Page 32 of Show Me

Neither of us believes it.

She nudges the package with her finger, shoving it farther onto the counter.

“You should throw them out.”

“They’re chocolates.”

“They’re from someone who doesn’t know boundaries. They could be poisoned.”

“That’s half this town,” she says, aiming for lightness and missing. She lifts a shoulder. “Besides, who’s going to poison me?”

That is a good question. Sure, I don’t think the chocolates are poisoned. They’re likely from someone hoping for a date, but that’s not the point.

I push off the counter. “You should get a different job.”

She turns, frowning. “What?”

“If that guy’s showing up every day. If he thinks this is okay.” I nod toward the box. “Sending presents to your house. With no name or return address. Creepy as fuck, bold lettering. You don’t have to deal with that.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“It’s candy, Xavier. Not a manifesto.”

“It’s a line crossed.”

She crosses her arms, eyes raking over me. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” I say. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”

The wind rattles the loose gutter outside. The house settles around us, wood creaking like it’s listening.

She looks at the box again, then away. “I’m not quitting my job over chocolate.”

She’s not wrong. It’s a small thing. Except it isn’t. “Fine.” I pick up the level and nod toward the wall. “This stud’s off by half an inch.”

She exhales, with relief, flickering across her face at the change of subject. “Then you’d better stay and help.”

We go back to work, screws, boards, measurements, like the box on the counter isn’t sitting between us. Like I didn’t feel something sharp and unfamiliar when I thought it came from someone she was seeing.

But it’s the unsettled way she checks the door every time the wind rattles it that has the muscles in my back tensing.

Chapter Sixteen

Ruby

The chocolates sit on the counter like they’re waiting for me to decide whether to eat them or toss them out. I ignore them. Measure. Mark. Drill. Repeat.

It’s easier to focus on the wall than the box. Easier than thinking about how someone knew where I live. The eerie block lettering. The note. Someone watching me at work. I suppress a shudder and press the drill a little harder than necessary.

Brent. The name settles in my head like it belongs there. Too persistent. Too interested. Too comfortable asking questions that aren’t his to ask. ‘You’re always here, right?’ My teeth grind together as I squeeze the drill.

“Careful,” Xavier says from behind me.

“I’ve got it.”

“I know you do.” That doesn’t stop him from steadying the board anyway. The muscles in his forearm flex beneath the tattoo. The lines shift with the movement, until it almost looks alive.