Chapter 11
Tucker
Ruth thinks I’m great.
It’s a good first step toward building a convincing fake relationship. And that’s got to be why I’m grinning at the open windows while the cloud of Birdie’s shockingly offensive stench swirls around me.
I cough a little when a particularly potent wave hits me, brain racing through everything I need to do now that Ruth and Birdie are staying here with me.
I’ve got to order a gate for the top of the stairs.
I should also get a changing table so Ruth doesn’t have to hunch over whatever surface she can find.
And I need some sort of odor neutralizing spray. Lots of it.
“Finished.” Ruth gives me the all-clear.
I turn around to find another issue clutched in her hand.
“What would you like me to do with this?” Her nose wrinkles. “I probably shouldn’t put it in the bathroom trash.”
“You should probably launch it into space. But since I’m not currently equipped to send it into orbit, I’d say the outside can is our best bet.” I hold out one hand, inwardly cringing long before Ruth passes the loaded diaper off.
At least I thought it was inwardly, but Ruth’s bark of laughter makes me think I didn’t hide my disgust as well as I thought.
She hands over the bundle, still cackling. “Remember when you acted like putting a diaper in your kitchen trash was no big deal?”
“No.” I cup the heavy, hot weight of toddler excrement in my palm. “I have no recollection of that.”
Turning for the hall, arm stretched out in front of me, I hurry down the stairs, leaving the gate open behind me as I make a beeline for the garage.
Cutting through the space, I go out the door leading to the back of my house where my garbage cans are lined up, and chuck the diaper into the closest one.
When I get back inside, Ruth has come downstairs with Birdie, and is standing in the kitchen looking like she doesn’t know what to do.
Understandable. I’m honestly not sure what to do either. A big part of that is because I don’t actually know what’s going on. I don’t know who that could have been on her doorstep, and I don’t know what in the hell she could have done to make them so mad.
Whatever’s going on, Ruth was absolutely terrified by it, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who scares easily.
At least, I hope she’s not. Because at some point in the very near future she’s going to be meeting my mother. And while my mother isn’t scary, I would imagine lying to her face probably is.
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never actually done it, but popping that metaphorical cherry is the least of my worries right now. Which is saying something since I have a lot of worries. Most I don’t even know where to start with. I opt to tackle an easy one first.
“Are you girls hungry?” I’d planned on having breakfast together this morning, but the whole day has gone to complete shit. It’s nearly lunchtime now, and my stomach is feeling it. I have to imagine Ruth and Birdie feel the same.
Ruth shifts on her feet. “You don’t have to feed us.”
“Actually…” I open the fridge and pull out the basics for one of my favorite lunches. It’s what I eat when I don’t feel good, or when I’ve had a shit day. “I kinda do, because there’s no grocery store or fast-food place anywhere around here.”
It would take Ruth at least an hour to grab something and make it back here. I can have all of us enjoying tomato soup and grilled cheese way before that happens. It’s not fancy, but it’s comforting, and we all could use a little comfort right now.
Ruth groans, bringing one hand up to rub at her forehead. “I didn’t really think this all the way through when I called you this morning.”
“That’s because you were scared.” I drop the cheese and butter onto the counter, lining a loaf of bread next to it. “And even if you could have thought it all the way through, there’s not a thing you should have done differently.”
I don’t like the thought of Ruth and Birdie being somewhere else right now. Not when I don’t know who exactly is threatening them. As long as they’re here, I’ll know they're safe.
Also, it will make our story more convincing.
Ruth seems to wilt a little, looking dejected and overwhelmed as she turns to the highchair I bought.
After slipping her daughter into the seat and positioning the tray, she peels Birdie’s shirt over her head before carefully folding it and setting it out of reach.
“There are actually a lot of things I should have done differently.”
I pull out a couple cans of condensed soup—my mother would be horrified at how much I like the shit—and dump the contents into a pot before pouring in an equal amount of water. “I think we all have things we wish we’d done differently.”
Ruth angles a brow at me as she slides onto one of the stools lined down the counter. “Yeah? What would you have done differently?”
