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  But Evan was not blissfully ignorant. He knew what Zach was going through, far too well. He remembered his own sleepless nights, spent with the person he loved most in the world—not to enjoy her company but to watch her struggle, to try and ease her pain. To see her fade away. Because if she had to go through it, the least he could do was bear witness.

  Yeah. Evan knew exactly what was wrong with Zach. Still, he kept his voice light as he said, “Alright, mate?”

  “Yep.” Zach didn’t try to make the lie convincing. “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “What you up to?”

  Evan turned to the spice rack, searching for dried rosemary. “I’m making something for my neighbour. Was wondering if you guys wanted any meals while I’m at it. That way you can keep them in the fridge or freeze them, heat stuff up when you need to. Saves time.”

  “Alright, Nigella.” Zach snorted. But then the amusement drained out of him in a sigh, and he said, “I think you’re doing enough for me already.”

  Evan wondered how he’d have felt, all those years ago, if an almost-stranger had swooped in and tried to help him and his mother. He wasn’t sure. But he’d been 17, rather than a grown man. Who had more pride: teenagers, or adults?

  “You’ll need a better reason than that,” Evan said, “if you want to stop me dropping off a meal.” Or three.

  There was a single moment of tension-filled silence before Zach spoke again, the ghost of a smile haunting his voice. “You’re… you’re just a nice fucking guy. Aren’t you?”

  “Nah,” Evan said. “You guys like lasagne?”

  “Everybody likes lasagne.”

  Evan laughed. “I must’ve missed that global survey.”

  “Yeah, you must’ve.”

  “Alright; I’ll be round in a couple of hours.” Evan stirred the mince browning on his stove, his mind whirring through batch calculations.

  Zach’s voice quietened, its harsh edges softening. “Thanks, man. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’ll see you later.”

  So that was settled. Evan slipped his phone into his pocket with satisfaction, slightly adjusting his plans for the day, He’d make three shepherd’s pies and two lasagnes. He’d save a pie, take the rest to Zach’s, and sit with Mrs. Davis for a while. Then he’d come home and finally meet his neighbour.

  There.

  Evan was a simple man: as long as he had objectives to meet, he was happy.

  Zach’s mother was named Shirley. Evan liked her a lot.

  She wore a floral, silk scarf over her head and painted her lips bright pink. She said Darling often and had the kind of rakish attitude that explained Zach’s own boyish charm.

  Although his was a little faded, a little grey, compared to his mother’s. Evan wondered how he’d been before she’d fallen ill.

  Shirley had spent Evan’s three-hour visit lounging in bed with the air of a woman who saw no reason to get up—though Evan suspected that she simply couldn’t. She had accepted the food with the grace of a queen, and confided that Zach was a terrible cook. She had made Evan laugh, and she had even made Zach laugh, though he’d been quiet and subdued throughout the visit.

  She was nothing like Evan’s mother, and yet, he still felt like he’d been punched in the face.

  So, when he returned home to see one last shepherd’s pie sitting on his counter, he wanted to bang his head against the wall.

  Evan didn’t want to meet his neighbour right now. He didn’t want to go over with a smile and a shepherd’s pie, and he didn’t want to introduce himself. He wanted to drink excessive amounts of tea and make a high-calorie dinner and fight back depressing, teenage memories.

  But he didn’t, because that would be childish.

  Instead, he wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally…

  He couldn’t meet his neighbour right now. He simply couldn’t. When his mind became heavy and grim like this, he wasn’t fit company for anyone. He’d go for a run instead, batter his muscles until they matched the state of his worn-out brain, and then he’d go to bed.

  His joints creaked as he stood.

  The neighbour could wait ‘til tomorrow.

  5

  Was there anything better than a Sunday evening?

  Ruth was wearing her favourite set of PJs—the ones where tiny, cartoon Captain Americas chased tiny, cartoon Buckys all over the fabric. She was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, leaning against the side of the loveseat, belly full of her mother’s home cooking. Her tablet was in her lap, stylus flying.

