Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

Hannah: Checking on me?

  Ruth: You know. Making sure you haven’t been crucified by devil children or added to Nate’s secret basement collection of kidnapped women.

  Hannah wondered briefly if this basement situation would involve being tied up by Nate. Then she wondered extensively if she had somehow poured crack on her cereal that morning instead of sugar.

  Hannah: You saw me at Sunday dinner last week. And every week since I moved in. You do remember that, correct?

  Ruth: Yeah. But I don’t see you any other time. And you’ve stopped bugging me to socialise. Not that I’m complaining.

  Hannah: You socialise with Evan.

  Ruth: I think you really like this job. I think you’re busy being an overachieving nanny. Either that or you really have been kidnapped and we’ve been eating dinner with Nate-Wearing-Hannah’s-Skin.

  Was it strange to laugh at the thought of her boss in her skin suit? Almost definitely.

  Hannah: Really, I’m good. The devil children are actually a lot of fun, and all Nate does is worry about his mother, his children, global warming, Brexit, the dying bee population, and possibly the appropriate elastic-to-cotton ratio in a pair of socks.

  Ruth: …

  Ruth: …

  Hannah: He worries a lot, is what I’m saying here. Arguably too much to risk kidnapping anyone.

  Ruth: Cool? I suppose? Do you like the job, or…?

  Hannah: I love the job. It’s too easy. I feel like I’m taking advantage. All I do is play with the kids and post on my blog.

  Oops. She hadn’t meant to say that blog part, but now the message was sent, and delivered, and read, and Ruth was replying, and oh dear God what had she done.

  Ruth: Wait, you have a blog???? Can I see??

  Hannah: Absolutely not.

  Ruth: PLEASE

  Hannah: I would literally rather eat one of my braids than show you my blog.

  Ruth: Wowwww. You’re rejecting your own sister like this?

  Hannah: Can I see your webcomic?

  Ruth: That’s different. My webcomic has sex.

  Hannah: IT DOES???

  Ruth: Mind your business.

  Hannah: YOU DRAW SEX???

  Ruth: What’s your blog about?

  Hannah: ISN’T YOUR WEBCOMIC ABOUT ALIENS?

  Ruth: Don’t make me hunt down your secret blog.

  Hannah: RUTH

  Hannah: DO YOU DRAW ALIEN SEX

  Hannah: I NEED TO KNOW

  Ruth: …Only sometimes. Very occasionally.

  Hannah: I’m telling mother.

  Ruth: I propose a deal. Keep your mouth shut about my alien sex and I’ll stop asking about your blog.

  Hannah: I accept.

  Ruth: …You have bamboozled me again, haven’t you?

  Hannah: <3

  Hannah slid her phone back into her bra pocket, a silly smile taking over her face. Then she picked up a duster and set her sights on the cabinet by the door. It was probably filthy up there, right at the very top, where no-one could see. But she was nowhere near tall enough to reach it. She’d need a boost. Now, if she could just drag the armchair a little closer…

  Like the excellent son he was trying to become, Nate had gone straight to his mother’s house after taking the kids to school. And had promptly been told, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off.

  Apparently, Shirley’s bookclub met first thing in the bloody morning and discussed romance novels over tea and biscuits. Why they didn’t meet at night to discuss romance novels while chugging wine like normal middle-aged women, Nate had no idea.

  But he was grateful to know that his mother would be surrounded by friends within the hour.

  He arrived home to find his front hall disturbingly shiny and clutter-free. Hannah, quite clearly, had been here. At least twice a week, she stormed through the house, cleaning every inch with an attention to detail that was both alarming and somehow arousing. Nate had considered bleaching his own brain after it started producing images of Hannah brandishing a highly impractical feather duster, wearing an even more impractical French maid outfit.

  Apparently, he had the erotic imagination of a sexless and slightly misogynistic old man.

  He could hear her singing in the living room, which meant she was quite firmly in the flow of things. While nanny did not mean cleaner in Nate’s mind, Hannah seemed to love this task above all else. Her cheeks got all bright and shiny, and she smiled more, and sang when she thought no-one could hear. Her voice was terrible. He loved it.

