Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ruby

There’s a stranger in my apartment.No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it. Yes, Edward hired Miguel, and he vouches for him, but still—Miguel’s a complete stranger. A tall, dark, very handsome stranger. Even though he looks so intimidating, he seems like a genuinely nice guy. I like his voice—warm and calm. He gives off a steady, reassuring vibe.

Stop thinking about him and focus on your work.

My current project is a tiny portrait of Tilly, a white Shih-Poo with big, dark eyes and a pink diamond-studded collar. Painting a white dog on a four-inch square off-white canvas is a challenge, but I like challenges. I used a pale bluish-gray background so the dog’s white fur would stand out nicely. I like how it’s turning out. It’s looking pretty good if I do say so myself. I’ve already sent several progress images to the client, and she’s happy with it.

I love painting with acrylics. I love mixing colors and watching how the pigments transform before my eyes. When I was a child, art was my escape. I was always coloring or doodling or painting. Now, it’s my career. Not only does it pay the bills, but it gives me something to do. I can easily spend eight or ten hours a day in my art studio and not even realize how much time has passed.

If it weren’t for my art keeping me occupied, I’d be staring at the walls and going out of my mind every time I heard the slightest sound.

As I slip into my chair and reach for my paintbrush, Pumpkin curls up in his cat bed at my feet beneath the table. I try my best to forget about my new temporary house guest. As I dip my brush into the paint, all my worries melt away, at least for a little while.

* * *

I’ve been at work for a good couple of hours when there’s a quiet knock on my door. I glance back to see Miguel practically filling the open doorway.

He pats his flat abdomen. “It’s one o’clock, and I’m pretty hungry,” he says sheepishly. “I took a peek at what’s in the fridge. If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll make myself a sandwich. Would you like one?”

My heart slams against my ribs. “No, thank you,” I answer automatically. “I’m fine.” No one’s fixed a meal for me in years. Not even when I lived with my dad. I always made my own. I’m not comfortable with the idea—it just feels too risky. “You go right ahead and help yourself. There are chips in the pantry and drinks in the fridge. The bread’s in the bread box.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something?” he asks. “It’s no trouble, really.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

He nods. “Let me know if you change your mind.” And then he heads back down the hallway.

I go back to my painting, but before long I can’t concentrate because my stomach is growling. It’s been hours since I had breakfast, and now I’m starving. But I couldn’t let him make food for me—it’s far too intimate. I don’t trust easily. It’s hard enough having him here in my apartment.

Crap. Now what do I do? I told him I wasn’t hungry so if I go to the kitchen now to get myself something to eat, he’ll know I lied to him. So I’ll have to keep working and wait until dinner to eat.

I last another half-hour before low blood sugar starts making me feel jittery. I have no choice but to head for the kitchen, passing him as I go. He’s seated on the sofa, reading a hardcover book. He glances up at me and smiles. He has such a nice smile.

“How’s your work going?” he asks.

“Good. I’m almost done with the painting. I’ll let it dry overnight, then varnish it tomorrow.” I point to the kitchen. “Just thought I’d get a glass of water.” I pour myself a glass and surreptitiously slip a banana from the fruit basket into my sweater pocket. Hopefully this will tide me over until dinner.

I return to my studio, and as I eat my banana, I listen for sounds coming from the other room. I wonder if Miguel’s bored. I wonder what he’s reading. Fiction? Nonfiction? Either way, a guy who likes to read is, well, sexy.

After a couple of hours, I get up to use the bathroom, taking the opportunity to peek down the hall to see what he’s up to now. I spot him sitting at my table with a laptop open in front of him.

So, what do I know about my new security guard? Not much, really. He’s Hispanic, and he reads. He’s also really nice to look at. He’s definitely got the tall, dark, and handsome thing down pat. Physically, he’s very fit. Those are lean muscles underneath his tight T-shirt. But what I like best about him is that he seems like a genuinely nice, compassionate person.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been around someone, besides Edward, who didn’t make me feel defensive or, even worse, like I was a nutjob.

* * *

At five-thirty, I stop work for the day and head for the kitchen. The banana didn’t last me long, and I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Miguel is standing outside on my balcony, checking out the view.

“I think I’ll make a pizza for dinner,” I say. “Do you want some?” It would be rude of me not to offer.

He steps back inside the apartment. “Yeah, that’d be great. Can I help?”

My pulse kicks up a notch. “Thanks, but no. I’ve got it.” I turn on the kitchen faucet to wash my hands.

