Page 20 of Seale the Deal

He looks at me thoughtfully. You’re making breakfast.

Which is currently on me. Literally.

Still counts. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge of steady certainty that makes me glance up.

He’s already looking at me. The room suddenly feels too small and quiet, even with the faint moans and groans of the house in the background. Ruger doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease. He just holds my gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s like he can see the real me under the endless chaos I seem to have brought with me… and pancake batter.

My breath hitches.

It’s the first time I really notice his eyes. They’re brown, but with flecks of green in them. They look a little thoughtful and a lot intense. My stomach flutters, and my brain seemingly forgets that I still need a shower.

My eyes travel to his mouth. God. That mouth. Why do rugged men always have great mouths? His is hidden beneath a beard, but I can still see his full lips. They’re a little chapped, like he’s been outside too long. But they also look like he kisses with heat and purpose. Like—

Nope. Abort.

Do not imagine what Ruger’s mouth feels like. We are here for a short time, not a good time.

I clear my throat and look away, trying to act normal, which naturally makes me look wildly suspicious.

Seriously, Ruger finally says, breaking the tension enough to ease things, but not so much that it doesn’t still linger in the air. You go shower, and I’ll deal with things in here. You like coffee? Like normal coffee. My sister said something about some fancy, fake coffee beverage you had yesterday.

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath. I like any coffee that’s laced with optimism and existential hope that things can only go up from me.

Cream it is, he mutters.

There’s a beat of silence, and then a fat dollop of batter falls from my hair with a splat, and we both look down at it.

Go, Ruger says with a small smile.

I shower quickly because, despite Ruger’s reassurances, I can’t stop doing math in my head. Water pressure equals plumbing maintenance. Heating water equals energy costs. Every drop that hits my skin feels like it costs him something.

He said not to worry, but it’s hard not to when I’m living here rent-free using groceries, electricity, and… everything, really, that I’m not contributing a dollar toward. Save for my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, clothes, and what sewing supplies I could fit into my suitcases, nothing in this house belongs to me.

I lean my head against the shower wall as steam curls around me.

Just over a year ago, I had a career, an apartment in downtown Vancouver, and enough savings to feel secure. Now it doesn’t matter how qualified I am; my ex managed to poison enough professional relationships that suddenly nobody wanted to touch me. And those savings kept me afloat and helped me get here, but now it’s just a waiting game to be able to work.

Which means when Ruger tells me not to worry about money, I somehow feel both grateful and vaguely sick.

If it were Remi supporting me, I don’t think I’d feel this off-balance. This was our plan. Ruger was supposed to be the technical part, but now I am in his house, eating his steak and being comforted by him… it’s so much more apparent how much he’s rearranging his life to help me. The Seale twins are doing so much for me already, and meanwhile, I’m contributing what exactly?

I groan softly and scrub my hands down my face.

Focus, Wrenley. You need this to work.

I turn off the water, dry off quickly, and immediately curse myself. I forgot clean clothes. My goopy pyjamas are bunched in the corner by the door.

This is fine. Ruger is downstairs cooking breakfast, and it’s not far from the bathroom to my room.

I open the bathroom door a crack, glance both ways, then clutch my towel tight and make a run for it—

—and slam directly into a wall of camo-covered muscle.

Oh my God! I screech. What are you doing up here?

Ruger jumps back like I electrocuted him, holding a wicker basket in both hands. I was just—I was leaving this—for your clothes. I didn’t think you’d be—sorry—I should’ve—uh—

We both stand there frozen. Me: barely covered. Him: absolutely not making eye contact. I’m not sure whether I’m mortified or furious or flattered. Maybe all three.