Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to know what I thought of the first ones?”

  That brought her up short. Did she want to know?

  Maybe. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d have any opinion to offer—which was ridiculous. Of course he’d have an opinion. Everyone had opinions.

  But no-one ever seemed to have an opinion on the things she cared about—aside from, “That’s stupid”. The only people in this town who wanted to debate comics were the kids at the local library, and Ruth hadn’t volunteered there since… well. Since before.

  But there was no use thinking about that now.

  She studied Evan’s soft smile, the clear, bright blue of his eyes. He was basically an overgrown Cub Scout with unreasonable muscle definition. He wouldn’t be cruel to her, would he?

  Probably, her mind said.

  She ignored it. “Okay.”

  He stepped back, opening the door completely, and said, “Come in.”

  Oh. Oh. She hadn’t expected that.

  Ruth couldn’t back down, and she couldn’t show weakness. Especially not her weakness, the sort that other people didn’t understand. If she said, Oh, I thought you were suggesting that we talk in the future, and I planned to prepare for that interaction in advance because I have to plan most conversations very carefully so that I don’t freak other people out… Well, he’d probably be freaked out.

  So she walked into his flat and tried not to jump as he shut the door behind them.

  Evan led her into a living room that was the mirror image of her own—but much tidier and better decorated. He said, “Hang on; I’ll be back in a second.” Then he disappeared down the hall, hopefully to get dressed.

  Because as much as she enjoyed staring at his near-nudity, it wouldn’t help her a bit when it came to decent conversation.

  Ruth put the dish and the comics down on his low, glass coffee table, staring at the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. She didn’t have a TV. She only ever watched Netflix on her laptop.

  For the first time in a while, she realised how strange she must seem.

  This was one of the many, many reasons she didn’t talk to other people. Why she stayed in the house and only called her sister or her mother. Being around people who were supposedly ‘normal’ made her feel abnormal.

  She’d never had that problem before. Her life was split in two like that: before versus after.

  “You’re my sweet little weirdo, aren’t you Ruthie? God, I love you.”

  “You hungry?”

  Her heart almost leapt out of her chest. She came back to the present, staring blankly at the man in the doorway. Evan. He was, tragically, completely clothed.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  “You sure?”

  Ruth stared. “Are you a feeder?”

  Evan wandered over to her with a slight frown marring his pretty face. He sat down beside her, and even though the sofa was big enough for three, she felt slightly panicked.

  Too close. She wouldn’t mind, if she didn’t know she’d end up embarrassing herself somehow.

  “What’s a feeder?” he asked.

  “Someone who has a fetish involving… you know, feeding people. Feeding fat people.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes running over her body, achingly slow. Ruth swallowed.

  Then he looked up at her face again and said, “I’m not a feeder. Are you wearing pyjamas?”

  “I always wear pyjamas.”

  “Why?”

  Ruth felt her cheeks heat. “I just do,” she muttered.

  “What if you went out somewhere? Say, on a date. Would you wear pyjamas?”

  “I don’t go on dates,” Ruth said.

  He smiled again. “You’re not good at this ‘Jezebel’ thing.”

  “Ask your friends how good I am.”

  Evan cocked his head. “Are you trying to put me off?”

  “Put you off what?”

  He studied her for a moment, his eyes boring into her face. His gaze was a living, breathing thing, and she was suffocating beneath it.

  Not necessarily in a bad way.

  Eventually he said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  She had no idea what he meant, but she was used to that. He probably wasn’t making fun of her. In fact, she was almost sure he wasn’t.

  Which was odd. Ruth was rarely sure, when it came to that kind of thing.

  He produced the comics she’d given him the last time they spoke, holding one in each hand.

  “These were good,” he said. “I mean, a good place to start, for someone as ignorant as me. They seemed to follow on from the film.”

  “Kind of,” she nodded, “but the MCU often differs from the comic books in multiple ways, for commercial reasons.”

  “MCU?” He arched one thick, blond brow. She liked it when he did that, which was a disturbing realisation.

  Looking down at her hands, Ruth explained, “MCU: Marvel Cinematic Universe. There are lots of different timelines and realities when it comes to this sort of thing, and it’s good to know and separate them. Otherwise you open a book expected T’Challa and Storm to be estranged, only to find they actually have a son.”

  “Huh.” Evan blinked down at the comic books. “Sounds like some soap opera shit.”

  “Of course. Comics are very dramatic.”

  “They’re kind of… very everything, aren’t they?” he asked. “There’s drama, comedy, tragedy—”

  “Everything!” Ruth echoed. Her voice was louder, more excited than she’d meant it to be. Oops. Toning it down slightly, she went on. “That’s exactly it. That’s why I love them so much.”

  He grinned. “I get it.”

  And it quickly became apparent that he really, truly did. They spoke for ages about the comics he’d read, and then he spent even longer trying to trick spoilers out of her. He failed, of course. Ruth Kabbah was no fool.

  At least, she didn’t like to think she was.

  Eventually, when the window showed the orange glow of streetlights instead of the afternoon sun, Ruth pulled herself back into the real world.