Pizza is one of my comfort foods, but it’s too expensive to order in, so I’ve gotten pretty good at making my own. “Is Margherita okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “I never met a pizza I didn’t like.”

I turn on the oven to preheat before I get out a big glass mixing bowl, some flour, yeast, and warm water to make the dough. I’m finding it impossible not to feel self-conscious when Miguel joins me in the kitchen. He leans against the counter with his muscular arms crossed over his chest as he watches me work.

After mixing the dough, I cover the bowl and set it on top of the warm oven. I set a timer. “Now we wait for the dough to rise.”

“I’m impressed,” he says. “You make your own dough from scratch.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention, right? I’m sure you’ve seen the prices of pizzas in Chicago these days. I can’t afford to order in, so I make my own. But before you get too impressed, I will confess that I use pizza sauce from a jar.”

“That’s the best kind.” The corners of his dark eyes crinkle as he grins at me. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

As he watches me oil the pizza pan, I try not to let it bother me that he’s standing so close. It’s a bit unnerving.

“You must like plants,” he observes as he nods toward the balcony.

I smile. “I do. They make a nice privacy screen. And I like to think I inherited a green thumb.”

“Do you ever sit outside on your balcony?” he asks.

“No, never. I only go out there long enough to water my plants.”

“Do you miss being outside? Miss the fresh air and sunshine?”

I shake my head. “Sure, but it’s not safe.”

He looks pensive. “Ruby, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

I swallow hard. I’ve been dreading this. “I figured you would.”

He smiles apologetically. “I don’t mean to pry, but I need to know some things, to better understand the situation. Edward told me you haven’t left your apartment in a long time. Is that right?”

I nod. “Not in the two years I’ve been living here.”

“How do you manage everything without ever leaving your apartment?”

“It’s not hard. Everything can be delivered these days—groceries, pet food, art supplies, packaging and mailing supplies.”

“How do you mail your paintings?”

“My neighbor, Darren, collects my outgoing packages and takes them downstairs to the mailroom. He also brings me my mail every evening when he returns home from work.”

“Darren? Which apartment is his?”

“He lives next door in 2A.” I point in the direction of my neighbor’s unit. “Darren’s been a huge help—besides bringing me my mail, he takes my trash bags to the trash chute at the end of the hall.”

“How did you meet this neighbor?”

I pause for a moment, having to think back. “He moved into the building about a year ago. He came by to say hello, and we got to talking.”

Miguel looks skeptical. “But how did that lead to him getting your mail for you and taking out your trash?”

“I guess he saw Edward doing it, and he offered to help out. It just sort of grew out of that. Darren didn’t seem to mind, and I hated inconveniencing Edward by asking him to come over so often.”

“Has Darren ever been inside your apartment?”

“No.”

“Has he ever asked to come in?”

I nod. “A few times.”

“And you said no?”

“Yeah. I always made up an excuse. Eventually, he quit asking.”

“How about groceries? How do you get food?”

“My groceries are delivered each week from a small family-owned grocery store two blocks away—Franklin’s Market. Everything else I can order online and have it shipped here. Amazon carries pretty much everything.”

“What about doctor’s visits?”

“I’ve never been sick, but if I were, I can do a virtual visit with a doctor online.”

He nods. “It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

When the timer goes off, I place the dough on the prepared baking sheet, oil my hands, and start forming the pie. He watches me quietly.

So far he’s asking easy questions, but I know the hard ones are coming.

Suddenly, Miguel steps away from the counter, crosses to the pantry, and returns with a jar of pizza sauce, which he sets on the counter.

“Thank you,” I say, caught off guard and a bit surprised at his thoughtfulness.

“No problem,” he says as he returns to his spot.

After shaping the dough, I wash my hands before popping the pizza pan into the oven to prebake. I set a timer for a few minutes.

“What about you?” I ask. I figure turnabout is fair play. Now it’s my turn to ask questions.

“What about me?” he asks, grinning.

I start with an easy one. “How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“Do you like working in security?”

“I love it. It’s a fantastic career.”

I pick up the jar of pizza sauce and try to open it, but the lid won’t budge.

Miguel holds out his hand. As I study his palm and long fingers, I feel a shiver ripple down my spine. I shake myself mentally as I hand him the jar. He pops the lid off effortlessly and hands it back to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem. I really don’t mean to pry, but…”

Here they come—the difficult questions.

“Would you mind telling me why?”

“Why what?” I ask. “You mean, why don’t I leave my apartment? Or why have I shut myself off from the rest of the world?”

Miguel nods, then stands there leaning against the counter, patiently waiting.