I leave the space open for a few seconds before scoffing. “Sorry, but being a cop really isn’t in my vision—if you know what I mean.”

“Oh—” He pauses, and when his hand comes to my arm, his shirt lifting up from his wrist, I see a cross on the top. My eyes travel back up his arms to his face. “I’m no cop.”

Chapter Two

When I was eleven years old, I remember finding a kitten on the side of the road. She was hurt, bruised, and had patches of hair missing on her body, but I remember picking her up and carrying her to my house. I burst through the doors, crying because the poor kitty was obviously left discarded by her previous owners.

Mama was in the kitchen baking cookies and she stopped what she was doing, tossing her apron onto the counter, her hands coming to her hips. “Ruby! What is this?” My mom was the supportive kind. The kind of mother that all of my friends loved because she felt like theirs too.

“I found her on the sidewalk! She’s hurt. Can we keep her?” That was my first question.

Can we keep her?

My mom should have said no.

My father should have said no.

They both said yes.

We took her to the vet, fixed her up, and brought her home.

But that was a kitten, not two entire humans covered with blood—and not their own, might I add.

I sit in my room, staring at my bedroom door and wondering what I should do. Should I go and see them? The girl at least. I mean, she looked approachable. He didn’t.

Sitting up, I pull the covers from my body and slip my feet into my fluffy Louis Vuitton slippers. Tiptoeing around the creak in the floorboard at the end of my bed, I squeeze the handle and slowly open the door. Theirs is slightly ajar, with a beam of light flickering from beneath. I take a slow step forward when I feel him. The air around me tightens and I hold my breath to stop myself from breathing too loud in his space.

“What are you doing?” His voice is like lava spilling over mountaintops, turning everything to ash on its way down. “Ruby, right?”

I spin around slowly, in hopes that I can think of something to say, when our eyes meet, only there’s nothing that can help. He stands tall right beside me, his body lean and shoulders wide. His dark hair is shaved close on the sides, slightly thicker on the top, and his cheekbones are like perfectly shaved ice cubes, cut to perfection before leading to an equally shaved jawline. His eyes are weak, as if he had just smoked a few too many blunts. His soft lips curve up in a smirk.

Shit.

No.