Untouchable: A Small Town Romance (Ravenswood Book 2)

by Talia Hibbert

  “Magical,” she murmured. Then she looked up, the question suddenly urgent. “How do you make normal things look so magical?”

  He gave her a one-shouldered shrug, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe that’s just you.”

  “Don’t flatter me. It’s some fancy, technological photography thing.”

  His lips twitched. “No comment.”

  “Come here. Sit with me.”

  He came over slowly. When he sank on to the bed beside her, she finally realised why he seemed slightly edgy.

  So she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I like them. Thank you.”

  Something about him relaxed, even as he shook his head. “You only just started.”

  “I already know I love them all. But I suppose,” she sighed dramatically, “I’ll look through the rest. Just to make sure.”

  He laughed and tugged one of her braids. “Go on, then.”

  So she did. She flicked through 365 pictures of herself, from her lipsticked mouth to the shadow of her profile in the moonlight, to Josh’s legs dangling between hers as he sat on her lap. She saw 365 versions of herself through the eyes of a man who loved her. And when she was done, Hannah set the album carefully aside and threw herself—literally threw herself—at Nathaniel Davis.

  He caught her, obviously.

  They fell back against the bed, him laughing, her covering his face in kisses. “Hold on,” he managed to say between chuckles. “I’m not done.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I just wanted to let you know that I’d like you to start planning your proposal. If you’re amenable.”

  Was it possible to break your own face by smiling too hard? Hannah really hoped not. “I’m definitely amenable. Enthusiastic. Eager, even.”

  His brows shot up. “You are? For real?”

  “For real.” She ran the tip of her nose over his throat, his jaw, his cheekbone. Just touching him, simply because she could. “You’re mine, and that isn’t changing. Might as well make it legal.”

  With a wicked grin, he rolled them over until his body covered hers, his hard chest pinning her against the mattress. “I’m yours?”

  “That’s right.” She pressed a kiss to his throat. “And I’m yours.”

  His answering whisper rolled over her skin like a touch. “No matter what.”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading Untouchable. It would mean the world to me if you could share your thoughts about it on Amazon or Goodreads. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend.

  Love,

  Talia x

  Become a V.I.P.

  Don’t want to miss the next Ravenswood book? Join my V.I.P. list and grab two steamy romances for free!

  Become a V.I.P.

  Read Hannah’s Blog

  If you’re interested in Hannah’s blog, you’re in luck! You can see a few of her most popular posts by heading to taliahibbert.com/the-kabbah-code and using the super-secret password. It’s PrincessR, but don’t tell anyone, okay?

  Author’s Note

  One thing I love about being an author is that my platform allows me to raise awareness. Of what? Well, of anything, because the world is a vast and terrifying place and there are always 50,000 things going on that we should know about, but usually don’t.

  In this book I am shamelessly raising awareness of sarcoidosis, which is an issue close to my heart. A lot of chronic illness sufferers are ignored or misdiagnosed due to our society’s ableist attitudes. Over twenty years ago, my mother nearly died for that very reason. Doctors ignored her complaints of throat pain until the tumour growing in her windpipe almost suffocated her to death. Even after her emergency surgery, no-one thought to investigate what had caused that tumour.

  Decades later, her mysterious illness returned with a vengeance. This time, she wasn’t ignored—she was misdiagnosed with terminal lung cancer. That’s how bad understanding and awareness of sarcoidosis is. Several doctors mistook it for terminal lung cancer. Eventually, of course, the truth was discovered. We’ve since found that she’s far from the only one to suffer through that sort of mistake.

  If you want to know more about sarcoidosis, check out this link: https://www.sarcoidosisuk.org

  They’re committed to informing and supporting sarcoidosis sufferers, as well as funding further research.

  What I would love readers to take from this is not necessarily a burning passion for sarcoidosis research (though, on a selfish level, that would be great!). Rather, I want to emphasise how poor attitudes towards chronic illness literally put people’s lives in danger. The simple fact is that in our society, no-one takes illness seriously.

