Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  She didn’t blame him. How the hell had she blurted out something so utterly embarrassing? Oh, but she’d almost forgotten. She was having a break. Tomorrow she’d be all wrapped up in her own self-consciousness again, like an inescapable set of handcuffs, but today she was a wildcard. Typical. According to her sources—her sources being his brother, Zach—Nate Davis had been in town for a week. But of course she’d bump into him now. Of course.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. It wasn’t I’m backing away and calling 999 in my pocket slow, though. It was more, I’m a complete badass and nothing can faze me, so I’m happy to calmly question my stalker slow.

  And he was a complete badass. He’d been a complete badass when they were kids, and now he was all grown up and absolutely enormous with tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his shirt. He gave her a lazy grin, one that softened the harsh lines of his face into something achingly handsome and slightly less intimidating. He pushed back his silky black hair with one hand and she realised that he had a tattoo there as well—on the back of his hand, like some TV gangster.

  Usually, when Hannah saw that sort of thing, she rolled her eyes. But for some reason, the swallow inked into Nate’s skin seemed less horrifying/comical/pathetic and more…

  Sexy.

  Oh dear.

  Thank God it was growing too dark for her to see those eyes of his. She remembered them anyway, ice blue with that dark ring around the iris—even though it had been years since he’d left, years since she’d been freed from the daily torture of his casual confidence and tightly leashed, oh-so-enticing anger.

  How she’d envied him that anger, soaring wild and unrestrained while hers festered inside.

  Now here he was, back like acid reflux, twice as sharp and thrice as unwanted. A thirty-year-old woman should not look at the man who’d once been her teenage crush and feel the horrifying stirrings of that sweaty-palmed, heart-pounding, baffling attraction. She totally did, though.

  If God was still punishing her for staring at Emma Dowl’s arse in church, He was frankly being petty.

  “If you know everything about me,” Nate said wryly, “we definitely need to catch up.”

  She blinked, her usually rapid-fire mind suddenly stopped up with concrete. “We… do?”

  His smile widened, and a dimple appeared in his right cheek. That dimple had caused enough heart palpitations before he was capable of growing facial hair; now that it peeked out from beneath stubble, Hannah might actually be in danger of feeling… something.

  How absolutely heinous.

  “Sure, we do,” he said. “You—” He broke off, his gaze focusing on something behind her. “Bethany! Stop feeding your brother plants! You’re gonna make him sick!” And then he calmly returned to the conversation. “You know everything about me, but I know nothing about you.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t going to pull her up on the supreme creepiness of her earlier statement. Maybe God was on her side.

  Then Nate said, “So what’ve you been up to since school?” and she realised that God had nothing to do with this day after all. It was quite clearly the devil’s work.

  “Um… not much,” she lied. “Would you like a marshmallow?”

  He blinked. “I don’t know. I feel guilty about my kids cleaning you out.”

  Her bag did feel kind of light. Or rather, lighter. Marshmallows were never exactly heavy in the first place. “Don’t worry about that,” she said politely, while internally she chanted Please don’t eat my marshmallows. I was just being nice. They are the only thing that will help me recover from today’s numerous disasters and I do not want to share.

  Maybe he was psychic, because he shook his head and said, “Nah. I could never take a lady’s mysterious and questionably packaged sweets.”

  She blushed. “They’re, um… they’re totally safe, by the way.”

  “That’s good to hear, since my kids just inhaled twenty of them.”

  “Right!” Hannah’s laugh was a little too loud and brittle, even for her. She was surprised he didn’t wince. “Well, I hate to dash…” I hate to dash? Now she sounded like somebody’s grandma. Not for the first time, Hannah wondered what it was about human contact that turned her into a brisk, clipped, painfully awkward version of herself. She was either utterly embarrassing or unnecessarily harsh, and sometimes she couldn’t decide which was worse.

  “Alright,” Nate said easily. “I’ll let you go, then.”

