This would not do at all.
She didn’t even realise she was closing the door until he said, “Wait.” His movements slow and gentle, he held out the dish. “It’ll keep. Put it in the fridge. Reheat at 230.”
“I don’t have an oven,” she said.
He laughed. “That’s a hell of an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse. I don’t have an oven.”
She watched as his brow furrowed. Most men, when they frowned, appeared intimidating at best and ugly at worst. This man—Evan—managed to remain disgracefully gorgeous.
“You don’t have an oven?” He echoed. “What do you eat?”
“Food,” she said flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Wait.” His voice lost its light-hearted quality, becoming quieter, deeper. “If you’re having trouble with… well, with anything, I want you to know that I’m happy to help.” His eyes pierced hers, uncomfortably direct. “You can use my oven, if you ever need to. You could take my microwave, if that would help. I don’t use it often.”
Ruth raised her brows. “Why would I possibly need your oven? Or your microwave? I have a microwave.”
He held up a hand, balancing the dish on one palm. “I wasn’t implying anything—”
“I am not in need of an oven. I had the oven removed.”
His brows lifted slightly. “I… see?”
He did not see. Which was usually just how Ruth liked things.
So why the hell did she feel the need to explain further?
“I had an accident about a year ago, and both my sister and the landlord got all pissy about the way I use ovens. Or something. So I thought, I never cook anyway—might as well stick with a microwave, a toaster, and a kettle.”
“What the hell do you make with a microwave, a toaster and a kettle?” He asked, sounding absolutely aghast.
Why did his obvious astonishment make her want to smile?
“Supernoodles, usually,” she said, just to watch his concern grow. “And toast. Lots of ready meals—”
He thrust out the pie. “You’re going to take this,” he said firmly, “and you’re going to eat it. Use your microwave or something. Just eat it. When you’re done, tell me, and I’ll make you something else.”
Ruth’s brows shot up. “I really don’t need you to—”
“Are you allergic to anything? Are you vegetarian? Kosher or halal or—”
“No,” she interrupted. “But you don’t need to cook for me.”
“I do,” he said calmly, “because if you die of malnutrition just next door, I’ll be drowned in guilt for the rest of my life.”
“That’s funny.”
“I’m extremely serious. Take the pie.”
Ruth hadn’t thought that this man, with his constant smiles and sweetness, could ever look forbidding. But now he wore the expression of someone who was not to be messed with, and his tone was equally firm. A reluctant smile tilting her lips, she finally accepted the Pyrex dish.
“Thanks,” she murmured. The word was almost painful.
Then, before he could do or say anything else, she kicked the door shut.
Chapter Six
It took three days for the Pyrex dish to appear on Evan’s doorstep.
He came home from work one day to find it sitting there on top of a tea towel, sparklingly clean. There was no note, or anything else to distinguish the return of the dish from a fairy gift.
At least she’d eaten it. Though she’d taken her damn time.
Evan picked up the dish and let himself in, his muscles aching from another long day at work. A day during which Daniel Burne had forced himself into Evan’s presence as much as possible, trying his best to be charming.
As if Evan would just forget how the man had treated an innocent woman.
Of course, for the sake of his job, he bore the ingratiating falseness. He nodded, and tried his best to smile, and swallowed down the words Fuck off. Honestly, that was the best he could do.
Evan put the dish away before heading straight to the shower. He usually went for a run after work, but today, his muscles were screaming. He knew not to push himself too hard. Not when his strength was his livelihood.
As he stood under the steaming water, Evan put a hand to the tiled wall at his left. The wall he shared with Ruth.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he heard the pipes on her side of the wall flare to life. The wall was so fucking thin. It was worse in his bedroom; he could hear the creak of her bed every time she lay down. They’d barely spoken, but Evan knew that she slept restlessly, that her bed must be poorly made, and that she showered at odd hours. It made him feel weirdly connected to her in a way neither of them had earned.
Evan’s mother had always said that things happened for a reason. He’d believed her, until she’d died.
He was wondering, though, if this had happened for a reason—he and Ruth being neighbours. She rarely left the house, she never had any visitors, and if Daniel Burne, the town’s darling, treated her like shit… Other people probably did too.
And she didn’t have an oven. Evan shuddered at the thought of her surviving on Supernoodles. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but the thought disturbed him more than it should.
Maybe because he liked her so much. He’d always liked prickly people. In fact, Evan suspected that he and Ruth could be great friends one day.
If she’d allow it.
He reached for some body wash as he pondered the Ruth conundrum further. She’d eaten the pie—which suggested she’d enjoyed it, right? If she was really happy with ready meals, she would’ve thrown out the whole thing and returned his dish the next day. Right?
So he should make her something else. It’s not like he’d be going out of his way; he was still cooking for Zach and Shirley. He was cooking for himself. And Ruth was just next door.
It was the neighbourly thing to do.
An hour later, Evan was standing on Ruth’s doorstep, waiting for her to answer, being bombarded by second thoughts.
