Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

Daniel squinted at the image. “Not exactly,” he said, his voice slow. “That’s a Lancia Flaminia GT.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Needham pouted. It was an… interesting look, on a woman her age. “But you know the one I mean, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Daniel said. And his gaze settled firmly, strangely, on Evan.

  “The green one,” Mrs. Needham prompted, as if he hadn’t said yes.

  “That’s it.” Daniel’s green eyes seemed to burn into Evan’s skin.

  Mrs. Needham added, “The one that Kabbah girl smashed to pieces.”

  Evan turned and walked out of the shop.

  “Sir?” he heard the other woman call after him. “Sir? Are you alright?”

  He ignored them.

  Evan had a rule when it came to other people’s business. He tried not to pick it up anywhere but the horse’s mouth. Of course, in a town like this, people fell over themselves to pour gossip into the ears of strangers.

  Which Daniel clearly fucking loved.

  Evan walked fast, his heart pounding. He didn’t know why, but he was certain that if Daniel came after him right now, he’d lose it.

  In fact, he did know why. He knew exactly why. He thought about the hours he’d spent with Ruth the other day, about how simply and passionately she’d answered all his questions, about how eager she was to talk about comics, of all things. She was a sweetheart, even with all her grumbling and awkwardness and short, sharp words.

  He’d wanted to befriend her, but that wasn’t all he wanted. Not anymore. Not at all.

  Evan wasn’t exactly surprised to realise that his feet were taking him to the town’s car park. He watched the slab of tarmac draw closer as he walked, almost dreamlike. It was the one place in town guaranteed to be busy; the council hadn’t added more spaces as Ravenswood grew, so finding a bay was always a battle. Nevertheless, Evan reached the place where he and Ruth had first met without any difficulty.

  Apparently, even the cars circling like slow vultures, looking for spaces, didn’t want to mess with Evan Miller just then.

  He looked down at the hard ground where Ruth had fallen. He wasn’t sure he was in precisely the right space, but it seemed right; a few feet from the leafy central reservoir, in line with the town’s library across the street. Evan stared at the innocuous space, that mundane piece of the world whose significance only he knew.

  There was no-one else who would look at that spot and think about hypnotic, angry eyes; no-one else who would see a hard-won smile or a perilous stack of comic books. Even Daniel fucking Burne wouldn’t see that.

  Or would he?

  I’m the town Jezebel.

  Evan shook his head, dislodging the thought. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that standing here, thinking about Ruth, sent a familiar warmth surging through his blood.

  He had no idea what had happened the other day. Well, that wasn’t true; he knew very well that he’d lost control, moved too fast, and generally fucked up. When he thought about the way she’d looked, the way she’d touched him, the silk of her skin beneath his lips…

  Jesus.

  But that part didn’t matter to anyone but Evan and his cock. The thing that mattered was the fact she’d pulled away.

  He’d been trying to figure out, these past few days, if she’d meant Not now or Not like this or Not ever. If she wasn’t so fucking… Ruth, he’d just ask her. But he had a feeling, if he did anything so blunt, she’d avoid him for the rest of their lives.

  She didn’t trust him. Not entirely. But something inside him was desperate to prove that she could.

  With a sigh, Evan ran a hand over his face and turned away. If he wanted a chance to eat lunch, he needed to go back to work.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets as his mind ran through possibilities, memories, fantasies. The fantasies were the worst part. He’d imagine Ruth smiling as she opened the door to him, not just because she wanted to eat or to talk, but because she wanted him. He imagined her touching him, not the way she had a few days ago, but the way a partner would. Casually, pointlessly, simply because she couldn’t stop herself.

  Something about her made him hunger and thirst like an unnatural creature, as if she were more than addictive—as if she were vital. And yet, she was so fragile. The friendship they’d built would be so easy to shatter, if he pushed. He knew it.

  So he wouldn’t push. He’d make his own position clear—not with words, because she’d hate that, but in any way he could. And then he’d let her do the rest. If she wanted him, eventually, she’d show it.