I don’t think she expects the answer to this question to be so easy for me, but I actually have quite a list of things I would do differently if I could go back in time.
I would have made the exterior of my house a different color. Would have gone into custom building entire homes instead of just safe rooms. Might have even specialized in carpentry.
I would’ve gone downstairs the day Kara died to hug my mother instead of hiding in my room like a coward. I would’ve visited Titus more over the years so he didn’t feel quite so alone in his pain.
But those answers are either unworthy or too revealing, so I settle on something I hope is enough without being too much. “I would have ignored my future sister-in-law’s request to leave her ex-fiancé alone and laid him out across my mother’s kitchen floor.”
Ruth’s eyes widen on me from her spot across the island. “What?”
I fill her in on Brooke’s situation with Matt, and the way the guy showed up at my parents’ house out of the blue to demand she come back home with him. I don’t explain this to her because I want to gossip about Brooke. I don’t.
But I do want Ruth to know no one in this family expects her to be perfect.
And that we’re not against using violence when a situation calls for it.
When I get to the part about my mother cracking Matt over the head with a bottle of wine, Ruth’s skin pales. “Is your mom going to hit me with a bottle of wine if she finds out we’re lying to her?”
I chuckle, because the thought of my mother doing that is ludicrous in spite of the story I just told. “Absolutely not.” I shake my head for good measure. “But she will one hundred percent make my life miserable. So if we can avoid that happening, I would very much appreciate it.”
I plate up grilled cheese and tomato soup, serving Birdie half a sandwich and a small bowl with an ice cube added to expedite the cooling process.
I hand the toddler’s meal to Ruth so she can check my work and adjust anything, then watch as she cuts the sandwich into bite-size pieces, stirs the soup until the cube melts, and places everything in front of her daughter.
I give Ruth a sandwich of her own, along with a bowl of soup, then grab a couple bottles of water from the fridge, along with a cup identical to the one Ruth took on our trip to the park.
Sitting down next to the girls, I open my water and add some of it to Birdie's cup before setting it next to her lunch. The little girl is already halfway through her sandwich bites and mostly covered in tomato soup, but it’s clear she’s enjoying what I made.
Which is oddly satisfying. I don’t cook for anyone else.
Not ever. On the rare occasion a woman spends the night, I’m usually escorting her to the door at dawn, sending her on her way without so much as a cup of coffee.
Because the parameters within which I live are sharp and definite. There can be no wiggle room. It leaves space for assumptions to be made.
And for feelings to get hurt.
“Thank you for lunch.” Ruth sips a little soup from her spoon, a slow smile working on her lips. “It’s actually really good.”
“I would say the credit for that is due more to Campbell’s than me.” I pick up half of my sandwich and dunk the corner into the steaming liquid, biting the saturated section off. “The grilled cheese though, that is all my culinary expertise.”
Ruth’s laugh is light and easy and makes me feel a little high.
I’m used to making women laugh, but she makes me work for it.
Ruth doesn’t give me a single smile I don’t earn, and the people pleaser in me loves that shit.
Maybe the single man in me enjoys it a little too.
She’s a bit of a challenge. And knowing damn well I’ve spent years coasting by on charm, good looks, and my family name, it’s nice to know I can stand on my own two feet.
We finish our lunch and I clean up, Ruth doing her best to attempt to help me. She doesn’t seem to enjoy being taken care of, and I have to wonder if that’s because it’s never happened so she kind of doesn’t know how to handle it, or if someone did take care of her only to end up letting her down.
I don’t plan on letting her down. Our expectations for each other are clear and well defined. It’s one more thing I like about her. Yes, she did fully intend to use me, but the longer I’m around Birdie, the more I understand Ruth’s willingness to do whatever it takes to keep her safe and happy.
Once the lunch mess is handled, Ruth gathers Birdie up and heads to the stairs. Apparently it’s nap time. I hang out downstairs while Ruth goes to the second floor, carrying a surprisingly sleepy toddler in her arms.
