Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  Ruth forced herself to walk to the door, stifling the urge to skip through the house like a kid hyped up on E numbers. She took a deep breath before she opened up, hoping that the anticipation bursting in her chest wouldn’t show.

  “Hey,” he said. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

  Crap. Ruth yanked off the round, baby-pink frames, as if he hadn’t already gotten a good look. “I only wear them when I’m working.” And then, to explain their frivolous appearance: “I got them years ago.”

  Back when she’d been someone else.

  He followed her inside, toward the kitchen, as was their habit. “Don’t you need them all the time?”

  She shrugged and took today’s steaming dishes off his hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice her lack of response.

  But Evan noticed everything. “You know,” he said, arching a brow, “I’m kind of glad you don’t go out much. I’m surprised you haven’t been hit by a bus.”

  “I don’t like having things on my face.” She sat down and dug into what appeared to be steak and kidney pie.

  “Even if those things allow you to see?”

  “Eat your food.”

  “As my lady wishes.”

  “Shut up.”

  He smirked. It wasn’t an unusual exchange for the two of them, but something in the way he looked at her, something smouldering beneath the calm depths of his ocean eyes, made Ruth suddenly and uncomfortably… aware. Aware of him, aware of herself, aware of the memory of his hands against her skin. Painfully aware.

  She hoped to God that she wasn’t making it obvious. Only, knowing her, she absolutely was. Somehow. Ruth went over their every interaction as she ate, running through memories of the previous days, making sure she hadn’t messed up.

  “You finished?”

  She jolted at the sound of his voice. His plate was empty, and so was hers, though she didn’t remember eating. She did that sometimes: disappeared.

  He was looking at her expectantly, with his usual gentle smile—and was she imagining something else there? Something satisfied and hungry all at once?

  Maybe she was projecting. That was another thing she did sometimes.

  “Yes,” Ruth said, jumping up from her seat. “Of course. Let me take your plate.”

  “I can—”

  “Let me!” Her voice sounded squeakier than it should. She cleared her throat. “Um… Can I get you some…”

  “Tea? Yes, please.”

  She set the plates aside and went through the familiar motions of preparing their drinks. Typically, this was what she did toward the end of the evening. If she hurried up their unofficial routine, he would leave earlier. Right?

  But you don’t want him to leave.

  Yes, I do.

  No, you don’t. He doesn’t want to leave, either.

  “Ruth?”

  “Quiet!” she snapped. It was automatic. Any interruption to the voices in her head, especially when she felt on the verge of an Important Discovery, was to be avoided.

  But then she remembered that telling guests to shut up was extremely ill-mannered, and then she remembered that Evan was one of the few people in the world who deserved all of her time and all of her kindness. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that.”

  He didn’t look offended. In fact, he was sitting casually in her little kitchen chair with an easy smile on his handsome face. “I know. It’s just your artistic temperament.”

  Ruth pursed her lips. “I do not have an artistic temperament.” She turned back to the counter and grabbed a couple of tea bags, plopping them into the mugs before pouring the hot water.

  “Sure you do. It’s why you won’t let me see your web comic.”

  “No-one sees my web comic.”

  “How do you make money from it if no-one sees it?”

  The familiar back-and-forth eased her tightly coiled nerves. Feeling a little more like herself, Ruth rolled her eyes. “No-one I know sees it.” Except Marjaana, of course. “Strangers see plenty.” One sugar for her. Three, disturbingly, for him. Though she supposed his excessive taste could be justified by his ridiculous size.

  “See?” He nodded sagely. “Artistic temperament. It also explains why you’re so moody.”

  Ruth gasped. She turned, either to get the milk or argue with him. He already had the milk, was somehow standing before her, holding it out like bait. And she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that he wanted her to argue.

  He arched a brow. Just one. It was something he did often, and it made her stomach flip every time. “Why do you look so outraged? Aren’t you the woman who threw me out for preferring Ayo over Okoye?”

  “I didn’t throw you out,” she muttered.

  “Okay.” His massive shoulders lifted. “Let’s say firmly invited me to leave.”

  She bit her lip to hide a smile. “Whatever. Dinner was over anyway.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “If you say so.”

  She rolled her eyes and picked up the mugs. He deftly took them from her and carried them into the living room, as if she wasn’t capable of handling it herself.

  True, she usually spilled tea everywhere. But her balance would never get better if she didn’t practice.

  Evan lowered the mugs onto her coffee table with irritating grace before sitting on the loveseat. Not for the first time, she wished she owned properly sized furniture. But when she’d bought these things, she hadn’t expected visitors.

  He lounged against the plush, purple loveseat, his arm slung over the back, one ankle resting on his knee. Usually, he didn’t take up this much space. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

  Wetting her lower lip slightly, Ruth sat.

  “I enjoyed starting X-Men,” he said, and she relaxed. This was normal; this was their routine. It was just Evan, after all. She knew him, as much as you could know anyone after… how long had it been? Three weeks? Four? It felt like more than that. Could it be more than that?

  She shook her head and focused on the conversation. Time didn’t matter, and neither did her rather inappropriate attraction. As long as she focused on X-Men, everything would be simple.