  She tried not to look too grateful. She also tried not to sprint away like Usain Bolt. In fact, she tried so hard things went in the opposite direction. Hannah ended up walking painfully slowly, as if she were some stately matron making her exit.

  Which gave him time to call after her, “You know, I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

  Here in Ravenswood. Here in the town they’d grown up in, the town that had stifled them both—him obviously, and her secretly.

  Sometimes everything about Hannah felt like a secret.

  There was no judgement in his voice, but there didn’t need to be. Hannah judged herself all the time. Her mind supplied words he hadn’t said: I thought you were smarter than this. I’d thought you’d follow in my footsteps. I thought you were good enough to escape.

  When she didn’t answer, he filled her silence. “I mean… I suppose I just assumed you’d leave.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, dredging up her long-suffering, plastic smile. “Like you, you mean?” He frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again, and her smile became harder to hold on to. “We’re not the same, Nate. Not even close.”

  She knew that now. Even if, once upon a time, she’d dreamt otherwise.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruth said carefully. “I think I misunderstood. It sounded like you said you quit your job.”

  Hannah sighed, propping her elbows on the kitchen table and cupping her face in her hands. “That’s not at all what I said, love.”

  “Oh.” Her sister gave a relived little smile. “I must’ve gotten confused.”

  “What I said is that I went on a foul-mouthed rant, stole a ton of marshmallows—” Hannah nodded at the bag on the table “—and threw one into my boss’s mouth. And then I quit my job. Or maybe he sacked me. It was hard to understand him, what with the… you know, the marshmallow.”

  “The marshmallow,” Ruth repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “In his mouth.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The marshmallow you threw into his mouth.”

  “Mmhm.”

  Ruth stared for a moment, clutching her Spider-Man mug of tea for dear life. Then, abruptly, she shouted, “Evan!”

  Like a particularly handsome Labrador, Ruth’s enormous boyfriend came happily into the kitchen. The layout of Evan’s place still made Hannah feel strange. Since he and Ruth had been next-door neighbours, this flat was a mirror image of the one Hannah had spent so much time in over the years.

  The one where Hannah now lived, for very low rent, since Ruth was only using it to store her massive comic book collection.

  Evan leaned against the doorframe, gave Ruth a look of sickening adoration, and asked, “Yeah?”

  “My sister,” Ruth said calmly, “has been possessed.”

  “See, that’s what I thought,” Hannah said.

  “So, you agree. You think you’ve been possessed.”

  “It is a possibility,” she admitted.

  “We should call Mum. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Sweetheart,” Evan said gently. “I don’t think—”

  “Shush. I only called you in case the demon breaks out and tries to murder me.”

  Evan sighed. “And what, exactly, would I do to defend you from a demon?”

  Ruth gave him a withering look. “Punch it in the face or something. Show some initiative, please.”

  Hannah popped a marshmallow into her mouth to muffle her laughter.

  “In all seriousness,” Ruth said—which was the only indication that she
hadn’t been utterly serious before— “I am concerned. This is quite unlike you.”

  “What?” Evan asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Hannah quit her job. And stole these delicious marshmallows.”

  Evan’s jaw sort of… dropped. In fact, it appeared to be in danger of falling off his face completely, which would be a shame. It was a handsome face—if one liked charming, bearded blondes.

  Which, Hannah supposed, most people did.

  “Oh,” Ruth added, with a sort of horrified glee. “And she threw a marshmallow into her manager’s mouth!”

  Evan appeared to be choking. Possibly on his own disbelief.

  “How many people are you going to tell about this?” Hannah sighed.

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Just Evan. And Laura—”

  “Please do not tell our archnemesis that I assaulted my boss with a marshmallow.”

  “She’s not our archnemesis anymore,” Ruth said. “I’ve been texting her. We had coffee. We’re friends.”

  “Ruth. She has hated us both for the past two years.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.” Ruth waved a hand about. She was disturbingly laid-back these days. Hannah suspected that 50% of this new attitude was down to Evan’s handsomeness, and the other 50% was down to his obvious devotion.

