Page 60 of Catcher

“Lock your door,” I tell her.

Her gaze snaps up, sharp. Something flashes there—no fear, just challenge. “This is my house.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t order me around in it.”

I hold her stare. “Lock your door anyway.” For a second, I think she’ll fight me for it. Then her shoulders drop, just a little.

“Goodnight, Catcher.”

“Night.”

She turns and walks down the hall, and I listen until her door closes. Then I sit on the couch in the dark. Not under the blanket. Not with my boots off. Just sitting, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, and eyes on the front window.

The house settles around me with the hum of the refrigerator and the faint creaking of old wood. None of it is loud, but it’s all there, reminding me I’m in someone else’s life, in someone else’s safe place, trying to hold the line.

My thoughts don’t settle with it. They prowl past to present, a grave up north to a woman asleep down the hall, blood on my hands years ago to blood on my hands tonight.

Trouble is coming. I can feel it the way a man feels bad weather in old bones before the sky even turns. It sits in my gut, making the house feel too quiet, and the dark outside feels like it’s waiting on something.

And for the first time in a long damn while, I don’t want to put miles between the one person getting under my skin and me. That truth hits harder than I care to admit. It’s got me sitting here in the dark, jaw tight, hands locked together hard enough they ache, and if I loosen up even a little, something honest might get out. I can’t decide if being here makes me the wall between her and what’s coming, or just another man dragging danger to her door.

14

RUBY

I wake to a quiet house.

Sunlight filters through my curtains, and for a few seconds, I stare at the ceiling, my body still warm beneath the covers. My peace is interrupted when everything from last night comes crashing back.

The bar.

The way that man looked at me.

The warning in Catcher’s voice.

Then later, standing in the bar with everyone crowding me as the truth I’ve avoided for days spills out of me. My brother and the mess he’s brought right to my doorstep. The kind of trouble that has somehow attached itself to my family like a shadow when it comes to Robby. Then there’s the fact that Catcher stayed the night. He’s here now in my house. That single fact presses heavily against my heart, causing dread to settle in the pit of my stomach.

I tossed and turned for hours last night, wondering why the hell he insisted on being the one to watch over me. For a man who has made it clear he wants not one thing to do with me, he sure seemed insistent he was up for the task. Not wanting to overthink the situation and spiral like I did last night, I force myself out of bed and pad over to the door. I press my ear against it, listening for any sign that Catcher is awake. When silence greets me, I slowly crack open the door and shuffle into the bathroom across the hall.

Taking a deep breath, I brace my palms against the sink and take in my reflection. The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. My hair is a mess, plus shadows sit under my eyes. I don’t linger before reaching over and turning on the shower and letting the water heat while I brush my teeth and wash my face. When I’m done, I step into the shower and under the spray. Closing my eyes, I lean into it, letting the heat loosen my shoulders. It helps, but not enough. There’s no way for me to fully relax when all I can think about is what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door. Catcher knows about my brother now. He knows I’m in danger. The anger I saw in him last night wasn’t aimed at me, but for the man who hurt me. Truth be told, Catcher’s reaction shocked me. He was furious in a way I have never seen before. But why? He’s made it clear I’m nothing to him.

Shaking those thoughts away, I rush through washing my hair. Once I’m finished, I shut off the water, dry quickly, and pull on a pair of gray sweats and an old T-shirt. Drained of energy, I pile my wet curls into a messy bun at the top of my head. I then hesitate before opening the bathroom, and I even contemplate hiding out in there.

It’s the smell of bacon and my tummy rumbling that has me changing my mind. Shoulders squared, I exit the bathroom and slowly make my way down the hall. The aroma gets stronger with each step I take. My steps halt when I reach the kitchen and freeze.

Catcher is at my stove, broad shoulders bare, jeans sitting low on his hips as he works a skillet. He flips the eggs like he’s done it a thousand times before, completely at ease. Morning light spills over him through the kitchen window, highlighting every familiar line. The sight of him steals my breath in a way that hurts more than it should. Seeing him here, in my kitchen, dredges up more emotion than I’m ready to deal with. This isn’t adrenaline or chaos pulling us together. This is quiet. Normal. It feels comforting. He turns, as if he senses me watching, and for a long moment we stare at each other. His gaze sweeps over my face, searching and assessing. Then his expression softens, tension easing from his posture.

“Mornin’,” he says, his tone light. “Sit. I’ve got breakfast.”

I move on autopilot and take a seat at the table while he plates eggs and bacon and sets them in front of me. The simple act sits heavy in my chest. “Thanks,” I murmur.

He grabs two mugs. “Coffee or juice?”

I blink. “Since when do I have juice? Or bacon, for that matter?”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Had one of the guys drop off clean clothes. Told him to hit the store too.”