What happens when a bad boy becomes a man?
Nate Davis didn't plan on returning to his hateful hometown. But then, he didn't plan on being widowed in his twenties, or on his mother getting sick, either. Turns out, life doesn't give a fuck about plans.
Hannah Kabbah thought her career in childcare was over. After all, no-one wants a woman with a criminal damage conviction watching their kids. But when her high school crush returns to Ravenswood with two kids in tow, Hannah gets the second chance she never dreamed of.
She also gets to know Nate - the real Nate. The one whose stony exterior hides aching vulnerability. Who makes her smile when she wants to fall apart. Who is way, way more than the bad boy persona he earned so long ago, and way too noble to ever sleep with the nanny.
So it's a good thing she's completely over that teenage crush, right?
Untouchable
Ravenswood Book 2
Talia Hibbert
Nixon House
UNTOUCHABLE: Talia Hibbert
Copyright (c) 2018 by Nixon House
Credits: Cover by Natasha Snow Designs; natashasnowdesigns.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or within the public domain. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reprinted, including by any electronic or mechanical means, or in information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
Created with Vellum
For everyone who’s ever been left.
Acknowledgements
All the thanks on Planet Earth to Aysha and Divya, ninja editors extraordinaire. Thank you to my patrons Ellen Baier and Adina Taylor for all the support; you are the sweetest and I do not deserve. Thank you to everyone who asked me about Hannah, or begged for updates on her story, or squealed about her general amazing-ness. She’s not exactly a typical romance heroine, but she’s valid and you remind me of that. I appreciate you.
Contents
Content Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Thank You
Become a V.I.P.
Read Hannah’s Blog
Author’s Note
A Girl Like Her
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Also by Talia Hibbert
Content Note
Please be aware: this book contains material that may trigger certain audiences, including:
themes of depression and anxiety
parental illness, chronic illness, terminal illness
parental abandonment
discussion of spousal death
reference to suicidal thoughts (Chapter 10)
a sex act that is stopped abruptly due to one participants’ discomfort (Chapter 14; there is no dubious consent or non-consent in this book).
Prologue
Most people didn’t like walking in the rain.
Especially not this kind of rain, the sort of icy spray that barely seemed to fall, yet soaked everything in its path within seconds. Sly rain, Nate’s mum called it. You might look out the window and think, Oh, that’s alright to go out in—but as soon as you stepped outside, you’d realise it absolutely wasn’t.
At least, it wasn’t unless you were Nate. Unless you needed something damp and dour to soothe your scorched bones. Only on days like this, when the sly rain fell and the sky was a sad blue grey and the earth smelled fresh and clean, did he stop feeling so fucking furious. Only on days like this did his strange, empty rage—the rage he had no reason to feel—go away.
He’d turned fourteen last week, and his mum had bought him a birthday cake. His ever-cheerful little brother had stuck fourteen candles in the round, white sponge. Nate had blown out the candles and tried to seem excited. Later that night, he’d snuck out of the house to watch the stars and wondered why he was an ungrateful, miserable, angry motherfucker when he had no right to be. They loved him, but all he had room for was rage.
He’d decided it was this fucking town. This tiny, suffocating town and everyone in it. Ravenswood. It wasn’t his fault; it was Ravenswood’s fault. He wouldn’t always be like this; he just had to leave. And the minute he’d made that decision, something in his chest had eased. That was all. He just had to leave.
So Nate was biding his time until adulthood came along and he could fuck off out of here. He’d run away to somewhere huge and awful like Manchester or London, and… and become an artist. Or a photographer. Something that didn’t involve words or reading, since he couldn’t even do that right. His jaw still ached from the effort of clenching his teeth in Geography class that morning. That fucker Mr. Meyers had called him stupid again—and since Nate had been too angry to speak, and since he’d promised Ma he wouldn’t throw chairs at school anymore, he’d just had to sit there and take it.