  Now, Hannah was not a jealous person, exactly—but Lord, it would be great if she, too, could find someone to shag the stress out of her. Of course, that would require her to find a human being who didn’t irritate her 90% of the time, which had proven difficult thus far. And someone who could actually do half as good a job in bed as she did with her own hand, which had also proven difficult.

  But she held out hope. Sort of. Sometimes. Maybe.

  Nathaniel Davis didn’t irritate you. And his hands are much bigger than yours.

  Hannah didn’t even flinch at that unruly thought. She was used to her mind misbehaving.

  Instead she said, “Tell the world if you must, but don’t tell mother.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. She was an epic eye-roller. “Why? She’s not going to spank you.”

  “Oh, be quiet. She’ll worry.”

  “She absolutely will not. You do all the worrying in the Kabbah family. Mum is physically incapable of worrying.”

  “I think she worries secretly,” Hannah said.

  Ruth looked openly skeptical.

  “Just don’t tell her, okay? I don’t want…” she trailed off, far too embarrassed to say the real reason. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me.

  Hannah hated disappointment more than anything on earth. Even the threat of it made acid froth in her stomach. The idea of her mother’s soft, dark gaze turning distant, despondent even…

  Oh, now she felt nauseous. Maybe a marshmallow would help.

  “I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” Ruth said. “It’s not like you’ll be sent off to the workhouse.”

  Evan, who had drifted off toward the fridge and was now rifling through it, said, “We don’t have workhouses anymore, love. You know that, right?”

  “Be quiet, you horrible man.”

  His head appeared over the top of the fridge, and he winked. Ruth responded with the sort of flushed and bamboozled smile no woman should ever have to see on the face of her stoic little sister. It was damned unnatural. And Hannah was definitely jealous.

  Ruth took a sip of tea and tried again. “What I mean is, you don’t need the money.”

  Evan’s head reappeared over the door of the fridge. He frowned over at Hannah and asked, “You don’t?”

  “I do,” Hannah said firmly.

  “She doesn’t,” Ruth argued, just as firmly. “She has a trust fund.”

  Evan gaped. “You do?”

  “We both have trust funds.” Hannah corrected with a glare. “And I don’t want to use mine, thank you very much.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Ruth said. Sometimes, Hannah didn’t understand her sister. Ruth knew very well what their so-called ‘trust funds’ actually were: hush money. You know, take this cash and don’t tell my wife that you exist money. Now you have no reason to bother me with your incriminating presence money. From their father, of all people. Their shitty fucking father.

  Hannah had grown up in the shadow of shame. She hated it, even more than she hated disappointment. Which is why she meant every single word when she said, “I’m not touching that man’s filthy fucking money.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Do be sensible, Hannah. All money is filthy.”

  “Is this something to do with your dad?” Evan asked.

  Hannah shot him a glare.

  He slowly disappeared back into the fridge.

  “Oh, Hannah,” Ruth said, “please don’t be difficult. Just… pretend today was a cosmic sign instead of the inevitable result of your goody-two-shoes repression.” Ignoring Hannah’s gasp of outrage, she went on: “Take this as an opportunity to find a new career. A long-term career that doesn’t make you want to commit murder on a daily basis. Maybe we should Google ‘jobs that involve bossing people around’.”

  “Now you’re just trying to piss me off.”

  “I certainly am not. Oh, I know! You should do something creative. It will be good for your general mood, I think. You have an excess of self.”

  Of course, Ruth would bang on about creativity. She made a living—more than a living—through, of all things, her space opera webcomic. Which surprised no-one who actually knew her, but still.

  Silence fell quite abruptly, because Ruth had nothing else to say and didn’t believe in unnecessary words. Hannah wanted to speak, but she was too busy over-analysing everything her sister had just said, and also the past thirty years of her life. You know, the usual.