  It may seem small in some contexts, like disbelieving your chronically ill friend’s complaints because “Well, you look fine!” But supposedly minor things influence every aspect of our society, including the medical field, because we are all connected and we are only human.

  This so-called ‘note’ is getting very long, so I’m going to rein myself in here. Wishing you all the health and happiness possible,

  Talia x

  A Girl Like Her

  Have you read Ruth and Evan’s story?

  Everyone has secrets. He wants all of hers.

  Meet the man next door…

  Read on for a sneak peek!

  Sneak Peek

  Ruth’s favourite place had always been her head.

  Inside her mind, the sort of excitement she struggled to process in real life became accessible. She could slow it down and compartmentalise it, like a TV show she controlled utterly. And she could translate it, too. That was the best part.

  Ruth’s stylus flew over the screen of her graphic tablet as she sketched out the story unfolding before her eyes. Not the eyes that saw light shining off the tablet’s pristine glass, but the eyes that saw entire worlds beyond this one.

  She’d found the sweet spot. The zone. That precise point in time and space and possibility when a story began to flow like water, and the artist was able to keep up with the current.

  In the peace of her shitty little flat, Ruth’s easily-shattered focus was, for once, razor-sharp.

  Until the phone rang.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. The sweet spot became sour. Ruth was thrust out of her own head and back into the real world, into herself. The image, the story, was left behind.

  For a moment, Ruth looked down at the scene she’d just outlined. Lieutenant Lita Ara’wa glared at her captain, an 8-foot-tall, golden alien, from over a huge, living desk. The desk smelled and felt like Derbyshire peat, but that was a detail only Ruth would ever know. In a moment, Lita and her captain would commence rage-fuelled hate-sex on top of the Derbyshire peat desk.

  Which, come to think of it, didn’t sound very hygienic. Maybe one of them should catch something…

  Aaaaaand the goddamn phone was still ringing.

  Its shrill chime threatened to snip the golden thread of Ruth’s idea—which could not be allowed to happen.

  Chewing at her lower lip, Ruth thrust out a hand in the direction of her phone’s repeated chime. After a few unseeing, experimental gropes at her bed’s rumpled sheets, she came up empty-handed.

  But the phone kept ringing, loud and clear. It had to be there somewhere.

  Eyes still trained on the tablet, Ruth shuffled across her bed. Lita and the captain should definitely catch something, she decided. An unfamiliar Earth disease. What could one catch from Derbyshire peat? Frowning slightly at the image before her, Ruth reached out towards the space where—if muscle-memory and instinct served—a bedside table sat.

  Muscle-memory and instinct did not serve.

  In fact, not for the first time, they failed her completely. Ruth shuffled a bit too far, leaned a bit too hard, and fell right off the bed.

  Again.

  “Ah, fuck.” The cool, wooden floor of her bedroom was a familiar location, but that didn’t ease the sting in her hip and elbow.

  Ruth stayed still for a breath, because ser
ious pain usually waited a second to make itself known. Just as she decided that nothing was damaged, the blasted phone stopped ringing.

  And, of course, in that precise moment, she spotted the bugger. It was on the floor, next to a nearby stack of Avengers comics. Exactly how it had gotten there, Ruth had no idea. Perhaps she’d thrown it.

  With a sigh, she scrambled over and grabbed the phone.

  1 MISSED CALL: HANNAH

  Oh. Any hopes of ignoring the call and returning to work evaporated. Rising to her feet, Ruth called her elder sister back.

  “Hey,” Hannah answered. “You’re up.”

  “Unfortunately.” Ruth pressed a hand to her belly as she stood. Sometime in the last few minutes, she’d become aware of a concerning, nauseous feeling low in her gut. She headed out into the hall, weaving expertly through her stacks of comics, and explained, “Inspiration struck.”

