cheap beer night, I tease as I cross the room and grab a beer from the fridge.
Who needs to get drunk when you have the kind of friendship that makes you act like you are anyway? Remi asks.
Wrenley laughs softly.
I shake my head and twist the cap off my beer, sitting at the table in the kitchen, where I have a clear view into the living room.
What are you two up to? I ask, taking a drink.
Tandem playing, Remi says.
Wrenley lifts a brow at her. More like tandem working.
Remi scoffs. Maybe you’re working. I can’t with my brother yapping like a Chihuahua over there.
I frown. Isn’t tandem playing what toddlers do?
Yes. Remi gives me a smug little grin that says go away, Ruger, loud and clear.
Cool. I sink deeper into my chair, silently announcing I’m not going anywhere.
Remi sighs and turns back to her laptop. Wrenley’s back to her fabric, laser-focused. She’s adorable when she’s in her element. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
If Remi weren’t here, I’d slide onto the couch behind Wrenley, maybe turn on the TV. Pretend I’m just relaxing when really, I’d be angling for a few more inches of closeness.
But I know my sister. She needs silence to write, and I can tell she’s already pissy enough about me disrupting her zone. Luckily, I don’t have to come up with a plan to get her out of my house. She shuts her laptop with a sigh and puts it away.
I should get going. Ruger wrecked my vibe.
You’re in my house.
Remi shrugs as she slides her silver computer into her bag. Still true.
I roll my eyes.
She squeezes Wrenley’s shoulder. I’ve got a meeting first thing. I’ll text when I’m done.
Sounds good, Wrenley says with a soft smile.
Then Remi’s gone, and the house is how I’ve grown to like it: just me and Wrenley.
I drift into the living room and nod toward the TV. Mind if I turn something on?
She shakes her head. Go for it. I prefer background noise when I’m working. But Remi…
She’s weird about writing in silence, I finish for her.
Wrenley laughs gently. Not weird. Just specific. Everyone’s got their thing.
I let out a lighthearted harumph. We’ll agree to disagree on my sister.
I turn on the TV and scroll until I find a documentary series we started a few nights ago. Each episode is short and self-contained with its own story. Figured it’s easier for Wrenley than starting some drawn-out, multi-episode crime saga.
But I can’t focus.
Not when she’s sitting on the floor in front of me, bent over her sewing like it’s precious metal.
I’ve never cared about fashion. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I bought a shirt.
But watching her work fabric across her lap is like watching a dance.
She makes it look easy, like the material is listening to her.
I battle between staying quiet and saying something.
I like that we’ve learned how to exist in silence.
But the urge to know what she’s thinking and feeling every second is getting harder to ignore.
She puts down her project and scoops her thick curls into a ponytail, tying them back with the elastic around her wrist. When she leans back, she’s close.
Too close. The scent of her—floral and something sweet like almonds—fills my lungs and settles low in my gut.
Her long neck is exposed, and I wonder what it would feel like to kiss it.
My cock twitches, pressing hard against my zipper. I want to adjust myself, but we’re so close now that any movement would give me away. The last thing I want is for her to pull back. Or worse, catch me and think I’m some creep getting off on watching her sew.
This is ridiculous, she mutters.
My pulse jumps. What is? Please don’t say us.
This case. She nods toward the screen. There’s no way they know who the killer is.
I breathe again, just in time to hear her launch into a full analysis of the crime. Her voice has this slightly nasally tone and exaggerated r’s that make me grin like an idiot. I could listen to her talk for hours.
Don’t you think so? she asks, dragging me back to the present.
Don’t I think what?
That it’s way too simple to say the florist did it. Just because the body was found behind her shop in her dumpster? Please. She doesn’t even know the victim. They haven’t found the actual crime scene. And she’s the one who called it in.
Murderers call in their crimes all the time, I point out.
Wrenley scoffs. Yeah. Stupid ones.
She shakes her head and leans forward again, resuming her pinning without missing a beat. I settle deeper into the couch, hiding a smile. I love watching her brain work.
Suddenly, there’s an ache in my chest. I frown and press a hand against it.
For one concerning second, I wonder if I’m about to have a heart attack at thirty-six.
But then I look over at Wrenley, completely absorbed in her sewing, and realization hits.
All these moments are temporary, and while logically I understand that, somewhere along the line, my heart seems to have forgotten.