  “I should go,” she said, cutting off Evan’s speech about the upcoming Avengers film. She’d pulled up the trailer on her phone—and now, of course, he was full of opinions and questions.

  But she couldn’t stay to hear them.

  He frowned. “You’re leaving? Already?”

  Ruth checked the time. “I’ve been here for over three hours.”

  He looked astonished. “Three hours?”

  “Yes. I should go.”

  “Wait—” As she stood, he reached out to grab her wrist. His long fingers pressed firmly against her skin, hot as a brand. Ruth choked down a gasp at the sudden, unfamiliar sensation.

  He heard. Instantly, he let go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly. It took all of her willpower not to look down at her wrist, not to cradle it against her chest as though he’d hurt her. He hadn’t hurt her.

  He’d scared her. Because, with just a touch, he’d set her alight. That had happened once before, and it had been bad news.

  Evan stood too, towering over her. For the first time, his expression betrayed something other than confidence. He seemed uncertain, confused.

  “Well,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “It’s Sunday. I’m going to my mother’s.”

  “Oh.” He nodded slightly. “But I’ll see you soon. Right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ruth.” He didn’t touch her again, but he did move slightly in front of her. Not enough to block her way; just enough to make her look at him, whether she wanted to or not. “I like talking to you,” he said. “I’d like to keep doing this. Like… a book club. Would you like that?”

  Ruth swallowed, hard, under the force of his gaze. It was so gentle, and yet it seemed so intense. It was strange; she’d always expect
ed his beauty to be the most dangerous thing about him, but it wasn’t his handsome face or strong body that compelled her to nod.

  It was his kindness.

  “Good,” he said softly. He smiled, as if he were actually, truly happy about the prospect of doing this again. Sitting around talking comics with a neighbour he barely knew.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  That would probably make him perfect for her.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, and left. Instead of stopping her, or trying to tease out a proper goodbye, he simply followed her to the front door. He unlocked it for her, held it open. Stood in the doorway and watched as she opened her own.

  “I’ll see you,” he said.

  She shrugged and went inside.

  Then she hovered in the front hall, her hand against the paper-thin wall that connected them. After a few, long minutes, she heard his door shut too.

  Ruth decided that the next time she saw Evan Miller, she would wear her best pyjamas.

  8

  It was Zach who invited Evan over on Sunday—but Evan spent most of his time talking to Shirley.

  He perched on a stool by the older woman’s bed, where she lay propped against a mountain of pillows.

  Zach leant in the doorway of her bedroom, his arms folded, a teasing smile on his face.

  “You got designs on my mother, Miller?”

  Evan gave Shirley a wink. “Maybe. But I doubt she’d have me.”

  Zach barked out a laugh. Shirley chuckled along too, clutching at her chest as though it was the funniest thing she’d heard all week.

  Her amusement was real. Zach’s was hollow. There was too much worry beneath his smile, too much force behind his joviality. While Shirley laughed, Zach looked at his mother with so much hopeless love in his eyes, Evan felt his own heart twist.

  He met Zach’s gaze. Hoped the message was clear. Go somewhere. Do something. Try to breathe.

  Zach nodded slightly. “Tea, Mum?”

  “Oh, yes, please, my darling.”

  “Evan?”

  “Cheers.”

  Zach left, and Evan hoped he’d take a minute, or even a second, to calm down. To occupy his mind with something other than concern and heavy dread. He knew from experience, though, that it wasn’t easy.

  “So,” Shirley said, flicking the tail of her silk scarf over her shoulder. “How have you been, sweetheart?”

  Her crooked smile was a feminine twin of Zach’s. Evan returned it with ease. Shirley, as he’d discovered the previous week, was a fun time.

  “I’m good, Shirl. What about you? Any luck with the nurse?”

  Shirley winked. “She’s playing hard to get.”

  “Don’t give up.”

  She leaned forward slightly, her arm outstretched. He realised with a start that she was reaching for him, for the hand resting against his thigh. So he gave it to her, and was surprised when her thin, pale fingers clutched his firmly.

  “I hope you’re doing well,” she said, with a gravity that he didn’t quite understand. “Zach was telling me about you the other day. He said you met a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s right,” Evan said slowly. “I moved to Ravenswood at the end of February.”

  “I’ve known the people in this town for years,” she said. “Zach’s had the same friends since he was at school. And since my diagnosis, we’ve heard nothing from any of them.”

  Evan swallowed. He remembered that part well. Remembered people who were a backdrop in his life disappearing one by one, just as he needed them most, proving how alone he and his mother really were. At the worst possible time.

  Then Shirley patted his hand. “But here you are—a man he’s known five minutes—bringing me lasagne and letting me talk rubbish in your ear.” She eyed him closely. “You’re a good person, Evan Miller.”

  “I’m nothing special,” he said. “I just… I treat people how I’d want to be treated. And Zach’s a good guy.”

  “He is. I’m very proud of him.” A slight smile curved her lips, her eyes hovering toward the door. Then she turned their watery blue back to Evan. “And I’m pleased that he’s made a friend like you. Zach has been playing a certain role for far too long. He needs someone to help him get out of it.”