  “Well, it’s good that you’re awake. I wish you’d get your sleep schedule on track.”

  Sigh. Ruth had been gifted with a mother who did not nag. As part of the bargain, she’d been given an elder sister who did nothing but. “My sleep schedule is fine,” Ruth muttered, stepping into the bathroom. “I’m not one of your—” Of your toddlers, she’d been going to say. Because she was an insensitive, ungrateful cow. She swallowed the words and hoped they’d gone unnoticed.

  “What time did you get up?” Hannah demanded. Thank God for dogged determination.

  “About four.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  Ruth ignored the question, because the answer was obvious. She yanked down her pyjama bottoms and enormous granny knickers to find the expected splotches of blood staining their crotch. “Oh, dear,” she mumbled.

  “Are you talking to yourself again?”

  “Nope.” Ruth grabbed a box of tampons from the bathroom cabinet and found it quite tragically empty. “Shit.”

  “You are talking to yourself,” Hannah insisted. “Oh, Ruthie. You really should get a cat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ruth tucked the phone between her shoulder and chin, tearing off a length of toilet paper. “Cats despise conversation.”

  “Perhaps a goldfish, then.”

  “You’d rather I talk to a goldfish?” Ruth wadded up the tissue and shoved it down her knickers. Emergency manoeuvres were called for.

  “I’d rather you talked to people,” Hannah corrected. “Real, live people. Why don’t you come out with me tonight?”

  Ruth paused in the act of pulling up her pyjama bottoms. She couldn’t help it. At the prospect of spending a Friday night out—like, out out—her body froze.

  There was a pause. Then her stiff joints released, her muscles relaxed, and her breath calmed just enough for her to say, “No.”

  Hannah sighed. Perhaps unsurprised, probably disappointed. “Not in Ravenswood. We could go to the city.”

  As much as Ruth hated to deny her sister anything… “I’m on deadline, Han.”

  “You make your own deadlines.”

  “And I’m a bitch of a boss.” Ruth arranged her pyjamas, then headed out into the hall, grabbing a jacket. “I have to go.”

  “Ruth—”

  “Period emergency.”

  That was enough to distract even Hannah. “Oh, God. Are you alright? Do you want me to bring you some ice cream?”

  “I have plenty of ice cream. Bye, Han. Love you.” Ruth put the phone down before her sister had a chance to say those last words back.

  She didn’t really feel worthy of hearing them.

  “You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

  Evan Miller stifled a sigh.

  He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who those words had come from. After five days at Burne & Co., he was more familiar with those cultured, charming tones than he’d like.

  So Evan continued to focus on the length of iron before him, holding it up to the light, making sure that he’d drawn it out just far enough. His muscles ached and sweat trailed down his brow as the forge cooled. He was almost ready to leave, but now he wanted to find some reason to stay. Just ten more minutes, or maybe twenty. As long as it took for his visitor to get the hint.

  Evan had been waiting all week for Daniel Burne to lose interest in him, and so far it didn’t seem to be working. Maybe Evan was the problem. Maybe, by not rushing to befriend the boss’s kid, he’d made himself stand out too much.

  Daniel Burne was rich, handsome, good at his job despite the possible nepotism, and king of this small town. He probably didn’t understand why Evan rebuffed his friendship. That was the problem with popular people; they needed, more than anything, to be noticed.

  So it came as no surprise when, instead of going away, Daniel moved further into the workshop. He wandered within Evan’s line of sight and leant against the wall, folding his arms.

  This time, Evan didn’t stifle his sigh. He released it loudly, a drawn-out gust that spoke a thousand words. But his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, so that sigh was the only hint of annoyance that he allowed to escape.

  “What’s up?” Evan asked, lowering the iron finial.

  Daniel’s auburn hair gleamed bright in the light of the dying fire. He tossed his head towards the line of cooling finials at the edge of Daniel’s workshop. Eventually, they’d form a gate for the Markham family.