  It wasn’t a solution, but then, Ruth wasn’t a problem.

  Plus, it helped to have his feelings clearly labelled in his mind. He wanted her. He’d take her any way he could, and if that meant waiting a thousand years for her to trust him, he’d do it. And if he was mistaken and she didn’t want him at all, well, he’d think about that some other time.

  He headed back to Burne & Co. and found Daniel hovering by the doors.

  “Hey,” Daniel began. He moved forward with an apologetic look on his handsome, shitty face. “I’m sorry if—”

  “It’s fine,” Evan said, walking past him.

  “It’s just, I know it must be a shock.” Daniel hurried after him, voice painfully earnest. “And I know you like her.”

  “Daniel.” Evan turned, looking the other man in the face, keeping his own carefully blank. “I said, it’s fine.”

  Daniel studied him for a moment, green gaze clashing with blue. Then he shrugged and said, “Alright, mate.” From the sympathetic look on his face, he clearly assumed that Evan’s eyes had been opened. That he’d seen Ravenswood’s collective light and decided to avoid ‘that Kabbah girl’.

  Nothing could be more wrong.

  11

  “You can go now.” Ruth said the words because, if she didn’t, she might do something foolish.

  But Evan looked up at her with a smile that seemed to encourage foolishness. It was too sexy, too sharp, too pointedly knowing, to be accidental.

  Wasn’t it?

  She didn’t know. She’d been asking herself those sorts of questions all evening, ever since he’d come over with dinner, and she still wasn’t sure of the answer.

  “If you want,” he said.

  She shrugged and held out the comic they’d been discussing. “This is for you.”

  “You know,” he said, “it’s Friday night. Not that late, either. Maybe we could go somewhere.”

  Go somewhere? What the hell did that mean?

  Carefully, she said, “I don’t go out on Fridays.”

  “That’s usually the day people do go out.”

  “Exactly.” She waved the comic at him, and he finally reached out to take it.

  Except, instead of taking the end held out to him, he reached higher. His fingers closed around the plastic sleeve protecting the cover, perilously close to hers. So close that his thumb brushed over her knuckles.

  Accidentally, she told herself, even as her mouth dried and her breasts tingled and the steady ache between her legs sharpened. It had been an accident.

  Dragging her gaze away from the sight of their touching hands, she said, “Goodnight.”

  He gave her an unreadable look. “Goodnight, love.”

  When he was gone, Ruth grabbed her phone and fell into bed. As usual, the bed frame creaked ominously. As usual, she ignored it.

  She’d been mid-conversation with Marjaana when Evan had arrived and, because she was an awful person, she’d kind of abandoned her best friend in the whole world to talk comics with her next-door-neighbour.

  In all fairness, Marjaana lived a thousand miles away—or however far it was to Finland—and they were each used to the other disappearing mid-chat. Such was the nature of internet friendship.

  Marjaana: Where’d you go? Do you have deadlines n shit?

  Ruth: Yeah

  Marjaana: …

  Marjaana: I’m gonna call you

  Ruth: Please don’t call me

/>   Marjaana: AHA! You are hiding something

  Ruth: Suck a toe

  Marjaana: Tell me.

  Ruth stared at the phone. Surely one of the upsides of being an anti-social shut-in was not having people interrogate her about things?

  And yet, if it wasn’t her sister, it was Marjaana. If it wasn’t Marjaana, it was…

  Evan. Her friend. Her friend who had come over for dinner every day that week and kept his hands completely to himself.

  The snot.

  Ruth knew that she would regret it, but still, she typed out the words.

  Ruth: Maybe you *should* call me.

  It took all of five seconds for the video call to come through.

  “Jesus,” Marjaana said, blinking rapidly. As always, she was flawlessly made up, and her false lashes waved like exotic, charcoal fans. “Have you done your hair?”

  Ruth patted her single braid. “No. I’ve just been remembering to wrap it at night. You know, so it doesn’t frizz.”

  Marjaana stared. “Why?”

  “I… I’m trying to… grow it?”