  The sweet spot had returned.

  Lita and her superior officer were indeed hate-fucking on the Derbyshire peat desk, and even though Ruth preferred a fade-to-black style—it made securing ad revenue for her website much easier—she allowed herself to sketch out all the gory sexual details, just for the hell of it.

  It wasn’t that she liked alien sex. She just liked drawing weird shit.

  Everything was flowing beautifully until, for what felt like the thousandth fucking time—but was probably only the second—she heard her next-door neighbour’s front door open.

  Yes; the walls were so thin, she could hear Aly Harper’s door open and shut. Amongst other things.

  But Ruth could’ve shaken off that distraction—if it weren’t followed by a knock at her own door.

  “For God’s sake,” she muttered, setting her tablet aside. “I should ignore her. It would serve her right.”

  The empty flat maintained a judgemental silence.

  Ruth had a policy, when it came to knocked doors: she didn’t answer them. She didn’t enjoy speaking to people willy-nilly. Anyone who wanted to see her could arrange it well in advance, preferably via text or email.

  Plus, the girl next-door was, frankly, a bitch.

  But since Aly disliked Ruth as much as Ruth disliked Aly, she supposed this must be some sort of emergency. And if someone was dying—even if that someone was a bitch—Ruth rather thought it her Christian duty to pretend to care.

  With a resigned sigh, Ruth slid off her glasses and got up.

  She answered the door in her oversized pyjamas and fluffy sleep socks, a blank expression on her face because it was better than a scowl. Hannah would tell her to smile, but Ruth only ever smiled by accident.

  When she saw who was standing on her doorstep, she wished she’d worn the scowl after all.

  Aly Harper’s annoying, familiar face was nowhere to be found. Instead, a beautiful man stood in her place.

  Ruth’s mind said, Holy shit.

  And that jogged her memory, helped her recognise the face. If she hadn’t been so shocked, she’d be proud of herself; recognising new faces was hard.

  Then again, this one was difficult to forget.

  The stranger from the car park seemed even more handsome than before. Maybe it was due to the dying sunlight that spilled into the corridor, burnishing the golden strands in his dark-blonde hair. Perhaps it was the way his shirt stretched over his broad chest, or the fact that his sleeves were rolled up to display thick, tattooed forearms.

  Or maybe it was the huge, foil-covered dish in his hands that tipped him over the edge of perfection. The smell emanating from that dish made Ruth’s mouth water almost as much as the stranger’s firm biceps.

  “It’s you,” he said. His voice was quiet, as if he’d spoken more to himself than to be heard. A frown furrowed his brow, but he smoothed it away almost instantly, straightening his spine. Since his posture was already excellent, this had the disturbing effect of making him look like a toy soldier.

  A very attractive toy soldier whom Ruth, if given half the chance, would climb like a tree.

  Oh, dear.

  He offered her a genuine smile, the sort usually found on the faces of ordinary and unassuming men of strong moral fibre. She had never seen such a smile on a man gorgeous enough to take o
ver the world. The combination was unnerving.

  Sex appeal or sweetness. You can’t have both.

  Apparently, this guy could.

  “Where’s Aly?” she demanded. Because she had heard 1B’s door open. Perhaps this was Aly’s boyfriend.

  I hope he’s not Aly’s boyfriend.

  The man’s brows rose. “Who?”

  “The girl next door.”

  “Oh, well, actually… I live next door. I just moved in. It’s nice to meet you again, by the way.” He hefted the Pyrex dish in his arms, as if she could’ve missed it. “I made you a shepherd’s pie.”

  Ruth stared. Mostly at the pie, but also at the way his long, blunt fingers gripped the edges of the dish. She wondered when Aly had left, then decided she didn’t really care.

  Her mouth slightly dry, she said, “Shepherd’s pie?”

