Chapter Fifteen
Xavier
The Next Day
I’m not stopping. That’s the lie I told myself as I turned on Maple. Before I kept driving past the job site, past the hardware store, and past the last reasonable place to change my mind.
Ruby’s street is quiet at the edge of town, where pavement gives way to gravel and the houses sit far enough apart to make pretending you’re alone easy.
The kitchen window is open with the low hum of a drill easing its way outside. I park. To check the walls. To check the ceiling. To make sure she hasn’t fallen through something. The drill stops as I shut the truck door.
The back door stands open, propped with a brick. I knock on the frame before stepping inside. “Hello?”
“Kitchen.” Her voice comes from the next room. “If you’re here to tell me I bought the wrong screws, you’re late. I already regret everything.”
I step into the kitchen and stop. Cabinet doors lean against the wall. A section of the countertop is gone, exposing pipes. Dust hangs in the air, catching the late morning light slanting through the window.
Ruby stands on a step stool in the middle of it all, drill in hand, hair piled on top of her head, a streak of something, probably drywall dust, across her cheek.
She looks surprised when she sees me. Not unhappy. Just… surprised. “You do just show up places.”
I set a small container on the counter.
Her eyebrow arches upward. “What’s that?”
“Scraps. From lunch.”
Hooves tap across the wood floor before I see him. Squirt comes in from the other room like he heard his name in another dimension.
Ruby huffs a quiet laugh and opens the container. Apple cores. Carrot ends. The eyebrow goes higher, and the sudden urge to back of the room floods over me in a wave. This was a dumb idea. “You cut these small.”
“Choking hazard.” I shrug as heat seeps over me before I can tamp it down, so I clear my throat and focus on something else. “You’re tearing out your kitchen.”
“I’m improving it.”
I step closer, studying the wall we’d been working on. “You’re making progress.”
“That’s generous.”
I reach for the level leaning against the wall and check the sheetrock's placement. Not perfect but close to it. “It’s not falling yet.”
“High praise.”
The corner of my mouth twitches as I pick up the drill bit she left on the counter. “You’re using the wrong drill bit.”
“I am not.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Besides, I refuse to believe drill bits have sizes.”
“They do.”
“That sounds like propaganda to sell more products.”
“You’d think that.” I swap the bit with the correct one and hand the drill back to her. “Try now.”
She sets the screw and presses the trigger. The drill bites clean, the screw hitting snugly against the board.
She stares at it with suspicion. “Huh.”
“Magic.” The smirk is impossible to stifle this time.
Her eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t get cocky.”
Too late.
We fall into the rhythm, me bracing a board while she secures it, the sound of the drill cutting through the silence.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the Maple site. The concrete is more than cured. Instead, I’m here. The house creaks around us, old wood shifting under our feet.
“You didn’t have to stop.” She doesn’t look up as she continues to hold the drill against the next screw.
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you?”
I adjust my grip on the board. “You’re in the middle of a rehab project.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s enough of one.”
She huffs a breath but doesn’t push.
A white mail truck rattles down the street and stops outside. The engine idles. A minute later, footsteps on the porch. A knock at the open back door.
“Morning, Ruby,” Mr. Peters calls. “Got a package for you.”
She steps down, wiping her hands on her jeans. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Came through this morning.” He hands her a small brown box, tips his hat, and leaves.
Ruby turns the box over. Somehow, her red nails have no chips or scuffs. No return address. Just her name and street in block letters. “That’s weird.”
I lean against the counter, watching. “Secret admirer?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I doubt it.”
“You got a date I don’t know about?” The words come out before I can stop them.
She blinks and returns her attention to the package. “No.”
Something tightens in my chest. I ignore it. “Open it.”
She hesitates, then holds it out. “You open it.”
“Okay.” If she wants me to open it, it’s likely not expected. So who would it be from? I take the package, slice the tape with my pocketknife. Inside is a small box of chocolates and a folded card. I hand it back to her as the tightening intensifies where it has no business being.
She reads it. Her shoulders stiffen, barely noticeable, but there. The note is easy to read upside down.
Thought you might need something sweet after work.
No name. No return address. “Someone from the gym?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t give anyone my address.”
I shake my head. “It’s a small town, Ruby. Someone wants to find you; all they have to do is ask around.” A beat. “Or it’s someone you’re seeing who didn’t think to sign it.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“What?”
“I’m not seeing anyone.” Another beat passes before she drops the note to the island next to the crowbar. “There’s a guy at the gym. Brent Lawson. He’s been hovering around. Even when I play him off.”
Something sharp hits low in my chest. “I’ll talk to him.”
She turns fast. Eyes wide. “No.”
“I’m not asking–”
“I’ll handle it,” she cuts me off before I’m able to say more, leaving no room for wavering unless I go around her.
“I know you can.”
That doesn’t mean I like it. It’s not just the package. It’s the timing. The location. The anonymity. I study her face. There’s no panic. No fear. Just mild confusion.
“Could be a delivery mistake.”
“Doubtful.” It’s not. People don’t accidentally send things to the right house with the right name on it. “But it could be.”
Neither of us believes it.
She nudges the package with her finger, shoving it farther onto the counter.
“You should throw them out.”
“They’re chocolates.”
“They’re from someone who doesn’t know boundaries. They could be poisoned.”
“That’s half this town,” she says, aiming for lightness and missing. She lifts a shoulder. “Besides, who’s going to poison me?”
That is a good question. Sure, I don’t think the chocolates are poisoned. They’re likely from someone hoping for a date, but that’s not the point.
I push off the counter. “You should get a different job.”
She turns, frowning. “What?”
“If that guy’s showing up every day. If he thinks this is okay.” I nod toward the box. “Sending presents to your house. With no name or return address. Creepy as fuck, bold lettering. You don’t have to deal with that.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“It’s candy, Xavier. Not a manifesto.”
“It’s a line crossed.”
She crosses her arms, eyes raking over me. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” I say. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”
The wind rattles the loose gutter outside. The house settles around us, wood creaking like it’s listening.
She looks at the box again, then away. “I’m not quitting my job over chocolate.”
She’s not wrong. It’s a small thing. Except it isn’t. “Fine.” I pick up the level and nod toward the wall. “This stud’s off by half an inch.”
She exhales, with relief, flickering across her face at the change of subject. “Then you’d better stay and help.”
We go back to work, screws, boards, measurements, like the box on the counter isn’t sitting between us. Like I didn’t feel something sharp and unfamiliar when I thought it came from someone she was seeing.
But it’s the unsettled way she checks the door every time the wind rattles it that has the muscles in my back tensing.