  “But it’s already long.”

  Ruth gave what she hoped was a rueful smile and shrugged. Shrugging was her favourite nonverbal weapon. People usually interpreted it to mean whatever they wanted, which was always convenient.

  But Marjaana’s eyes narrowed. “Are you wearing lip gloss?”

  “No,” Ruth said with complete honesty, because it was tinted lip balm. Gloss, after all, would get in the way of kissing.

  Which was irrelevant, since no kissing had occurred that evening, and clearly never would.

  “Are you alright?” Marjaana asked innocently, wrapping a wave of turquoise hair around her tattooed finger. “You’re behaving so strangely. I just can’t think what’s gotten into you, Ruth.” Her eyes widened.

  Ruth tried to imagine how that speech would look written down. Where the emphasis would be, what images or emojis or GIFs might accompany it. She decided, after completing the English-to-Internet translation, that Marjaana was being sarcastic.

  “Fuck off.”

  Marjaana grinned. “Tell me, since I cannot possibly guess. What’s keeping you offline lately? Making you request a phone call?”

  People always seemed to do this—be painfully direct. Get to the meat of an issue quickly. Ruth preferred a good half hour to mull things over, to prepare her speech precisely and predict every avenue the conversation might take. To be ready.

  But then, Marjaana didn’t judge by weird, unspoken standards that Ruth had no access to. Marjaana took people as they were. So maybe preparation time wasn’t needed.

  Ruth said, “My neighbour keeps making me dinner and he’s very attractive and I think that we’re friends.”

  Marjaana blinked. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

  “He, um…” It would be so much simpler if she could say, He kissed me. But Evan had somehow done both less and more than that. “Earlier this week he… came onto me, I suppose?”

  Marjaana’s little nose wrinkled. “And you didn’t want him to?”

  “I did want him to. I really fucking did.”

  “Ohhhhh.” Marjaana grinned wide. “Still not seeing the problem. Unless you threw up in his mouth. Guys hate that.”

  Ruth blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Marjaana flapped a be-ringed hand. “Continue.”

  “Well…” Ruth slid her braid over her shoulder and coiled the end around her finger. “It was good, but then I panicked a little bit, and I said we should stop, and he stopped. And then he said sorry. And now he’s being all normal and friendly and nice and whatever.”

  Marjaana nodded. “Which is a problem, because you want him to be—"

  “Normal and friendly and nice, and also on top of me.”

  “Then why did you stop him?”

  Ruth shrugged helplessly. “Because I remembered what a fucking terrible idea it was, and then I felt like I was choking.”

  “Why is it a terrible idea?”

  Ruth bit her lower lip, tasted the lip balm, and stopped. “You know why.”

  Marjaana really was her best friend, after all. She knew everything.

  But she didn’t nod or make some hum of understanding. Instead, blonde eyebrows arched, she said, “I know you had a bad experience in the past, but I don’t think that should affect this. And I don’t think it is. I think it’s something else.”

  Ruth frowned. “Something else like what?”

  “Tell me,” Marjaana sighed. “What is this neighbour like?”

  Well. There was a dangerous question.

  “He’s… he’s lovely. I mean, he’s kind, and thoughtful, and he lets me think, and he always has something funny to say. I don’t know. I just like talking to him.”

  “So he’s nothing like—”

  “No,” Ruth said quickly. “No.”

  “Hmm,” Marjaana murmured. “So you think a lot of him. Maybe more than you think of yourself.”

  Ruth stared blankly. Marjaana stared back, but Ruth could do this all day, and would if necessary.

  Apparently realising that fact, Marjaana sighed. “If he’s a friend, and you trust him, why don’t you tell him how you feel? What you’re thinking? Talk it through?”

  The mere idea of discussing emotions and issues and all that shit made Ruth feel like she was suffocating. “I can’t. I just—I can’t.” She swallowed. “These past two years—I thought I’d figured things out. I thought I was okay. But now this is happening, and my head is all over the place, and I’m starting to wonder if I ever really dealt with things at all.”

