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.
Iconsidered 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.
