Chapter Twenty
Xavier
Several Days Later
Her back door is open, a brick propping it in place, the sound of a drill whining somewhere inside. Of course she left it open. Why wouldn’t she? The woman has a stubborn streak a mile wide.
I shake my head as I dodge around one of the puddles remaining from the storm a few nights ago. There was so much wind and rain that our phone has been ringing off the hook with insurance claims.
With my hand fisted and ready to smack against the wooden frame, I hear it. Soft squeaks. Low grunts. The rustle of straw.
I stop without knocking. She moved them. Squirt snorts when I open the door, wide enough to step inside. “You keeping her company when I’m not here?” Squirt snorts again in response. “Yeah, I know. She’s bullheaded.”
I follow the sounds to the corner of the room. The space has been cleared, straw spread across the boards in a rough, practical setup.
Delilah lies on her side, calm and steady, piglets clustered against her. As usual, Samson stands off to the side like a sentry, watching everything.
Squirt weaves through it all, quick and curious, nosing at anything that moves, circling the piglets like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to help or supervise.
I glance up to see Ruby standing in the doorway. “They look good.”
“They do. Adjusting better than I expected.” Squirt bumps her shin and darts back toward the piglets.
“Keeping busy.” I tip my head toward the white-and-black-spotted pig with the red bandana wrapped around its neck like a fashion statement.
“He thinks they’re his,” Ruby says dryly. “Or that he’s in charge. I haven’t figured out which.”
I lean against the doorframe, taking it in. The straw, the quiet sounds, the way Ruby moves around them without thinking.
“You leaving your back door open now?”
She glances over her shoulder. “I’m ten feet away.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her brows pull together. “What?”
“Anyone can walk in.” I rub the spot between my neck and shoulders. “Unannounced. When your back is turned, when you’re distracted, when you think you’re alone.”
She studies me. “Like you?”
The corners of my mouth curve upward. “Yeah. Like me.”
She huffs a breath, shaking her head.
“You should lock it.”
“I’m fine.” The response is offhanded, like she hasn’t given it a thought.
“I know you are,” I reply. “That’s not the point.”
She doesn’t answer that. She just turns back to the piglets, adjusting one closer to Delilah. Did she find out who was sending her the gifts? Were they wanted? The thought rests like a boulder in my gut.
I push off the frame and step inside. It looks… better. Still a mess with cabinet doors stacked against the wall, a section of countertop missing, dust coating every surface, but the new framing is square, and the baseboard she installed appears level.
She’s learning.
“You showed up.” Ruby grabs a piece of trim off the floor, lays it across two workhorses, and draws a pencil from the knot at the top of her head. Her auburn hair flutters around her face. There’s a smudge of dust across her cheek that I didn’t notice on the porch.
“You’re working.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Your kitchen didn’t get the memo.”
She huffs a laugh and shifts back onto her heels, stepping back from her workstation. “I didn’t expect you.”
I didn’t expect me either. I set my toolbox down. “This trim’s cut wrong.”
She squints at it. “It might be.”
I snort, and she laughs. “It is. Now, move.”
She does, brushing past me, her shoulder grazing my arm. The contact is brief. Unintentional. I notice anyway. I measure, recut, set the piece in place. It fits clean.
“Show-off,” she mutters under her breath.
I straighten and puff out my chest. “Expert skills.”
This time, when she laughs, my breath catches in my throat. I ignore it.
We fall into a rhythm, me bracing the wood while she drills the screws. The work settles us into place.
“You busy this week?”
“Always,” I say. “Dad is taking on too much. We’re booked out, paperwork’s a disaster. Been staying late to keep the lights on.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“At least he probably doesn’t come up behind you and squeeze your shoulder.”
My head shoots up. Her boss touched her? What in the fuck? “What?”
“My boss did that the other night while I was closing.” She exhales loudly. “Stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder like he was proud of a dog that learned to sit.”
Heat flashes hot and immediate in my chest.
“That wasn’t the worst thing this week,” she adds, too casual.
Son of a bitch. I knew I should’ve stopped by sooner. “What was?”
