Page 17 of No Good Fight

The most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept in after someone broke into my apartment and Ryder looked at me like he would burn the whole city down if that was what it took to make me safe.

Nope.

Not thinking about that.

I drop the hoodie on the bed, then immediately pick it back up. Instead of tossing it into the hamper like a normal person would, I fold it carefully and set it on the end of the mattress.

Then I stare at it like the crazy person that I am.

Until I leave the room because I do not have time to develop a complicated relationship with outerwear.

Work is safer.

It makes sense and doesn’t ask me to think about the destruction in my personal life.

Work has notes, quotes, deadlines, and a very clear expectation that I will not sit around thinking about Ryder’s hands fixing my window lock at four in the morning.

Unfortunately, by the time I’m downtown with my bag over my shoulder and my phone full of interview questions, I’m still thinking about Ryder’s hands fixing my window lock at four in the morning.

His hands on the screwdriver.

His thumb on my wrist.

His voice when he said I wasn’t being paranoid.

No, you’re not.

I hate how badly I needed to hear that.

I hate more that I keep replaying it like an audio clip I can’t get enough of.

The downtown redevelopment story is supposed to be easy. A few interviews with business owners, a couple of quotes from tenants worried about rising rents, some background about old buildings that haven’t seen proper repairs since people still smoked indoors and thought shag carpet was an acceptable design choice.

Normal local paper stuff.

Except every conversation seems determined to remind me of everything I’m trying not to think about. Namely, Ryder, and his stupidly perfect face.

“The wiring is ancient,” says Mr. Bell from the used bookstore on Carson, waving one hand toward the ceiling like the exposed pipes personally offended him. “We’ve been asking the landlord to get someone in here for two years.”

I jot down the notes while my brain helpfully supplies the image of smoke rolling from the apartment building last night.

“Any safety inspections recently that you know of?”

He snorts, then leans an elbow against the counter beside a stack of water-stained paperbacks. “Define recently.”

“Within the last year?”

“Then no.” He chuckles like he’s listening to a funny story. “You’d think it’d be a priority, but it isn’t.”

Great. Comforting. Love that for everyone.

By the time I leave the bookstore, I have three pages of notes about rent increases, delayed repairs, faulty alarms, ignored electrical complaints, and a maintenance request one tenant says has been “pending” for eighteen months.

The entire story is starting to smell like negligence with a side of electrical fire.

Which is not exactly soothing.

I’m crossing the street toward the bakery when I see the SUV.