  So he went into the living room, hoping to catch her in the act. He certainly wasn’t expecting to find her right by the door, balanced precariously on the back of an armchair.

  “What the hell are you doing up there?” he demanded, which turned out to be a bad idea. Because apparently, she hadn’t noticed he was there—so when he spoke, she yelped, and wobbled, and fell.

  Of course, he caught her.

  She fell hard, and she certainly wasn’t as light as Josh or Beth, so Nate ended up stumbling back against the wall. But, since he stumbled with Hannah safely in his grasp, that was alright. Then he registered the softness of her body in his arms, and the fact that he was basically grabbing her arse, his other hand grazing the underside of her breast. Fuck. Ever since he’d messed up the other day, he’d been trying so hard not to touch her. Because whenever he did, a flash-flood of attraction struck him without mercy, and he was left dazed and confused.

  Kind of like right now, in fact.

  His skin tingled in that electrifying way it had whenever they came into contact. For one tense, yearning moment, he imagined holding her the way he wanted to, close and intimate. He pictured her clinging to him just as desperately, then fantasised about throwing her down into the chair she’d fallen off and licking his way into that lush, taunting mouth.

  Then he crushed the image ruthlessly and with no little self-disgust. He was back in the real world, where his utterly untouchable nanny was staring at him as though his head had fallen off of his shoulders. He wondered if she was about to ask him why the fuck he was still holding her. Hopefully not, because he didn’t think his answer—“Sorry, you just feel really good”—would cut it.

  So, before she could speak, he asked, “You okay?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes still pinned to his, that baffled surprise still written all over her face. When she said, “Thank you,” her voice seemed lower and huskier than usual, the sound intoxicating.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You saved me.” The words were teasing, her slow smile electrifying. Most of the time, when she smiled, she kept her lips together—like she didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic, or maybe because she didn’t like her teeth. He liked her teeth. So when she gave him a rare, full grin, the sight did something to him that was almost violent. It was like taking a shot of pure joy.

  And then she made it a thousand times worse by reaching up and running a hand through his hair. “You’re covered in pollen, you know.” Her fingers ghosted over his skull, the pressure sweet and barely there. He wanted to close his eyes and lean into her touch. He wanted to carry her with him everywhere he went, like his own personal sunshine. She showed him her yellow-stained fingertips and gave him a smile that seemed to say, What are you like?

  “I took the back way home. By the rapeseed.”

  “Poor planning,” she murmured.

  “But I like the colour.” He liked holding on to her, too. And Nate believed in doing things he enjoyed. She seemed comfortable enough, cradled in his arms, and her nearness—her warmth, the perfume of her skin—made him reckless. So he didn’t put her down yet. Five more minutes.

  “That’s one thing I admire about you,” she said, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. “You do what you want to do. I mean, you don’t deny yourself without good reason.”

  He didn’t, did he? “You shouldn’t deny yourself either.”

  “I can’t help it,” she whis
pered.

  Nate knew that. It was what she needed him for, after all. To push.

  But right now, with his mind swimming in heady lust and his cock swelling uncomfortably in his jeans, he couldn’t be trusted to push responsibly. So, reluctantly, he finally put her down. The action forced her body to slide against his, and he wondered if she could feel his pounding heart. He hoped she couldn’t feel his rigid dick—but when her hands tightened on his shoulders and she gave the softest, smallest gasp, he suspected that she had.

  Fuck.

  Their eyes met, hers wide and fathomless, his doubtless guilty. To his surprise, she didn’t look away. Instead, she bit her lip. His hand must have been under someone else’s control, because before Nate knew it he was sliding his thumb over the curve of her mouth, smoothing away the line she’d left in her earthy lipstick. His palm cradled her face, the evidence of his bad behaviour staining the pad of his thumb cinnamon.

  This was what happened when he crossed mental lines; physical lines followed. He’d let himself acknowledge this attraction instead of folding it up and shoving it into a box, and now she knew. He’d sell his soul just to put his mouth on her, and now she knew. Or at least, he thought she did.