  “Yeah. Just to say hi.” He flashed another of those achingly earnest smiles.

  “We already met,” she said flatly, clutching the edge of the door. It was sturdy and solid, its edges hard enough against her palm to keep her wits sharp.

  She hoped.

  At the mention of their previous meeting, a shadow passed over his face. “I am sorry about that,” he said, and for a second, she wondered if he meant it. If he really felt bad.

  The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. This man had been with Daniel. He was probably just like Daniel. So he might say things, live things, breathe things, but that didn’t mean he meant it.

  He said, “I know we bumped into each other—”

  “Precisely.”

  “—but I didn’t even tell you my name.”

  Ruth tried not to worry about the fact that, despite her stony expression and clipped words, he didn’t seem to be going away. He wasn’t even displaying the tell-tale signs of a man who wanted to go away. No awkward shifting, no flitting gaze, no humming: Well... as a precursor to the inevitable I’ll be going now.

  He just stood there, filling the doorway with his bloody shoulders, smiling that damned smile and waiting for her response.

  She remained silent. Eventually, he realised that she wasn’t going to speak. He did not seem perturbed by that fact.

  “Maybe we could start again,” the stranger said. “I’m Evan Miller. Ravenswood newbie and occupant of 1B, at your service.”

  Ruth’s teeth were clenched, but somehow, words leapt from her mouth anyway. “I’m Ruth Kabbah. Town Jezebel. So you should probably avoid me.” Please, please avoid me.

  “Right… what’s a Jezebel?”

  Sigh. “You know; a harlot. A terrible, ungodly slut and misleader of men, etcetera, etcetera.”

  With a sort of cheerful calm, he said, “Oh. Well, I appreciate the warning.” There was a twinkle in his eyes that should’ve set Ruth on her guard. It was one of those conspiratorial, we’re connected, let’s-keep-this-conversation-going twinkles. The kind typically used by confident men.

  Was there anything worse than a confident man?

  “Anyway,” he said, holding out the dish. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie.”

  Ruth, like most sensible people, adored shepherd’s pie. She said, “I already ate.”

  And still, his smile did not falter. His confidence did not fade away. He did not shrink.

  Ruth’s mild alarm escalated to full-scale panic. Because not only was he unaffected by her usual tactics, but something deep inside her appeared to be finding that fact… attractive.

  This would not do at all.

  She didn’t even realise she was closing the door until he said, “Wait.” His movements slow and gentle, he held out the dish. “It’ll keep. Put it in the fridge. Reheat at 230.”

  “I don’t have an oven,” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s a hell of an excuse.”

  “It’s not an excuse. I don’t have an oven.”

  She watched as his brow furrowed again. Most men, when they frowned, appeared intimidating at best and ugly at worst. This man—Evan—managed to remain disgracefully gorgeous.

  “You don’t have an oven?” he echoed. “What do you eat?”

  “Food,” she said flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “Wait.” His voice lost its light-hearted quality, becoming quieter, deeper. “If you’re having trouble with… well, with anything, I want you to know that I’m happy to help.” His eyes pierced hers, uncomfortably direct. “You can use my oven, if you ever need to. You could take my microwave, if that would help. I don’t use it often.”

  Ruth raised her brows. “Why would I possibly need your oven? Or your microwave? I have a microwave.”

  He held up a hand, balancing the dish on one palm. “I wasn’t implying anything—”

  “I am not in need of an oven. I had the oven removed.”

  His brows lifted slightly. “I… see?”

  He did not see. Which was usually just how Ruth liked things.

  So why the hell did she feel the need to explain further?

  “I had an accident about a year ago, and both my sister and the landlord got all pissy about the way I use ovens. Or something. So I thought, I never cook anyway—might as well stick with a microwave, a toaster, and a kettle.”

  “What the hell do you make with a microwave, a toaster and a kettle?” he asked, sounding absolutely aghast.

  Why did his obvious astonishment make her want to smile?