He hadn’t expected his odd neighbour to be a young woman living alone, but—well, she was. He knew that now. And it had suddenly occurred to him that his mother’s friendly neighbour routine might not be quite so effective coming from a fairly large man.
What if Ruth had been so eager to get rid of him a few days ago because she was… scared?
Just as his mind landed on that worrying conclusion, the door to 1A swung open.
Hands on her hips, Ruth somehow seemed tall despite being quite the opposite. Her halo of dark, crinkly hair created the illusion of height, but her vaguely threatening aura multiplied that by five.
“What do you want?” She demanded.
Evan decided with some relief that, whatever else she was, she wasn’t scared.
“I brought you a lasagne.” He held out the dish.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How very… unnecessary.”
Then, before he could think of a retort, she turned and walked away.
Leaving the front door open.
After a moment’s hesitation, Evan stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Her narrow hallway was plain and nondescript—except for the enormous stack of magazines piled against the far wall. That stack was about chest-height to Evan. It probably reached Ruth’s shoulders.
His brow furrowed, he stepped forward to take a closer look. He managed to discern that the magazines were actually comic books before Ruth’s voice called, “Kitchen.”
Right. She’d just invited him in; he could examine her comic book tower another time.
1A and 1B were mirrors of each other in layout, with the same bland magnolia walls and plain, thin carpet. Since Evan hadn’t had time to decorate, and Ruth hadn’t decorated at all, the two flats seemed eerily similar as he headed towards the kitchen.
Except for the fact that Evan’s flat didn’t feature dangerously high stacks of comic books scattered around at regular intervals.
He stepped into the kitchen to find Ruth standing by a kettle, its orange light shining. “I assume you want tea,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Evan began. “I just thought—”
“Thought you’d bring me more food.” She said the words without inflection, her face impassive.
Impassive, but pretty, he realised with a jolt. Glowing skin, doe eyes that were magnetic even when she glared. Her mouth was always slightly open, maybe because her front teeth were too big. He wanted to stare at her until he figured out the exact configuration of her every facial feature, but he wouldn’t.
She was already uncomfortable; he could tell. Her gaze fluttered around him like a butterfly, hovering but never settling. Then again, from what he remembered, she always looked like that. Maybe she was just a nervous person.
Shifting his weight, Evan tried to look less… huge. It probably didn’t work—there was no hiding 6 foot 3—but he tried anyway. “I really don’t want to bother you,” he said, putting the lasagne on her little kitchen table. “I can go.”
She ignored that statement completely. “How long are you going to play personal chef?”
Something in her tone was… different. Slightly lighter than usual. Evan looked up to find the hint of a smile on her lips.
That almost-smile triggered an odd sort of warmth in his chest, soft and gentle. He smiled back. “I don’t know. Until I’m satisfied that you’re not developing rickets over here.”
“Are you always so meddlesome?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
The kettle hissed, and she turned to open a nearby cupboard. It was mounted on the wall, and Ruth was so small, she had to rise up on her toes to grab the mugs.
When she turned back to face him, she rolled her eyes. Clearly, she did that a lot. “What are you smirking about?” She demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Like a fool, he blurted out, “You’re little.”
She snorted. “You’re disgracefully tall. What’s your point?”
“Disgracefully?”
“It’s indecent,” she said. “You can’t possibly need all that height. One sugar or two?”
“Three.”
She wrinkled her nose and repeated, “Indecent. Sit down.”
Apparently, Ruth Kabbah did not make requests; she gave orders.
Evan was okay with that.
He sat and watched as she poured the tea, retrieved milk from the fridge and sugar from its container. She wasn’t graceful. She was, in fact, the opposite of graceful. He worried for her safety once every five seconds at least. When she poured half of the hot water onto the counter, he was only surprised that she didn’t scald herself in the process.
“You okay?” He asked as she snatched up a cloth.
She grumbled in response.
When the tea was finally ready, she brought it over to the table and sat across from him. Because the kitchen was tiny, and the table a little semi-circle, they were close. Close enough for him to feel the presence of her legs beneath the table, close to his, with that odd, sixth sense people sometimes developed.
His mug was modelled to look like Spider Man’s face. Hers looked like a face too, only it was jet-black—bar a few strategic silver lines.
Evan pointed at the cup. “Is that Black Panther?”
She squinted up at him. “What do you know about Black Panther?”
“I saw the film.”
She shrugged. He wasn’t sure what that meant.
“I liked it,” he added, because for some odd reason, he wanted her to talk.
She said, “Good.” Then she sipped her tea. Which had to be fucking scalding. Evan winced.
“You like comic books?” He said. Then he wanted to wince again, this time at himself. You like comic books? He’d already seen a hundred of them lying around the flat. She drank tea from superhero mugs. She was wearing pyjamas with the Hulk’s face on them. Yes, she liked comic books.
The look she gave him was narrow and suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation.”
