Through Fire (Portland, ME #3) (14 page)

Not giving her a chance to react, I grab her hand in mine and aim for the stairwell. She tugs on my hand as we pass the elevator, and I stop. “We can take the elevator,” she says nervously.

“We don’t need to. I don’t mind the stairs.”

“I know, but I’d like to try the elevator,” she insists, despite the fear in her eyes. “With you,” she adds in a soft voice.

Immediately my free hand hits the button. I don’t say anything but I’m pumping my fist on the inside. Not sure what drove her decision just now, but it feels like a milestone of sorts. One that she feels she can tackle with me. Makes me feel about ten fucking feet tall.

She jumps a little at the ding, announcing the elevator’s arrival, and her breathing speeds up.

“Doesn’t have to be today,” I gently remind her when the doors slide open.

“Today,” she firmly says, lifting up her chin and pressing her lips tight as she determinedly leads the way inside. I stand close, still holding her hand, which has grown decidedly clammy and is crushing the blood from mine. She squeezes her eyes closed when I hit the button for the lobby.

“Ruby. Sweets, look at me,” I coax her when we start moving. Her panicked eyes shoot open and zoom in on mine. “Keep your eyes on me and breathe slower. You’re hyperventilating. Just easy in and out, like this.”

For what arguably is the longest elevator ride of my life, we breathe in tandem until the doors open on the ground floor. I let her exit in front of me but swing her around when I step off. Cupping her head with my hands, I tilt her face up and smile down at her. “Now that took balls,” I compliment her, relieved to see her smile. “Proud of you, Boop.” Her little eye-roll is cute as shit, so I kiss her in the middle of the lobby and damned if she doesn’t kiss me right back.

-

I
never thought of grocery shopping as anything but a necessary evil, but grocery shopping with Ruby was something else altogether. After her initial hesitation when we first walked in, she was like a kid in a candy store. When she tossed coffee filters and some real coffee in the cart, I couldn’t resist dramatically rolling my eyes heavenward and making a sign of the cross. I’d never heard Ruby laugh before and the sound and sight of it was pretty damn special.

The cart was about full when we got to the register and we had a brief tussle over who was paying for what. I won, but only after assuring her that giving someone a housewarming present—which I had labeled it—was a normal custom.

“How about this,” I suggest to her when we are buckling in. “We run over to my house, quickly unload my things and then back to your apartment. After that I’ll walk you to work.”

“Isn’t it easier just to drop me off with my bags and take yours home with you?” she asks me, eyebrows raised and a half-finished danish partway to her mouth. That had been an impulse purchase at the counter of the coffee shop next door, when I discovered she hadn’t eaten yet. Best purchase ever, because with every bite of the flaky pastry, crumbs would stick to her lips and her little red tongue would dart out for a cleaning sweep. Sweet torture.

“Not really,” I manage, watching her take another bite before tearing my eyes away to focus on driving. “I’m meeting Gunnar at ten-thirty at the pub.”

After yesterday’s talk with Ike and then Mark, I wanted to pass my ideas by Gunnar as well. Having run his own business for many years, I want his take on my preliminary ideas. I actually need his advice on the business part of things, because if I do this, I want to do it right.

From the corner of my eye, I see Ruby looking at me with curiosity. “I’ll explain when we get to my place,” I tell her.

It takes less than five minutes to put away the groceries in the kitchen, then I take her hand and pull her toward the dining table. I can’t help stroke my hand over the smooth finish. It had been a labor of love, made with old barn wood I had gotten my hands on and assembled with only glue, dowels, dovetail joints, and random butterfly splines. Not a screw in sight. The result was a beautiful, rustic harvest table.

“See this table? I made this,” I proudly say to her, watching her eyes widen in surprise. “I used to work with my dad in his wood shop all the time as a kid and always loved making things with my hands. I like it, I’m pretty good at it, and I want to see if I can turn it into a business.”

Ruby slowly walks around the table, every so often bending down to check a detail up close, and in doing so, affording me a nice view of her backside. Between that and the furtive licks of her lips in the car, I’m hard enough to hammer nails. She stops on the other side of the table, bending at the waist and running her hands lightly over its surface.

“It’s beautiful.” She smiles up at me, without any awareness of the effect she has on me.

Christ
. Time to get out of here before I do something drastic, like bend her over that table. “Thanks.” I manage a smile. “Anyway, that’s what I’m seeing Gunnar about. I’m hoping he can help me get a business plan together.” With my hand in the small of her back, I lead her firmly to the door, and out of my house.

R
uby

“Hey, Ruby?”

I turn around from the pile of veggies I’ve been cutting for the last hour. Since my disastrous attempt to manage the kitchen during Dino’s weekend off, I’ve been thrown into full on prep duty. Basic kitchen training 101. I’m not complaining, I love how even here in the pub, the kitchen seems to be the center of the universe. Just like I remember from growing up on the farm.

Tim is leaning against the doorpost, the hint of a smile on his face. “Just wanted to let you know I’m off,” he says, slowly straightening up and moving toward me. He doesn’t stop until his body almost touches the length of mine. “What time are you done?” he asks, as he plucks the large knife from my hand, and lays it on the counter, before slipping his arms around me. Almost without thought, my hands come up to rest on his chest.

“Uhh...I think nine. Not sure,” I mumble against his lips, as I pull his mouth down on mine. All rational thought is gone the moment he takes over the kisses. For someone with zero experience kissing, I’ve sure become addicted fast. When he raises his head, I lift my mouth for more.