  “Supernoodles, usually,” she said, just to watch his concern grow. “And toast. Lots of ready meals—”

  He thrust out the pie. “You’re going to take this,” he said firmly, “and you’re going to eat it. Use your microwave or something. Just eat it. When you’re done, tell me, and I’ll make you something else.”

  Ruth’s brows shot up. “I really don’t need you to—”

  “Are you allergic to anything? Are you vegetarian? Kosher or halal or—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “But you don’t need to cook for me.”

  “I do,” he said calmly, “because if you die of malnutrition just next door, I’ll be drowned in guilt for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “I’m extremely serious. Take the pie.”

  Ruth hadn’t thought that this man, with his constant smiles and sweetness, could ever look forbidding. But now he wore the expression of someone who was not to be messed with, and his tone was equally firm. A reluctant smile tilting her lips, she finally accepted the Pyrex dish.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. The word was almost painful.

  Then, before he could do or say anything else, she kicked the door shut.

  6

  It took three days for the Pyrex dish to appear on Evan’s doorstep.

  He came home from work one day to find it sitting there on top of a tea towel, sparklingly clean. There was no note, or anything else to distinguish the return of the dish from a fairy gift.

  At least she’d eaten it. Though she’d taken her damn time.

  Evan picked up the dish and let himself in, his muscles aching from another long day at work. A day during which Daniel Burne had forced himself into Evan’s presence as much as possible, trying his best to be charming.

  As if Evan would just forget how the man had treated an innocent woman.

  Of course, for the sake of his job, he bore the ingratiating falseness. He nodded, and tried his best to smile, and swallowed down the words Fuck off. Honestly, that was the best he could do.

  Evan put the dish away before heading straight to the shower. He usually went for a run after work, but today, his muscles were screaming. He knew not to push himself too hard. Not when his strength was his livelihood.

  As he stood under the steaming water, Evan put a hand to the tiled wall at his left. The wall he shared with Ruth.

  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he heard the pipes on her side of the wall flare to life. The wall was so fucking thin. It was worse in his bedroom; he could hear the creak of her bed every time she lay down. They’
d barely spoken, but Evan knew that she slept restlessly, that her bed must be poorly made, and that she showered at odd hours. It made him feel weirdly connected to her in a way neither of them had earned.

  Evan’s mother had always said that things happened for a reason. He’d believed her, until she’d died.

  He was wondering, though, if this had happened for a reason—he and Ruth being neighbours. She rarely left the house, she never had any visitors, and if Daniel Burne, the town’s darling, treated her like shit… other people probably did too.

  And she didn’t have an oven. Evan shuddered at the thought of her surviving on Supernoodles. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but the thought disturbed him more than it should.

  Maybe because he liked her so much. He’d always liked prickly people. In fact, Evan suspected that he and Ruth could be great friends one day.

  If she’d allow it.

  He reached for some body wash as he pondered the Ruth conundrum further. She’d eaten the pie—which suggested she’d enjoyed it, right? If she was really happy with ready meals, she would’ve thrown out the whole thing and returned his dish the next day. Right?

  So, he should make her something else. It’s not like he’d be going out of his way; he was still cooking for Zach and Shirley. He was cooking for himself. And Ruth was just next door.

  It was the neighbourly thing to do.

  An hour later, Evan was standing on Ruth’s doorstep, waiting for her to answer, being bombarded by second thoughts.

  He hadn’t expected his odd neighbour to be a young woman living alone, but—well, she was. He knew that now. And it had suddenly occurred to him that his mother’s friendly neighbour routine might not be quite so effective coming from a fairly large man.

  What if Ruth had been so eager to get rid of him a few days ago because she was… scared?

  Just as his mind landed on that worrying conclusion, the door to 1A swung open.

  Hands on her hips, Ruth somehow seemed tall despite being quite the opposite. Her halo of dark, crinkly hair created the illusion of height, but her vaguely threatening aura multiplied that by five.