I don’t really know what to do, so I end up just wandering around. When my eyes land on the gate at the bottom of the stairs, it reminds me there’s not one at the top. And if Birdie is taking a nap on the second floor, the second she wakes up, that kid is going to try to come down the stairs.
Unless she needs to pause in my room to take a shit first.
Unhooking the gate and carrying it to the second floor, I quietly place it across Ruth’s bedroom door.
I’ve just wedged it between the casing when her door silently opens and we come face-to-face.
Her eyes widen on me before dropping to the gate.
I swear a hint of a smile lifts her lips, but it’s flattened down in the next second.
Ruth is on the shorter side, and the gate I chose is pretty fucking tall compared to the length of her legs, so I hold out one hand, intending to offer her assistance over it.
I considered ordering the gates that can be opened and closed, but figured Birdie would manage to work that puzzle in no time flat. Now that I’m watching her mother struggle to scale the barrier, I‘m wondering if maybe it would’ve been worth a shot.
Ruth ends up getting one leg over the top, but then she hangs there, toes barely brushing the floor on either side, making it practically impossible to work her way over the edge without making all sorts of noise.
Which would wake the monster.
I hold out my hands, lifting my brows in question. Ruth doesn’t look happy. Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath, a scowl turning her lips when she finally looks at me and mouths the word fine.
I don’t grab her right away. I give her a little time to prepare as I reach to span my hands around her waist. She’s soft and plush, and I’m a little ashamed of my body’s reaction as I grip her tight and lift her over.
Even after her feet are planted safely on the floor, I don’t immediately let go.
I should, it just doesn’t happen. I can’t even fool myself into thinking it’s because I want to be sure she’s steady on her feet, because there is no wobble at all when Ruth sticks the landing.
And if I’m not holding on to keep her steady, I’m just holding on to hold on, which is a whole different can of worms I’m not ready to peek into just yet.
Her eyes are wide as she stares up at me, fingers gripping my biceps.
Because she hasn’t let me go yet either.
“Thank you.” Her eyes lower, fixing on where her palms rest against my skin, and she jerks her hands away like the point of contact singed her skin.
I chuckle. “You might want to avoid acting like touching me is horrifying when my family’s around.”
“Touching you isn’t horrifying.” Her head tips, eyes fixing on the center of my chest. “Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”
“Is there another definition of horrifying I haven’t been informed of?” I tease, trying to lighten the frown pinching her face.
“It’s not you that’s the issue.” She reaches one finger out, tentatively sliding it down the center of my chest. “I just don’t really touch many men.”
I’m an asshole—a hypocritical one at that—because hearing Ruth doesn’t spend her time with other men pleases me.
Not that I’ve spent much time with the opposite sex myself lately. She’s the first woman I’ve had my hands on in… Fuck.
Months.
Clearing my throat, I take a step back for good measure before pushing the conversation in a direction that might get me some of the answers I’m seeking. “Is there any particular reason for that?”
I really would love for her to answer. Not only because I’d like to know more about Ruth’s life and what brought that ass to her door, but also because it might give me some insight into my own personal issues.
Could help me find an explanation for why the thought of taking a woman to my bed no longer holds any appeal.
At all.
With one, single—and very inconvenient—exception.
“Yes.” Ruth’s answer is soft. Barely audible.
I wait, hoping she’s going to elaborate, but once again, my doorbell rings at the worst possible time. I plan to ignore it—hoping we can keep talking—but Ruth's eyes widen, snapping to the open doorway between us and Birdie.
Shit. If the bell rings again, there’s a good chance it’s gonna wake the beast and bring my alone time with Ruth to an end. And we need some alone time. Time to get used to each other. Time to get her used to touching me.
Time to get our first kiss out of the way so it doesn’t happen in front of an audience.
I turn away from Ruth, body humming at the thought as I jog down the stairs. I wait until I’m out of sight to adjust the fit of my jeans, because as much as I don’t want to admit the way I want my new fake girlfriend, I sure as hell don’t want her to figure it out first.