  “Nate?” Hannah frowned. She didn’t sound horrified. Or terrified. Or happy. She sounded completely and utterly confused.

  Which was both unexpected and extremely convenient. If Hannah somehow didn’t understand what was going through his mind right now… well, maybe he could make it so that she never would. Because it was one thing to want her, but it was another thing entirely to burden her with the knowledge.

  So, with worryingly little effort, Nate shut down. He pulled up his old mask of casual mocking, the one that convinced everyone he was too cool to care and too wild to be cared for. He stepped back abruptly, practically jerking away from her touch. She wobbled for a moment, losing the support of his shoulders, and his heart clenched. But then he reminded himself that she was perfectly capable of standing alone—that she would want to stand alone, if she knew what he was thinking.

  “You should be more careful,” he said, trying not to wince at the coldness in his own voice.

  Her brows rose, and her cheeks hollowed as if she’d sucked them in. “With what?”

  “That.” He nodded sharply toward the chair she’d been standing on. “You’ll break your bloody neck. Don’t do it again.” Don’t trust me again. Don’t touch me again. And don’t ever, ever let me touch you.

  Her nostrils flared slightly, her eyes narrowing, but for some reason she held back her irritation. No; not some reason. She held it back because they weren’t at school, and she wasn’t just some woman he watched with interest from afar. She was his employee, and she was cautious around him.

  He had power over her, and she remembered that, even if he didn’t.

  What the fuck had he been thinking?

  Guilt flooded him, every inch of his body tensing, his mind a screaming hive of pressure and pain and that infuriating lust. “What?” he asked tightly, even though she hadn’t said a word. He wanted her to say something. He wanted her to lose her temper and snap at him, because he deserved it even more than she knew.

  Instead, after a long, heavy breath, she gritted out, “I’m going to the supermarket.”

  Her shoulders were stiff as she left. The fact that she’d abandoned a chair out of place and left her sunshine yellow duster on the cabinet told him, better than anything else, that she was furious.

  But at least she was angry because he’d been awful, not scared because he wanted her. At least she hadn’t noticed the lust ripping through him like a forest fire. At least she’d never know that he’d come perilously close to kissing her nose or burying his face between her legs, or something else—the urges were all wildly divergent, as well as horribly impossible.

  And she hadn’t detected a single one.

  He’d gotten away with it. Thank fuck.

  9

  Nate had not gotten away with it. Twenty minutes later, Hannah pushed her trolley through Ravenswood’s tiny, overpriced supermarket and pondered the undeniable fact that Nathaniel Davis wanted to fuck her.

  She didn’t think she was being presumptuous. It was obvious that he wanted to sleep with her, and painfully obvious that he was horrified by the fact—which Hannah was used to. She’d had many people recoil from her as they realised that, through some twisted miscommunication between mind and body, they’d developed lust toward a woman they didn’t even like.

  But Nate does like me.

  Obviously not enough. No-one you want ever does.

  Hannah squashed that second, pitiful voice grimly. She reminded it in stern and unyielding tones that she was attractive, occasionally amusing, and undeniably useful. Eventually, someone would want her. They wouldn’t stumble into a grey and plodding relationship with her; they wouldn’t sleep with her on a semi-regular basis until her personality became too much to bear; they’d want her.

  That person just wouldn’t be Nate.

  More’s the pity.

  Oh, would you stop that?

  Hannah tossed a loaf of bread into her shopping trolley and moved on to the next important issue: her own undeniable attraction to the man who paid her wages.

  Which appeared to be getting out of hand.

  But she had a theory. A theory that explained why his presence flooded her body with sultry, languid heat, why his touch felt like the spark before a fire, why his smile wiped her brain like she was a computer rebooting.

  It was her crush, that was all. Her old, sad, teenage crush. It should be long dead, but somehow, the dregs remained—maybe because Nate had left town before her affliction could come to its natural end? Whatever the reason, it had survived like a frozen pathogen. She wasn’t worried, though. Eventually, her body would kill it off, and everything would be fine again.

