Page 17 of Ruger's Rage
"You don't have to talk about it." She stands, moving behind the bar with me. "But you should know you're not alone here, Tildie. Not anymore."
The kindness almost breaks me.
I've been alone for so long—by choice, by necessity—that comfort feels foreign.
Before I can respond, the bell above the door chimes.
We both turn to see Ruger walking in, looking like sin on a motorcycle.
Dark jeans, boots, leather cut with that President patch that seems to make him sexier.
"Morning," he rumbles, settling onto his usual stool.
"You're here early," Ellie observes, already pouring a cup of hot coffee.
"Couldn't sleep."
His eyes find mine as he says it, and heat floods my cheeks.
Ridiculous.
I'm twenty-eight years old, not some teenager with a crush.
But God help me, the man is attractive.
When he looks at me, I feel exposed—like he knows exactly why I left Pittsburgh, why I jumped at every shadow for weeks after arriving here.
"Breakfast rush starting soon," I say, needing to break whatever this tension is. "Want me to put in a food order?"
"Just keep the coffee comin’," he says, then adds, "please."
The politeness catches me off guard.
My ex, Marco, used to demand things, never ask.
Everything was an order, a command, a test of my obedience.
Ruger downs almost his entire cup like a dog in the summer heat spotting fresh, cold water.
I pour him another cup with hands steadier than they were five minutes ago.
When I slide the mug across, I'm careful not to let our fingers touch.
Yesterday's contact affected me too much.
"About last night," he starts.
My stomach drops. "You don't need to explain yourself."
"I'm not explainin’. I'm apologizing."
I blink. That's... unexpected. "For what?"
"For handling that asshole without asking if you wanted me to. You're clearly capable of taking care of yourself."
His words do something dangerous to my chest.
Men like Marco never admitted that women had the capability.
