Chapter Forty-Two
Xavier
The shop smells like cinnamon. Not the usual mix of coffee and drywall dust that settles in by the end of the day. Cinnamon.
I slow as I step inside. Boxes sit open on the workbench, brown paper folded back, crumbs scattered across the surface. Chairs are pushed in. Tools stacked. The place is quiet except for the low hum of the overhead lights.
One pastry sits in the corner of a box. A lone survivor. I pick it up, turning it once in my hand. “They leave me this?”
Ruby looks up from the desk, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “I fought them off with a stapler.”
“Impressive.”
I take a bite. Sweet. Warm. Familiar in a way that has nothing to do with the bakery. I shove the thought away as fast as it sprang up. It’s a fucking donut. Nothing else.
Dad clears his throat behind me, reminding us that he’s here. Ledger open. Glasses low. Pen moving slow and steady across the page.
His chair is angled toward the front, toward the door, the lot beyond it. The window reflects enough to show the movement behind him without turning. Watching. I don’t comment.
Ruby gathers the empty boxes, folding them down one at a time. “Emily sends her love.”
Dad grunts. “Good woman.”
When it comes to Dad, that’s high praise.
The paper creases under Ruby’s hands. She stacks the boxes, taps them square. Then, like it’s nothing, “I ran into Brent today.”
The pastry stills in my hand. Dad’s pen pauses. “Where?”
“Outside the bakery.” Her eyes are on the cardboard she’s flattening. “He came out of the gym.”
I don’t respond right away. “He say anything?”
“It’s like he’s taken a page out of Greg’s playbook.” She shrugs. “He said you’re a player. That I should be careful.”
She sets the box aside, brushing crumbs from the desk with the edge of her hand. “I think he’s pissed that you aren’t doing his project.”
Her tone is steady. Hands moving. “You believe that?”
She hesitates. It’s barely there, but I feel it. Along with the irritation that these two jokers think they get to make her feel inferior.
“I think…” She exhales. “I think I’m trying to make it make sense.”
Dad closes the ledger. Not loud. Just final.
“He doesn’t get to make you uncomfortable.” His eyes are sharp as she meets his gaze. “Neither of them do. Not here. Not anywhere.”
Ruby’s shoulders drop a fraction. “I know.”
Dad stands, grabbing his jacket. He pauses beside her desk. “You heading out soon?”
“In a few minutes.”
He nods once. “I’ll lock up.”
The door shuts behind him. The hum of the lights fills the space he leaves. The room feels different without him in it, like there’s tension. But not. I set the pastry down on the edge of the workbench.
“He was waiting?”
“I don’t know. He might’ve been. Or it might’ve been a coincidence. I don’t want to turn everything into a threat.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s how you lose your mind.”
“That’s how you stay ahead of it.”
“I don’t want to live like I’m prey.” The words feel like an anvil swung into my gut. I hate this.
I shift my weight, leaning back against the bench, arms matching her stance. “You’re not prey. But someone’s acting like you are.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Outside, Dad’s truck rolls past. The sound fades slowly. She nods once, like she’s filing it away instead of accepting it.
“We’ll check the cameras tonight,” I say. We. The word is out before I can stop it. I don’t know when I decided I’d stay at her place again tonight, but it’s now a foregone conclusion.
Her eyes flicker at that. “Okay.”
She grabs her purse. I fold the empty box and toss it into the trash, brushing the remaining crumbs into my palm before dropping them in after it.
We step outside together. The lot is still. Trucks lined up. Empty spaces stretching out toward the road. I scan it without thinking—nothing out of place. No movement. No one lurking. “I’ll follow you. Don’t get out until I get there.”
“Okay.” The fact that she agrees without arguing isn’t reassuring. She unlocks her car, sets her bag inside, and I stay beside her vehicle. Waiting for her to slide inside. Start the engine. And lock the doors with a click.
Only then do I turn toward my pickup and feel my shoulders lower a fraction. She’s safely in her car, and no one is sneaking up on her. The gravel shifts under my boots as I cross the lot.
Behind me, her headlights cut across the pavement as she pulls out, and the tension shoves its way back into my body. It’s Brookhaven, but clearly a lot can happen between the shop and her place.
I yank open the door and slam it shut behind me.