Page 69 of No Good Fight

She picks up her mug and walks toward the kitchen, my jacket still wrapped around her. I stay in the living room beside the box with her name on it, the security feeds glowing over the evidence of every line I crossed and called love because I didn’t know what else to do with the truth.

At the kitchen doorway, Alex stops without turning around.

“Ryder?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever think if you’d said anything to me, I could love you back?”

My chest goes tight enough that breathing hurts.

“No,” I tell her honestly. “I was afraid if you knew, I’d lose even the stolen little part of you I know for a fact I don’t deserve.”

She doesn’t answer.

She keeps walking, and I let her go because this time, staying where I am is the only way to prove I heard her.

13

ALEX

I read the same paragraph four times before admitting I have no idea what’s happening in the book I’m holding.

There’s a woman in it. Possibly a murder. Maybe a bayou because they’re in New Orleans or somewhere with swamps. I’m almost positive someone named Reva is either having an affair or hiding a body, but since my eyes keep sliding over the top of the page toward the security monitors glowing across Ryder’s living room, Reva and her questionable life choices are going to have to manage without me.

The monitors sit on the far end of the coffee table, angled away like Ryder thought that made them less obvious.

It does not, and it also makes me want to giggle at his thought process.

Front porch. Driveway. Garage. Back door. Side yard.

After three days staying with Ryder and hiding from the world, I’m starting to obsess over watching those cameras. But it’s time to start living.

No inside cameras, because Ryder told me that twice last night and once this morning before he went for a run, like repeating it would make the whole thing less intense. It didn’t, but I appreciated the effort. Sort of. In the same way that I appreciate the gray running shorts that he took off in.

I take another sip of coffee from the mug he handed me before he left. Black ceramic. Too big for my hand. Filled exactly how I like it because Ryder’s obsession comes with beverage service.

The side-yard feed flickers as wind shoves wet branches across the lens.

My stomach tightens before I can talk it out of reacting.

“Absolutely not,” I mutter to my nervous system, lowering the book into my lap. “We are not being bullied by shrubbery before eight in the morning.”

The house stays silent around me.

The obvious thought presses in, so I refuse to give in to any sort of panic.

Instead, I look at the front porch feed again and check the time on my phone to distract me because I’m clearly not going to finish this chapter of Reva’s story. Ryder’s been gone twenty-three minutes. He said he’d be back in thirty. He also said I could call if I needed anything, which is a reckless offer to make to a woman currently losing a staring contest with five camera angles and a fictional Reva who may or may not be a murderer. Or sleeping with a group of men.

I don’t call or text him because I am a strong and independent woman who just so happens to be panicking at not having him around now that I’m used to him.

I drink more coffee.

I pretend I’m not listening for any sign that he’s back.

The front porch camera catches him first.

Ryder comes up the steps in a dark hoodie and running shorts, sweat darkening his collar despite the cold. His hair is damp, his chest rising harder than usual, and he pauses at the door long enough to look over his shoulder toward the driveway.