  “Well, let me help you out with that,” Marjaana said dryly. “You didn’t.”

  “I tried.”

  Marjaana gave her a hard look. “You didn’t. You accepted a hell of a lot of shit and told yourself that you deserved it. That’s not dealing.”

  “Oh, stop. Less counselling, more seduction tips.”

  Marjaana snorted. “Tell me something else: how long have you been into this guy?”

  Ruth wanted to say Since the day we met, but that wasn’t strictly true. There was a difference between the desire she’d felt when she’d first laid eyes on Evan Miller and the way she felt now.

  A big difference.

  “I don’t know. Barely any time at all, really.”

  “But how often do you see him?”

  “Every day.”

  Marjaana paused, her perfect brows flying up towards her hairline. “Seriously?”

  Ruth shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Her gaze crept away from the phone towards a particularly interesting pencil, lying on the floor. “Yeah. Except Sundays.”

  “And you’re not sick of him?”

  Sick of him? If it was up to her, he’d stay all night. He’d never leave. She had to force herself to give him the option—and thanked God that he always took it.

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m not sick of him.”

  “Then, honestly, I think you’re overthinking this.”

  Shocker. Ruth Kabbah, overthinking.

  “It sounds like you really like him,” Marjaana said. “And I think he must like you. Only, he’s not going to do anything after you told him to stop. Maybe you should give him a signal.”

  Ruth shrugged, feeling suddenly tired. She had no idea how to give him a signal. She didn’t know if she even wanted to. The thought of touching Evan was fantastic, but the thought of what she’d have to do to get to that point…

  It was just too hard. Too risky. Too stressful. Too much.

  “Maybe,” she hedged. “I mean, you’re probably right. I’m thinking too much. Let’s change the subject.”

  Marjaana arched a brow. “Okay. Are you gonna tell me what the hell you’re doing with this Blazing Glory arc?”

  Ruth managed a smile as she thought of the latest plot-twist in her space opera web comic. If even Marjaana was unsure, she was doing something right.

  “You can’t guess what happens ne
xt?” she teased. “You always guess.”

  “My first thought was that Lita and Rose might get together during the mission. But then I thought, if that happened, you’d kill B-9 off within a couple episodes, and I know you wouldn’t do that to me…” Marjaana squinted at the screen. “Would you? Would you do that to me?”

  “I’m not telling. You have to guess.”

  “But I never know when I’ve guessed right! Your poker face is unbeatable.”

  It wasn’t a poker face. But if the lack of expression that made people so bloody uncomfortable helped protect Blazing Glory plotlines—well, good.

  “Just guess,” Ruth prodded. “You always get it right.”

  “But I never know until you release the next episode!”

  “That’s the point!”

  “You’re a torturer. Lita and Matthias?”

  Ruth shrugged, giving her most enigmatic smirk. She’d practiced it in the mirror. Hannah said it looked like she had gas, but Hannah was probably jealous of Ruth’s mystery.

  “Oh, honey,” Marjaana winced. “Are you okay?”

  Ruth blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You looked like you were in pain for a sec there.”

  With a huff, Ruth turned the phone’s camera to the ceiling and flopped over onto her back.

  12

  Over just a few weeks, Ruth and Evan had managed to establish a routine.

  He’d come home from work, and she’d hear his front door slam. Most days, he went for a run, and when he came back she’d hear the pipes of his shower clunk. Soon after, he’d turn up with dinner. She’d let him in with faux reluctance, and they’d talk shit for the next two hours. Or three. Or however long it took her to regain her senses and kick him out.

  Ruth was aware that, as they said in American films, she had a good thing going. She rarely had a good thing going. She would not derail it by introducing complications such as kissing and touching and talking about serious things, even if she felt a painful need to engage in the first two and a strange, tentative desire for the last.

  She bore that fact in mind on Saturday, when she heard Evan’s familiar knock. He’d come over early because it was a weekend, she told herself firmly. He had no work, and time to kill. It didn’t mean he was eager to see her. She shouldn’t be eager to see him.