  Everything was not simple.

  Ruth didn’t know exactly when she transformed from a normal human being into an embarrassing jelly of desire. Maybe it started when he reached out, mid-conversation, to pull on a tuft of hair that had somehow escaped her braid.

  He pretended not to notice the fact that she stumbled over her words, that she licked her lips a thousand times in the space of a minute. And she refrained from asking him what the fuck he was doing, because whatever it was, it sent a delicious streak of excitement through her, and she liked it.

  Then he touched her again, casually, bumping his knee into hers. He’d never done that before. How many times had they sat together, just like this, and he’d never done that before? Enough, she thought.

  And yet, tonight, his knee brushed hers repeatedly. And, as if something drew her toward him, Ruth did the same. She forgot to be careful about avoiding him, forgot to hold herself stiff and apart. And when she let go of that tightly-wound control, they came together like magnets. Until she regained her senses and pulled back.

  Only, she kept forgetting to pull back.

  By the time he swallowed the last sip of his tea, she was almost frantic. Could he see her tightening nipples through her clothes? It was times like this she wished she could wear a bra without wanting to be sick.

  What if he noticed the stutter in her voice, the way her gaze lingered on his big hands, on the ink winding over his forearms?

  What would he do if she knew that she was sitting next to him, barely listening to word he said, underwear soaking wet?

  “I’ll get you some more tea,” she blurted out.

  He looked surprised. “I don’t—”

  “It’s fine. I want more too.” She stood quickly, practically leaping away from the warmth of his body. Then, with a tight s
mile, she reached down to take his mug. He stared up at her, a bemused expression on his face. But something heavy and molten burned in his eyes. It was something she’d only caught flashes of before, something that made her heart pound.

  She wasn’t afraid of him. She should be, but she wasn’t. Strangely, it was her own fearlessness that scared the shit out of her.

  As he passed her the mug, his fingers brushed over hers. A surge of electricity shot through her, dancing along her nerve endings, stoking the flames between her legs.

  She whimpered.

  His eyes flew to hers. “Ruth.”

  She ignored him. As if nothing had happened, she picked up her own mug and turned to leave the room.

  “If you don’t come back here, I’m coming to get you.”

  She didn’t reply, because she couldn’t trust her voice. Instead she marched to the kitchen, as if movement could erase the mortification of what had just happened.

  She’d whimpered. Jesus fucking Christ. She would never live this down.

  13

  “Ruth.”

  She sucked in a breath at the sound of his voice, a smoky caress. Evan filled the kitchen doorway, his face shadowed for a moment. Then he stepped into the light and stole the air from her lungs.

  He was so fucking gorgeous.

  He moved toward her, so slow and deliberate that she should have panicked. She should have felt clumsy or awkward or uncomfortable. Instead, she looked at him and remembered comfort and laughter and contentment, and somehow those memories short-circuited all her defences.

  Ruth turned to the sink and dropped their mugs into the waiting water. She was suddenly and unreasonably outraged, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. It didn’t make sense. There were friends, and then there were men you’d shag senseless. He couldn’t be both, and yet somehow, he was, and if she blew up from the pressure of wanting him it would be all his fault.

  She certainly wasn’t making him any more tea, the inconvenient bastard. He could survive on fresh air for the rest of his life, for all she cared. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing, looking at her like that? Being all gorgeous and smouldering and… ugh.

  While she scowled at the sink, he moved closer. So close that she could feel his presence, even as she refused to look up. His face—his beautiful bloody face—would only make things worse.

  “You do realise,” he said, “that you’re talking to yourself.”

  She blinked. Finally, foolishly, looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He was closer than she’d thought. His eyes were almost electric, heavy-lidded, his lips parted. This was how he looked when he wanted.

  “You’re talking to yourself,” he repeated, his voice a gentle rasp. “And I heard every word you just said.”

  Ruth swallowed, forcing moisture into her suddenly dry throat. “You can go now.”

  “No thank you.” His voice was low, husky, raw enough to make her stomach flip and her heart rate spike. “I think I’ll stay here.”

  Every night, there came a point when she gave him the option to leave. Every night, he took it. And now, all of a sudden, he was not.

  Oh, dear.

  “You don’t like the way I look at you, Ruth?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She stared down at the bubbles in the sink and licked her lips.

  “That’s what you said. I heard you. Do you want me to leave? Because if that’s what you want—”

  “It’s not,” she blurted out. Who the fuck said that? It couldn’t have been her. Except, it definitely was.

  “I didn’t think so.” His strong fingers reached out to cage her wrist, and sensation soared through her. His skin was warm against hers, the heat of his body pushing into her like a tidal wave. He was right there. She couldn’t ignore him.

  He wouldn’t allow it.

  “You ran away,” he said, his voice softer now. “Why?”

  She swallowed, forcing herself to look up at him. “I… I don’t know.”

  His lips quirked, full and soft beneath that thick, sandy beard. She’d spent too many nights this week wondering how that beard might feel against her skin.

  “I do,” he murmured.

  Desire bloomed between her legs—not like a flower, but like the mushroom cloud of an explosion. She knew what Marjaana would say right now. Talk.