“Nine tonight but you’re off tomorrow, Ruby,” Viv’s amused voice cuts through the kiss induced haze, and has me trying to jump out of Tim’s hold, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes never leave mine, even as I peek around his shoulder to find Viv dropping her bag on the kitchen table, a big smile on her face.

“Good,” Tim’s deep voice rumbles as he presses a kiss to my hair. “I’ve gotta go see my folks today. Have some groveling to do for disappearing on them, but I’ll be back at nine to walk you home. Tomorrow it’s Chiles Renellos.” With a last squeeze of his arms around me, he lets me go and starts walking out the kitchen. I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.

“But...” I try when he’s about to disappear out the door. “You don’t have to...”

“I’m walking you home, Boop,” he says firmly. “Anything changes, just give me a call. Okay?”

“I don’t know your number,” I blurt out, instead of insisting I can walk home on my own.

Tim takes two steps back inside and holds out his hand. “Where’s your phone? I’ll program it.”

“I don’t have one,” I explain to him. I’ve never had one. There was never a need, since there was no one to call. There’d been a phone at Florence House, just like there’s one at the apartment. For emergencies. It just never occurred to me someone might want to be able to reach me. Tears burn my eyes when I take in Viv and Tim, understanding softening their faces.

“Right,” Tim softly says, moving up to me. With his index finger he traces a path from my hairline down to the tip of my nose. “We’ll get that sorted soon. My number is up on the board in Gunnar’s office, if you need me.”

With a quick hard press of his lips against mine, he’s gone.

“Whew!” Viv smiles, flapping her hands in front of her face. “I think I’ll pull the chicken from the cooler. Gives me a chance to cool off,” she teases, shooting me a wink in passing.

T
im

Kissing Ruby is amazing. Having Ruby be the one to kiss me is mind-blowing. Makes me feel like the fucking king of the world.

A part of me wants to pump my fist that a woman, who has every reason not to trust men in general, would voluntarily put her lips on mine. Hard to walk away from, but I wanted her to have a lingering taste of the power she has. My dick is not in agreement. Too bad. His day will come.

“Are you coming in or what?” My mother is standing in the open door, her hands on her hips, in a
don’t-mess-with-momma
stance. Not one she adopts often, but I know I probably deserve it. I’ve been avoiding her for weeks.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, as I lean down to kiss her cheek. There’s no rib crunching hug that would normally follow. Those deceptively powerful arms stay down in a show of displeasure. Yeah. Momma’s pissed.

“Two weeks, Timmie.” I cringe at her use of my childhood nickname. “Two weeks of leaving messages, not knowing if my boy was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Dramatic much, Jane?” my father snorts, while rolling his eyes. Probably not a great idea when Mom is worked up like this. Sure enough, her ire switches from me to Dad, who winks over her shoulder at me.

“Dramatic? I’ll give you dramatic.” Mom’s volume goes up a few decibels, and I quickly close the front door behind me to spare the neighbors. “While you were sitting by that front window, lusting over that new bit of fluff that moved in across the street, I was pulling out my hair worrying about our son.”

Oh Lord.  I try to tune out the ensuing bickerfest between my folks. That bit of fluff is Mrs. Henderson, a seventy-year-old widow, who dresses like a gypsy and became an object of frequent discord between my parents since she moved in last year. New bit of fluff, all right. Dad had mentioned once that she reminded him of Mom when she was younger, which for obvious reasons did not go over too well. Mom is seventy-three.

My parents were both from what was called
a proper family
and married in 1965, at the very cusp of the flower power movement. For two people with their kind of upbringing and rigid social structure, it was a liberating time. One they were completely swept up in. I remember growing up that
free love
was a concept they continued to
enjoy
pretty openly. It wasn’t until I was in high school, that their swinging days seemed to come to a grinding halt. An unexpected pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage at forty-three, when your husband had his boys blocked five years earlier, was enough of a reality check. From what I know, they’ve been monogamous since. Not something I particularly want to think about.

Mark and I had a great childhood. Never lacked for anything. I have to admit, I sometimes wonder whether the fact we are both in our forties and unattached might be significant.

“Come see what I’ve been doing.” Dad breaks through my thoughts and I’m surprised to find Mom no longer in the room. I can hear her though, banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Definitely still pissed.

“It’s that leftover barn wood you gave me,” he says by way of explanation, as he ushers me out the back door into the cold.

“God, Dad, it’s fucking freezing. Can’t we grab a coat first?”

“Heater’s on in the shop, quit yer whinin’.”

Sure enough, the open coils of the old electric heater Dad has hung in the rafters of his wood shop are red hot.
Christ
. One of these days the place is going to go up in flames. The beam it’s hanging from, and the surrounding wood of the ceiling, is already toasted dark. It wouldn’t take much. Making a mental note to disable that fire hazard and get him a new heater, I turn to look at his worktable. Stacks of neatly bevelled and smoothly oiled pieces of wood in different sizes are covering the table.

“I may not be able to create masterpieces like you can,” my father waves his hand over the collection of pieces, “but I can still bring out the beauty of old wood in these cutting boards and coasters,” he concludes.

I pick up a cutting board and take a closer look and feel. Smooth as butter, without a ridge or splinter in sight. “They look great, Dad. Really beautiful, but what are you planning to do with all of these?” I ask him, only just now noticing the workbench against the wall is stacked with at least the same amount of neatly rounded and polished wood.