  It was Evan who eventually restarted the conversation. “Or,” he said, “if you don’t want to choose a new career all at once… you could work for Zach’s brother.”

  Hannah looked up so fast, it was a miracle her head didn’t snap off of her neck. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know. Nate.” Evan produced a mountain of parsnips from the fridge. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  Usually, Hannah would politely decline—she did hate to be a bother—but she’d had a traumatic day and required carbohydrates. “Yes. What was that about Zach’s brother?”

  She was pleased with how the question came out. Not too sharp, not too desperate, not too astonished at the fact that Evan had casually brought up Nate Davis not two hours after she’d literally bumped into Nate Davis.

  Or rather, bumped into his adorable children.

  “Zach said they’ve been interviewing nannies or au pairs or something… what’s it called when you live at someone’s house and watch their kids and clean their shit?”

  “Drudgery,” Ruth muttered.

  “Marriage,” Hannah suggested.

  “Hey, now,” Evan said with determined cheer. “Marriage isn’t all bad!” He gave Hannah a significant look from behind Ruth’s back. If she had to guess, she would say that the look meant Please don’t turn your sister off marriage any more than she already is, because I’m really hoping to put a ring on that.

  Hannah cleared her throat. “I mean… um… a live-in nanny. That’s what you’re talking about. I think.”

  “Right.” Evan gave her a grateful smile. “Well, Shirley’s appointments are pretty random…” His cheerful demeanour faded a little when he mentioned Shirley Davis. Her recent cancer diagnosis was the reason Nate had moved back home after all these years. And since the family was small—just Shirley, Zach, and Nate, plus Nate’s kids—Hannah didn’t doubt that they’d need help.

  “Things are kind of complicated,” Evan went on, “so they want someone who’s accessible all the time. In case of… emergencies. Apparently, the interviews haven’t been going well—but you could do it, right? You worked with kids, before. Right?”

  Hannah blinked. Could she do it? Be some kind of private nanny, two years after her career in childcare h
ad collapsed as spectacularly as an under-hairsprayed bouffant? Frankly, she had no idea.

  But something bright and hopeful and awfully excitable sparked inside her at the thought. Which was sad, and ridiculous, and dangerous, because, “I highly doubt Nate would want me watching his kids.”

  Evan frowned as he started peeling parsnips. “Why the hell not? You’re exactly the sort of person I’d want watching my kids.”

  Well… that was sweet. So sweet she might do something painfully embarrassing, like thank him. “I can’t, Evan. You know I can’t. I can’t even pass a DBS check.”

  “Is that necessary,” Ruth asked innocently, “if you’re working privately?”

  “I have no idea,” Hannah lied.

  “Really? That seems like the kind of thing you’d know.”

  Hannah sighed. “Fine. No, it isn’t technically necessary. But the legal aspect doesn’t matter! I just… I don’t think Nate would want someone with violent convictions around his children.”

  “Violent convictions,” Ruth snorted. “You’re so dramatic. It was just a car.”

  The car of the town’s wealthy, handsome, beloved sweetheart. Which Hannah had destroyed in a fit of rage. With a cricket bat. In front of almost a hundred people.

  Sometimes she thought she should’ve destroyed the bastard’s kneecaps for what he’d done to her sister. But it was a good thing she hadn’t; she was too uptight to survive in prison.

  “Whatever,” Hannah sighed. “Look, it’s a nice idea, but… I just don’t know. I don’t see it happening, that’s all.”

  “But if it did,” Evan said, “you would be…?”

  She huffed. “I don’t know.” Over the fucking moon and highly suspicious of my own good fortune.

  She couldn’t say that, because Hannah would rather die than ever be so openly enthusiastic. She liked Evan—she really did—but he wasn’t family. He could not be permitted to see the messy and undignified depths of her overactive emotional muscle. Anyway, she barely had to feign her hesitation, because there was one part of this otherwise unicorn-perfect notion that was giving her pause.