  “You shouldn’t be doing Zach’s work for him,” Daniel drawled. “If he wants to slack, let him face the consequences.”

  There were lots of things that Evan could’ve said to that. Like, You do know that Zach’s mother has cancer, right? Or, Since I’ve known him 5 days and you’ve known him since childhood, you should be more eager to help than me. Or maybe, Do you have any fucking conscience whatsoever?

  Instead Evan said, “I’m done now, anyway.”

  Avoiding conflict was his mode of operation. They’d taught him that at basic training, once they’d figured out his hair-trigger temper. Always avoid conflict.

  It worked, partly. Daniel nodded, and didn’t say another word about Zach or the gate. But he did hover as Evan put away his equipment and checked the forge’s temperature. And when Evan headed for the exit, Daniel was right on his heels.

  “You walking?” Daniel asked, his long strides matching Evan’s easily.

  “Yep,” Evan replied.

  “It’s been a long week. Let me drive you home.”

  “That’s okay,” Evan smiled. “I like to walk.” It was true; he needed physical activity like he needed air. Plus, he had to be gentle with Daniel. It wouldn’t do to alienate the boss’s kid, even if that kid happened to be a grown man.

  “Oh, come on.” Daniel grinned back, a wide, white-toothed smile. Evan hadn’t seen much of Ravenswood yet, but he’d seen enough to know that the small town’s inhabitants adored Daniel Burne. And if he hadn’t, the easy expectation in Daniel’s green eyes would’ve made it clear. This man had never been told no, and never thought he would be.

  Those were the men you had to watch.

  “Alright,” Evan relented as they broke out into the cool, evening air. It was just after five, so Ravenswood’s streets were busy. Which meant that there was an old woman heading into the town centre on foot, and two Volvos making their way there via road.

  “Great!” Daniel clapped Evan on the back, a firm slap that spoke of a camaraderie they had not forged. It was funny; in the army, that sort of immediate connection had come easy. But here, with this man, the familiarity set Evan’s teeth on edge.

  “I parked in town,” Daniel said. “Just ‘round the corner.”

  Evan nodded. Since ‘town’ referred to the centre of Ravenswood, and Ravenswood itself was about three miles long—surrounding farmland included— nothing was very far from anything else.

  But Daniel managed to pack the next five minutes with a lifetime’s worth of meaningless chatter anyway.

  “So, where are you living? Those new flats?”

  The flats had been built in 2015, but here in R
avenswood, that counted as new.

  “Yep,” Evan confirmed. “Elm Block.” The Ravenswood habit of naming everything in sight was something he quite enjoyed.

  Daniel, apparently, did not agree. His already-pale face blanched slightly, his brow furrowed. “Serious?” he asked. “Elm?”

  Something in his voice had changed. It was tight, strained, slightly scratchy.

  Evan slowed down, his eyes focusing on Daniel with curiosity rather than veiled disdain. “Yeah. Why?”

  “That’s bad luck, mate,” Daniel said. He nodded his head over and over again, disturbingly emphatic. “Very bad luck. I suppose you had no-one in town to guide you. There’s some very shady characters living in Elm, you know.”

  Evan’s brows flew up. “Shady characters?” He echoed. “In Ravenswood? I haven’t been here long, but that doesn’t sound right.”

  “Trust me,” Daniel said darkly. “We all have our burdens to bear.”

  Evan bit back a snort. Apparently, he could add Drama King to the list of Daniel Burne’s irritating qualities.

  “Be careful,” Daniel continued. “I’m just saying.” Then he jerked his head towards a huge, blue BMW a few metres away, parked across two spaces. “That’s mine.”

  Evan blinked at the monstrous thing for a moment, trying to come up with a compliment. He failed. To fill the silence, he returned to the ominous topic of his little block of flats.

  “I only have one neighbour. Haven’t met them yet, but I think it’s someone elderly. They don’t seem to leave the house.”

  “Hm,” Daniel grunted. “Well—”