She hesitates as if she regrets saying anything. “There was another note. On my windshield. It looked like the others. Mostly.”
My grip tightens on the level. She left her goddamned door wide open after another note. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I told Emily and Jake.”
“And not me.” The words are out before I can stop them.
She straightens. “You’re not my emergency contact.”
“No. I’m not.” I force my jaw to unclench. At least she told someone and didn’t keep it to herself. “Show me.”
“What?”
“The notes. All of them.”
She hesitates, then disappears down the hall while I clear a space on the counter.
After the tools and construction dust are cleared away, she sets down the notes. Our fingers touch as she pulls back, causing the hair on my forearms to rise.
I ignore it and unfold the poem, smoothing the creases.
“They’re different. The handwriting.” I tap the poem. “This one’s cursive. The others were block letters.”
“Do you think it’s more than one person?” The color in her face has drained away as if, when she looks at them, she has to admit they’re real instead of shoving them in the corner and pretending nothing is going on.
“Or one person trying to hide their handwriting.” One stalker is bad enough. Two different people seems improbable, but not impossible.
It’s Ruby that we’re dealing with. She’s gorgeous, fun, loyal; what guy wouldn’t be interested in dating her? I shove those thoughts aside.
“That’s not better.”
“No. It’s not, and I don’t like it.” Block letters. The change to cursive. Someone is watching her, tracking her schedule, close enough to know when she leaves work and where she lives.
Who in the fuck is doing this? “You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”
“I’m not,” she replies. “I have friends. Jake is a cop.”
“And you still walk to your car in the dark.” She doesn’t answer. Because she knows I’m right. “And leave your back door wide fucking open.” I set the papers down. “Come work for us.”
Her brows lift. “I thought you were informing.”
“I was.” I don’t look away. “Now I’m serious.”
She crosses her arms. “This isn’t about your office.”
“It is, and it isn’t. It’s mostly about access. Your boss knows your schedule. Your desk is out in the open. Anyone can walk in, watch you, leave things. At our office, you’re behind a door. People go through us first.”
She watches me, weighing.
“And it solves our receptionist problem.” I don’t have any doubts that she’d have the office whipped into shape within the week. Okay, maybe two. Between my dad and me, we’ve made a mess of things.
She braces her hands on her hips. “I’m not running from my job.”
“You’re getting harassed.” The wind rattles the window behind me. The house shifts, wood settling like it’s listening. “Besides, it wouldn’t be running. It’d be making a prudent decision to protect yourself, because this isn’t getting better on its own.”
Her eyes narrow as if she doesn’t like my suggestion. “You’re making it sound simple.”
“It is simple. And it’s safer.” The word hangs between us. Safer.
My hand rests on the counter near hers, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor she’s trying to hide.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast.”
Her mouth curves. “Bossy. Do you have someone else in mind?”
“I’m decisive, and no, I don’t have anyone else in mind.”
The words ring louder in my ears than I want. I should have someone else in mind, but I don’t. Ruby is the best option. Maybe that’s why I’ve not pressed my father harder to find a permanent replacement.
Have I been waiting for this opportunity to present itself?
No. That’s bullshit. I’m not relieved that her life is being upended so that we can get our shit together.
We stand there a second too long, notes spread between us. A door slams shut outside, causing her to jump again. My teeth grind together. I’d like to kick whoever’s ass is doing this to her.
The wind dies. Inside, the kitchen feels smaller. Not because of the missing cabinets. Because letting her walk into a building where anyone can watch her feels like a problem I can’t ignore.
It isn’t about another man noticing her. It’s about someone doing it wrong. It’s about secrecy, about the way her shoulders stiffened when she said her boss touched her, the way her hands shook when she unfolded the note.
Not the tight feeling in my chest. Not the fact that I showed up here on my day off.
I pick up the level and nod toward the wall. “This other stud is off too.”
She exhales, tension breaking just enough. “Then you’d better fix it.”
I do, even if the board was only off by a quarter inch—nothing by most people’s estimation. But fixing things is what I know how to do, especially when it starts to feel like my life is the one being upended and I’m the only one left holding it together.