  Hopefully sooner rather than later, because romantic attraction never ended well for Hannah. It was a tragic but bearable flaw, likely designed to counteract the effects of her intellectual brilliance, general competence, and excellent bone structure.

  She was perusing the instant porridge and considering ways to speed up the death of her crush when she heard it. The stage-whispers. Those faux-hushed, gleeful tones she’d trained herself to identify from a mile away, because they signified Ravenswood’s foremost currency: gossip.

  Hannah did not like gossip. She hated it, in fact. But she needed power, and she needed control, and in this town, those things required an ear to the grapevine. So, quietly, Hannah eased her trolley deeper into the aisle and thanked the Almighty for its well-oiled wheels.

  Keeping her movements casual—because she would never risk being caught skulking—Hannah glided toward the siren call of those vicious murmurs. When she reached the bagels in their little plastic bags, all printed with the Statue of Liberty, she paused. This was the perfect position, she decided. From here, she could hear all.

  Hannah chose a bag of bagels and frowned intently at the ingredients list. And listened.

  “…frightful flash she is, Mam. Dripping with jewels, you know.” The first woman had a smoker’s voice, raw and scratchy. The combination of upper-crust accent and humbler dialect marked her as a type Hannah had labelled ‘Horsey Women’. Horsey Women were fabulously wealthy, tended to have enormous, elegant noses and pink, wind-whipped cheeks, lived on ancestral farms, and neglected their children for the sake of their prize mares.

  Hannah’s mode of categorisation wasn’t a precise science, but she happened to know that this particular Horsey Woman fit the mould to a T. It was Kathleen Grey who stood gossiping on the other side of the shelf—and Christ, how horribly depressing that Hannah could discern the voice of a woman she despised through a wall of American bread.

  “Oh, Kath,” said the second woman, older and far more delicate in her speech. “I don’t know how you find these people.”

  “I know, I know. But that ain’t the worst,” Kathleen murmured, words blad
e-sharp with excitement.

  “I can see by your face that you’re dying to shock me. Wicked girl. Go on, then.”

  “She’s divorced if you’d believe—that’s why she’s come here, ain’t it? Reckons she’s getting a fresh start.”

  My, Hannah thought acidly. Divorce. What a scandal.

  “And a fresh man?” the second woman theorised.

  “Not likely,” Kathleen snorted. “Now, I don’t like to make judgements on people—you know me, Mam, I mind my business.”

  Hannah barely choked back a snort.

  “But it’s clear as day why the husband left. On the one side of her face, she’s quite pretty. But on the other side, gosh, she’s got the most awful scars.”

  “Scars?”

  “Scars! On her face!”

  “How uncouth.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry for her. And on top of that—I mean, I don’t really like to say. You know these things don’t matter to me. But on top of it all, she’s, you know...” Kathleen said the next word in hushed tones, as if it were a grievous slur. “Black.” Then, sounding thoughtful: “Or should I say coloured?”

  Hannah resisted the urge to shout, No, you most certainly should not.

  “Oh,” the second woman sighed. She sounded genuinely put out by this poor, scarred woman’s misfortune. Black, on top of it all!

  Hannah realised that she was crushing the bag of bagels in her hand. Well, bugger. Now she’d have to buy the damned things.

  “I know,” Kathleen murmured. “The poor cow. She’s probably had a right time of it…”

  Further commiserations occurred, but Hannah was saved from hearing them by a spark of searing awareness that thrilled along her spine. Somehow she sensed the presence of his body beside hers, even before she saw him from the corner of her eye. She shouldn’t know him without looking. But she did.

  Nate leaned on the side of Hannah’s trolley, his face perilously close to hers, his breath ghosting over her cheek as he whispered, “What are we staring at?”

  “Not staring,” she corrected, her voice equally hushed. “We’re listening.” Her brain had clearly malfunctioned, because it took a whole ten seconds for her to remember that there was no we about it, and a further three to realise that she’d just admitted to eavesdropping. Another three, and she collected her wits enough to scowl at his awful, handsome face and demand, “What on earth are you doing here?”