  Meeting his gaze, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  His thumb skated over the inside of her wrist. “This is called flirting.”

  “This is not flirting.”

  He smiled. “Too much?” His hand slid from her wrist to her palm, their fingers locking together. Beneath the heat in his gaze, she saw that ever-present concern. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. You know that, don’t you?”

  Silently, her pulse thundering in her ears, Ruth nodded. His hand tightened around hers.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do,” he said. “And I know you don’t take hints well.”

  Ruth bit down on a smile. Somehow, in the middle of all this shimmering tension, he managed to make her smile.

  “So I’ve decided to ask you outright,” he murmured.

  His hands moved to her waist, tightening before she could process the sudden touch. He lifted her, just slightly—enough for her to perch on the edge of the sink. Then he let go. But she still felt the ghost of that unexpected pressure, the heat of his palms burning through her clothes. Bubbles soaked into the seat of her pyjamas, and she didn’t even mind. Her underwear was already wet.

  “Ask me what?” Ruth whispered. Now they were face-to-face. She allowed herself, for a moment, to float into the sky of his eyes.

  He leaned in, his hands resting on the counter either side of her. She held her breath as he lowered his head to her throat, his nose grazing her racing pulse. “You always smell like chocolate,” he said. His beard tickled, and so did his whisper. “Chocolate and coconut. Why is that?”

  “Is that what you want to ask me?”

  “No. I’m just curious.” He shifted closer, and she opened her thighs, and he slid between them like it was home.

  Ruth swallowed. “It’s cocoa butter. And coconut oil.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Evan,” she repeated, her hands gripping the edge of the sink. “Ask me what?”

  He relented, a smile teasing his lips. “I wanted to ask if I could kiss you.”

  She didn’t reply. It seemed both difficult and unnecessary. Instead, Ruth raised her hands to his face, sliding her fingers into that rugged, blonde beard. Holding him in place. She didn’t want to fuck this up, because this was Evan, and somehow, Evan was everything.

  She leaned forward, inch by inch, until she could see the silver-gold of his eyelashes. He was so still that, if she hadn’t felt his gentle breath against her lips, she might’ve thought he’d stopped breathing at all.

  And then, because he was Evan, he spoke.

  “I think,” he murmured, “you’re supposed to close your eyes.”

  She whispered, “You first.”

  “Would that make you feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. “Can I touch you?”

  Fuck. Why did he have to ask that? Why did he have to be the kind of man who needed an answer, who needed to know what she wanted?

  Because he was Evan, and he cared, and that was why she liked him in the first place. Ruth knew that. But it didn’t stop the panic clawing at her chest, and suddenly she realised with startling clarity that the panic never really left, and she was absolutely fucking sick of it.

  He was right there, and he was beautiful, and he wanted her, and she wanted—

  A bell rang.

  Ruth yelped and fell into the sink.

  “Shit,” Evan laughed. His eyes were open now. His face was calm and lovely and barely intimidatingly sexy at all. Except for all the ways in which it was.

  But Ruth didn’t have time to think about that, because she was dying o
f embarrassment.

  “What the fuck was that?” she gasped, clapping a hand over her heaving chest.

  He gave her a strange look, even as he pulled her gently from the sink. Just the firm grasp of his hands around her biceps made her breath hitch. How embarrassing.

  “It was your doorbell,” he said when she was safely on two feet, her backside dripping.

  Oh. Right. The doorbell. Ruth had kind of forgotten how that sounded.

  “Um…” She looked down, as if a code of conduct was written on the kitchen lino.

  Evan pushed her chin up gently, until she looked at him. She shouldn’t be as aroused by the sweetness of his smile as she had been by his touch, but somehow she was. “Want me to get it?”

  “Oh, would you?”

  He went without another word, and Ruth sagged in relief. It was silly. She knew it was silly. After all, she hadn’t always been so… anxious. She’d grown up confident. With a mother and sister like hers, how could she not be?

  Then again, all it had taken to destroy that confidence was one hard knock. So maybe she’d been faking all along.

  With a sigh, Ruth hurried off to her room. If she was quick, she could change her pyjamas.

  14

  The man at Ruth’s door wore a deep green uniform with gold lettering that read: Weston Floral.

  But the enormous bouquet in his arms spelled out his purpose clear enough.

  “Ruth Ka…” the man squinted at the clipboard balanced in his hand. “Ruth Kab…”

  “Ruth Kabbah,” Evan snapped.

  The man shrugged, then dumped the crystal vase of red roses and tiny white flowers into Evan’s arms. “There you are mate,” he said, ticking something off on his clipboard. “Ta-ta.”

  Evan kicked the door shut with his foot. Then he stood in Ruth’s hallway and stared at the flowers.

  Her flowers.

  Who the hell was sending Ruth flowers?

  The flare of bitterness in his chest was unnerving. He’d never been jealous before.

  Surely, if she was seeing someone, Ruth wouldn’t have had dinner with him every night for weeks. Then again, they hadn’t been dates exactly. And he’d given her that ridiculous speech about being friends, or whatever the fuck he’d said.