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Her lips quirk in a small smile that looks a bit like Ruthie’s and yet nothing like it at the same time. She gestures at Erzah. “No danger at all. I’m just accompanying my friend.”
Erzah pays no attention to his dour greeting. He shoves his hand out in the friendly human handshake that Ruth-Ann has instructed him on. “Greetings! I have come to purchase a building. Are you Sinath?”
The huge alien grunts. “That’s not me. I’m Rektar. Sinath is down the hall.” He points down at the far end of the custodial office and then moves back to his desk. We turn and head after Erzah, only for Rektar to immediately come after us. “Just one of you, not all three.”
“But they are my bodyguards.”
“Why?”
“So I can haggle?” He pats the bag of credits at his hip.
Rektar frowns, shaking his head slowly. “You’re filing a building permit. The businesses here are only granted at Lord va’Rin’s discretion. As long as a custodian feels your business has benefit to the humans here, it’ll be granted.”
“Then how do I pay for my building?”
Rektar snorts. “Taxes.”
He pauses. “Then I do not need bodyguards?” He leans in. “I have a great deal of credits on me.”
Rektar grimaces again. “Don’t go around saying that. People are going to think you’re trying to buy a wife.” He gives Erzah a nudge down the hall, to where another harried-seeming mesakkah in a custodial uniform is sitting at a desk with a mountain of binders resting on it. “Tell him your business and that you want a permit. Your guards can wait out here.”
Erzah pauses and looks to me for advice. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing. But the odds that there are assassins in that room are very low. Not zero, but low. Even so, I have weapons on me and I can keep an eye on Erzah in the meeting room.
I nod. “We will guard your back from here.”
Erzah shoots me a relieved look and bounds down the hall, to where the harried Sinath waits with the paperwork. He thumps down into the desk across from the custodian, and their low murmurs drift down the hall. Rektar eyes us, points at the chairs in the waiting area, and then moves back to his desk. He uncovers a container filled with fluffy-looking cakes and takes a huge bite out of one.
“Did you get those from the baker?” Ruth-Ann asks.
“No. My wife.” And he takes another bite.
Ruth-Ann settles into one of the chairs. She glances over at me. “Figures. They looked too tasty to be her goods.”
“Be nice,” I murmur, and sit down next to her. Even from here, I can see Erzah talking animatedly to the custodian. I’ll be able to watch for assassins after all. “You are too hard on the human baker. She’s doing her best.”
“I’ve tried to advise her on how to properly bake things but she won’t listen.” Ruth-Ann slouches in the seat, sprawling her legs out in front of her and then delicately crossing them at the ankles. “She’s stubborn as a goat.”
Well, I sure don’t know anyone like that. “Mmmhmm.”
“Oh, shut up.” Her cheeks flush and she tucks her hair behind her ears again. “Like you’re the king of romance.”
“I am most definitely not the king. Not even a lord. More like…what’s lower than dirt?”
“Wow, that bad, huh?” She eyes me. “But Ruthie’s so sweet and she’s clearly hung up on you.”
I shake my head, because it’s not that simple. “She likes me, but she is not ready for more. I have told her that I will wait until she is ready.”
Instead of congratulating me on being the most patient of males, Ruth-Ann hmmphs.
“Why ‘hmmph’?” I demand. “Why is that bad?”
“Oh, it’s not bad. It’s very sweet but very misguided,” Ruth-Ann tells me. “You’re giving Ruthie control of the situation. You know how she does with that. Ruthie’s a chicken. You need to quit asking her what to do and just, you know, take control.”
I rear back, appalled. “You are saying I should force her?”
“The fuck?!” Ruth-Ann hisses at me, smacking my shoulder. “When did I ever say that? And keep your voice down!”
We both shoot a look over at Rektar, but he’s busy enjoying his little cakes.
“But you just said?—”
“I said you need to quit asking her,” Ruth-Ann leans in, whispering. “You ask her what she thinks, and then Ruthie starts thinking, and then she gets paralyzed with what-ifs.”
This makes a strange amount of sense. It is her post-traumatic stress that makes her struggle with decisions, and yet I keep leaving our relationship—us—in her hands. “Ruthie is an excellent overthinker, this is true.”
Ruth-Ann shifts in her seat, leaning towards me. “I’m not saying you do anything that she doesn’t want to do. I’m saying quit putting all responsibility in her hands. Take some initiative.”