  Evan shifted. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You’ll see.” She smiled. “You’re very caring. Caring people are observant.” Then, as suddenly as she’d taken it, Shirley released his hand. “Now, then,” she said brightly. “Never mind my nurse troubles. Have you found anyone interesting in our little corner of the world?”

  “Aside from you, you mean?” Evan winked.

  “Oh, stop it. I’m immune to your charms, Mr. Miller. You get yourself a nice young thing to run around with.”

  Evan’s mind flew to Ruth without hesitation. He wondered how she’d feel about the fact that, in his head, she was apparently a nice young thing.

  She’d probably push him in front of lorry.

  The thought, perversely, made him smile.

  Evan hadn’t come over on Monday.

  Which was fine. Microwaved Chicago Town pizzas had fed Ruth well, and they’d do the same tonight.

  She was trying her best to convince herself of this utter falsehood when she heard the familiar heave of 1B’s front door. It had already opened and shut once this evening, making her jump out of her skin, but Evan had not appeared.

  Now she held her breath and fiddled with her pizza box and tried to pretend that she wasn’t waiting for him to knock.

  He knocked.

  She, of course, dropped the pizza.

  When Ruth finally made it to the door, she found Evan waiting with two huge, steaming bowls instead of his trusty Pyrex dish.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She ignored his greeting and got to the point, nodding toward one of the bowls. “Is that for me?”

  “It is.” He smiled, and she ignored that too. Or rather, she ignored the hysterical flip it triggered in her tummy. How embarrassing.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Just Bolognese. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a very exciting cook.”

  Ruth didn’t bother to explain that she could not stand exciting food. “Is that one for you?”

  He looked over at the second bowl of pasta, his smile fading. “Yeah. Huh. I don’t know why I dragged it over here.”

  “What rubbish. You’re trying to worm your way back into my house.”

  He grinned. “Okay, I suppose I am.”

  “Well, come on.” Ruth knew very well that her voice was flat and that her face, according to most people, was blank.

  But internally, her nerves were a mess, like multiple pairs of earbuds shoved into the same coat pocket. She didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began, or how to disentangle them; all she knew was that anxiety and hesitant pleasure and anticipation coiled around each other in her gut, and altogether, they made her feel slightly sick.

  In a good way. Kind of. She wasn’t sure.

  They sat down at her tiny kitchen table wordlessly, and she provided both cutlery and glasses of water. If he wanted anything else, he was shit out of luck. She didn’t have anything else.

  Except tea. She’d forgotten to offer him tea. Was it too late to mention? She wasn’t entirely sure. Once she managed to knock herself off the socially acceptable path, Ruth could never figure out how to climb back on again.

  “So,” Evan asked. “What do you do?”

  Was it worrying that she’d been hoping he’d seek her out? That he’d come over, and they’d spend time together again, as soon as humanly possible?

  Probably.

  “Ruth?” he said again.

  This time, the words penetrated, soaking into her brain like oil into muslin.

  “I… I produce a web comic,” she said, twisting pasta around her fork. She usually avoided this topic, but the words came out before she could think to control them.

  “A w
eb comic?” A slow smile spread across his face. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  This should be a safe conversation. It was one of the topics on her list of Acceptable Things to Say: What do you do? Along with, Where are you from? and, How’s the family? If they’d met in the ordinary way, she’d have asked those things immediately instead of blathering on about nonsense.

  For some reason, with Evan, she didn’t feel as much pressure to use her list. She didn’t feel a need to waste energy on trying to seem acceptable—but she didn’t do her best to seem outrageous, either. On Saturday, their conversation had meandered from the ridiculous to the impossible and back again.

  She didn’t want to think about what that meant.

  Instead of chasing his comment about her work, she said, “What do you do?”

  He scooped up some Bolognese. “I’m a blacksmith. I work for Burne & Co.”

  Ruth almost choked on her pasta.

  Evan noticed, too. Of course he noticed. He’d already figured out that she was, in a word, clumsy, and now he watched her like a hawk. It had all started when she told him about burning her comic books. Or, as everyone else called it, setting the kitchen on fire.

  Now he pushed a glass of water toward her, clearly concerned. Ruth glared as she took a sip, the cool fluid soothing her raw throat. Glares were her most common expression of thanks.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Burne & Co., hm?” she shot back. She hadn’t meant to sound quite so bitter, quite so accusatory, but her tone was searing.

  She took another sip of water. Oops.

  Evan frowned. “Um… yeah. Why?”

  She ignored the question and studied his face, searching for the clues she must have missed. The sly judgement, the hidden disdain.

  She didn’t find anything incriminating, because she was rubbish at that sort of thing. Evan stared back at her, and all she gained from the uncomfortable eye contact was unwelcome arousal. He really was gorgeous. It was quite inconvenient.

  “That explains why you were with Daniel Burne,” she finally said. Clearly, she’d have to rely on words here.

  “Well, yeah,” he replied. “It’s not like I spend time with him voluntarily.”

  Ruth took a moment to digest that. “Hmph,” she grunted, aware that she sounded like a grumpy old woman. To move the conversation on, she added, “So you’re a blacksmith. Is that what you did in the army?”