“If you’re planning on reporting back to Daniel, don’t bother. He already knows what I like.”
That sentence seemed oddly phrased. Then again, most of her sentences seemed oddly phrased. Evan didn’t understand this woman, not even a little bit—but something about her made him want to.
“You two don’t get on,” Evan said. He was full of scintillating conversation today.
“I suppose not,” Ruth replied, her tone hollow.
“Is that why he called you slow?” It had bothered him, that word. Slow. Plenty of teachers had called him slow, because he wasn’t particularly academic. It stuck in his teeth like grit.
Ruth set down her mug. “He called me slow because he thinks there’s something wrong with my brain.”
There was a pause. To save it from becoming awkward, Evan drank some tea. The liquid nearly burned his tongue, but she’d managed it, so he would too.
“Before you ask,” she said, “there’s nothing wrong with my brain.”
Evan swallowed. “I wasn’t going to—”
“I’m autistic.”
He put his mug on the table. “Cool. I mean, you know—got it. Okay. Yeah.”
Ruth took another gulp of tea, then got up to put the mug in the sink. She’d… finished it. She’d finished the tea. In less than two minutes. Okay, then.
She turned, folded her arms, and pinned him with a hard look. “Are you a serial killer?”
“Has it only just occurred to you that I might be?”
“Sadly, yes. I suppose it’s too late for me now.”
He laughed. Ruth didn’t.
Instead, she continued, “You have to stop bringing me food.”
Evan leaned back in his seat. The wooden chair creaked dangerously beneath his weight, but he didn’t worry; he was used to that sort of thing. Sliding his hands behind his head, he met her gaze head on.
She looked away.
“Why?” He asked. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she said firmly. Almost defiantly, her pointed chin lifting. He was struck again by how pretty she was. Which was strange. He didn’t usually notice that sort of thing.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why, then?”
“I’m not a charity case or a child. I know how to feed myself.”
Evan raised his brows. “So you can cook?’
He hadn’t thought a person could glare so hard. If looks could kill, Ruth would be a weapon of mass destruction.
“No,” she clipped out. “I can’t.”
“Is that why they took your oven?”
“I removed my oven,” she corrected, “because I knocked some comics onto the hob and nearly burned down the flat. Plus I lost twelve vintage X-Men issues.” This last was muttered with bitter regret.
“So what do you eat, then? Aside from Supernoodles?”
“Toast,” she said. “Scrambled eggs. Carrot sticks.”
Evan stared. “It’s like you’re encouraging me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
With a sigh, he stood. “Listen. I get what you’re saying—I really do. But I already make food for… other people. So it’s no trouble, especially when you’re right next door. Also, I enjoy helping. And I really am worried about you.”
She put a hand against her stomach and said, “Do I look malnourished?”
Evan shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. But, aside from anything else, the idea of you eating carrot sticks for dinner is frankly depressing.”
She spluttered. “You can’t—I don’t—we don’t even know each other!”
“Sure we do.” Evan gave her his best smile. The one he usually saved for crotchety old ladies. Why he was using it to convince his neighbour that he should be allowed to bring her food on a regular basis, he had no fucking clue.
What am I doing right now?
Just go with
it.
“That wall’s so damned thin,” he continued, “we might as well be best friends.”
There was a pause, during which she seemed flummoxed. But then, with obvious reluctance, she said, “That’s funny.”
“Uh… thank you?”
“You’re a good cook.”
Evan’s uncertainty faded with that clear compliment. He winked. “Wait ‘til you try the lasagne.”
She looked at the foil-covered dish on the table. He wasn’t sure if she seemed eager, horrified, or perhaps some odd mixture of both.
Then she looked back at him and said, “You liked Black Panther?”
Evan blinked. That conversational boomerang had come around so suddenly, he felt slightly whiplashed. But still, he managed to gather his wits fairly quickly. “Yeah. I did.”
“You into comics?”
“I read some when I was a kid,” he said slowly. “But as I got older, things got…” He hesitated, unsure of how to explain his sudden transition from cheerful teenager to hardened adult. “Complicated,” he finally managed. “Things got complicated. I guess I stopped.”
She cocked her head, her eyes bright and dark. “We could make a deal, if you want.”
“A deal?”
“You give me more of that shepherd’s pie. I give you comic books.”
Evan stilled. Something inside him celebrated, popping champagne as if she’d offered him the keys to the town. He’d liked comics once upon a time, but the prospect of reading them again didn’t really excite him.
What excited him was the fact that she appeared to be relenting.
Since when are you so eager to cook for random women?
He wanted to help, he reminded himself. She seemed lonely. He just wanted to help.
“Okay,” he nodded. “That sounds like a deal.”
“You can’t keep them, though,” she added hurriedly. “I’d just lend them to you. So you can read them. But you have to bring them back.”
Evan held up his hands, unable to hide his grin. “Don’t worry, little one. I won’t steal your comics.”
She shot him a glare. “Don’t call me that.”
A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1) Page 4
