Page 68 of Show Me

It shouldn’t, because that complicates things, and I don’t like complicated things. But I’m not about to let anything happen to Ruby. She doesn’t deserve to be scared in her own space. No one does.

“You were fast.” Her gaze flickers over the sacks I’m carrying. Her eyebrows quirk upward.

“I know where things are.”

She steps back to let me in, locking the door behind me with a decisive click that sounds new. Intentional. Good.

I set the supplies down. “We’ll start with the doors.”

She nods. No argument. No minimization. That’s new, too, and it unsettles me more than anything else about tonight. Ruby doesn’t usually agree this quickly. She argues. She fights. I rub my hand over my chest as anger flares inside me. I don’t like this. I don’t like that someone is messing with her.

Determination floods through me. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure she’s safe, and that worried look on her face will go away.

I remove the existing strike plate, holding it up. “Two-inch screws. Standard. Easy to kick through.”

She winces. “That shouldn’t make my skin crawl, but it does.”

I hand her the longer screws. “Four-inch. Goes into the stud.”

As she takes them, our fingers meet instead of passing. Not a brush. Contact. Something like an electric current passes between us. It doesn’t sting. It zaps, warming my blood. Her hand stills under mine for half a second, and the pause says more than either of us should let it.

I should pull back. Give her space. I don’t. Not right away. I shift my grip instead, slower than necessary, like that changes anything. It doesn’t.

I clear my throat. “Hold the plate.” My voice sounds normal, but nothing feels right inside me. I shouldn’t be this close to her, especially after telling her I’m staying to keep her safe. That’s it. Nothing else.

She positions it, standing close enough that I feel her warmth through my sleeve. I ignore everything else and drive the screws in, the drill vibrating through the wood, through the plate, through the space between us. Solid.

“Try it.”

She pushes the door. It doesn’t budge. Her shoulders drop half an inch.

“Okay,” she says. “That helps.”

Shit. I’m thinking things I shouldn’t, and she’s worried about someone breaking into her house again. Focus on what’s important. Nothing else. We move to the kitchen window. “These are always locked?”

“They should be.” She shrugs. “In the summer, I sometimes leave them open to let the fresh air in, but not lately.”

I show her the small gap in the latch. She swallows hard.

“Here.” I hand her the new pin lock. “You install it.”

Her brows lift. “You trust my installation skills now?”

“I’m supervising.”

She rolls her eyes but stretches above the sink to attach the lock, tongue pressed against the corner of her mouth in concentration.

Her hands are steady now, purposeful, reclaiming this space piece by piece. It’s better than staring at her mouth. And tongue. And thinking about things I shouldn’t. What’s wrong with me? This is Ruby. I don’t mess with Ruby. Ever.

She finishes and looks up. “Check it.”

I test the window. Solid. “Good.”

Her smile is small but real.

Once all the additional window locks are in place, we go outside. The air is sharp with the promise of frost. I mount the motion light above the back door while she holds the ladder steady. “Don’t drop me.”

“I won’t. At least not until you have all these installed.”