Page 24 of Freeing Ruby

He closes the lid on his laptop and stands. “Sounds good. What can I do?”

“How about setting the table?” I ask.

We eat our sandwiches with chips and fresh strawberries.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here with me,” I say. “If you want to go run some errands, you can. I have the security system now, so I’ll be fine.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying the downtime. It’s a nice change of pace. Usually, I’m on the run nonstop with clients.”

After lunch, we do the dishes together, and then I disappear back into my studio to work.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly, and we make burgers for dinner.

That evening, we relax in the living room and read—me on the sofa and Miguel in the armchair. It’s nice having someone to sit quietly with.

Suddenly it occurs to me that I don’t know very much about him. “How long have you worked for McIntyre Security?”

“About ten years now. After high school, I got a two-year degree in criminal justice. I was planning to go into law enforcement, but a mutual friend introduced me to Shane McIntyre, my boss. He offered me a job, I accepted, and the rest is history.”

“And you like your job. That’s good. Not everyone can say that.”

“I love it.” His expression lights up. “I’ve met some great people, and I’ve made some really wonderful friends. I think you’d like them.”

With a groan, Miguel puts his book aside and stands to stretch his arms and back. His T-shirt molds to his torso, accentuating his biceps and his flat abdomen. His shirt rides up a bit, and I get a peek at his lean waistline. I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes on my book.

He points to the rug. “Do you mind if I do some exercises? I’m getting stiff from inactivity.”

“Go right ahead.”

He drops down onto the floor and starts doing push-ups. I give up trying to read and watch his muscles tightening and flexing. Mentally, I count, but I give up sometime after fifty-nine. Good grief. I couldn’t even do five push-ups to save my life.

When he finishes with the push-ups, he shifts position, bracing his feet underneath the sofa, and quickly powers through sit-ups. When he finally stops, he stands and says, “I wish I’d brought some weights. I’ll have to call my buddy Jason and ask him to bring them to me.” He nods toward the bathroom. “Do you mind if I go grab a quick shower?”

“Not at all.”

Miguel grabs his duffle bag and disappears into the bathroom, and a minute later I hear the shower running. I try not to think about the fact that he’s naked in there, with hot water streaming down his body.

Suddenly, I’m distracted by a faint scratching sound coming from somewhere close. At first, I think it might be Pumpkin using his scratching pad, but then I realize it’s coming from outside the apartment.

Immediately, my pulse starts racing. I put my book down and walk quietly to the door so I can peer out the peephole, but I don’t see anything. That doesn’t mean much since visibility through the hole is so limited. Pumpkin joins me, sniffing along the door jamb.

The scratching intensifies, slow and insidious, sending a shudder through me. I picture long, sharp nails clawing my door. Miguel’s still in the shower, though, as I can hear the water running. I consider going in there to tell him what’s happening, but I don’t want to invade his privacy.

Crap. It’s just my luck that something happens when Miguel’s otherwise occupied.

The scratching stops abruptly, and I listen intently. I peer out the peephole again, but I see nothing.

Without warning, there’s a sharp thud on my door and the scratching resumes frantically. Pumpkin races off down the hallway and disappears into my bedroom. I turn my attention back to the sounds coming from outside my apartment. I picture roadkill coming to life and clawing at my door. I suppose it’s possible if it’s not quite dead yet. I shudder in horror as my imagination gets the better of me.

“Stop it!” I yell in frustration. I beat my fist against the door in an effort to scare it away. “Just stop!”

When I hear someone pounding back on the other side of the door, I stumble backward with a sharp cry and fall on my butt.

The shower shuts off abruptly. “Ruby?” A moment later, Miguel rushes into the living room in nothing but a bath towel wrapped around his waist. Water beads on his bare skin, and his hair is dripping wet.

“What is it?” he asks. He glances down at me. “Are you okay?” He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.

“Someone was scratching on the door,” I say breathlessly. “I pounded on the door and told him to stop, and then he started pounding.”

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