Which was why he’d decided to spend his lunch break wandering the school grounds in the rain. It calmed him. He passed by the music block to circle the mammoth obelisk of the science tower, dragging in gulps of cool, wet air. Later, he’d turn up for maths with rain dripping from his nose and the tips of his too-black hair, and some clever twat like Dan Burne would probably call him a demonic drowned rat or whatever.
Didn’t matter. Nate felt water leak into his battered old school shoes as he stepped purposefully into puddles and relished the shock of cold. He turned his face up as he walked and let the raindrops bathe his wide eyes like someone else’s tears. Which is why it took him so bloody long to notice Hannah Kabbah walking in front of him.
But once he saw her, he couldn’t focus on anything else. He didn’t really want to. He liked watching Hannah—he liked Hannah full stop, not that he’d ever tell her so. If he did, she’d probably just roll her eyes and turn away, which was kind of why he liked her. She was just so… direct. Forceful, even. Like right now: she walked like she had somewhere to be, somewhere way more important than mere mortals could possibly imagine. She strutted, but not like a supermodel. More like that one manic P.E. teacher who always had someone to scold.
They’d been in the same classes all their lives—which had always struck him as odd, because the classes were split by ability, and Hannah Kabbah was a hell of a lot smarter than him. She was smarter than everyone, and a stuck-up sort of know-it-all besides. A textbook teacher’s pet, so on the nose it was almost funny. He might even think she was faking it, if it didn’t make her so unpopular. And if he weren’t naturally a textbook teenage outcast.
Sometimes being a cliché came too easily to avoid.
She hurried in front of him on her short little legs and rounded the corner of the science block, disappearing only seconds after he’d noticed her. By the time he turned that same corner, she should’ve been long gone.
But she wasn’t.
Nate pulled up short, raising a very wet hand to swipe the water from his very wet eyes. Unsurprisingly, the whole man
oeuvre was largely ineffective. He squinted and wondered if he was hallucinating or something. He’d tried weed three days ago, down at the park with the older girl who lived at the end of his road. Maybe this was some kind of delayed effect. Because surely, surely he wasn’t seeing Hannah Kabbah facing off some massive Year Eleven lads.
Only he didn’t think weed worked like that, and his head felt just fine. So he supposed he must be seeing exactly what he thought he was.
Just a few paces away, Hannah stood at the centre of a sparse, scattered circle of older kids. She was glaring up at Lee Beech, a boy almost a foot taller than her and a hell of a lot meaner. The people around them seemed tense and quiet, the rain whispering through the air, putting out their illicit cigarettes. Everyone’s green blazers were sodden, almost black with wet. Except Hannah’s, because she was all wrapped up in a sensible, lavender raincoat that matched the barrettes in her hair.
Honestly, it was like she wanted to be bullied.
But she wasn’t the only odd one lurking at the back of the science block, he realised. There was a girl hovering behind her, a really small girl in a teal raincoat that looked like Hannah’s. The girl looked like Hannah too, like a little carbon copy, but with thick, turquoise glasses plonked on her snub nose. He wondered if she could even see through the rain-spattered lenses.
Then his wondering was cut short as Lee stepped closer to Hannah, his posture threatening. “You better watch what you say to me, Bugs,” he growled.
Bugs as in Bugs Bunny. Because Hannah had these teeth—well, never mind.
Hannah frowned at Lee—she was always frowning—and Nate wanted to shout at her. Something along the lines of Run away, you bloody idiot!
Because, if she didn’t, Nate would have to step in and rescue her. And he might be big for his age, and pretty used to fighting, but he didn’t really fancy his chances against a Year Eleven.
Unfortunately for him, Hannah’s fight or flight instinct was shit. Instead of backing away from the scariest kid in school, she set her shoulders and and snapped, “You watch what you say to my sister and we won’t have a problem.”
The girl, who must be her sister, said, “Han.” That was it. Just a single syllable, not even a complete word.
But Hannah turned around and answered as if the girl had given a full-blown speech. “Don’t start! What did I tell you about talking? Hm? Now look! Look what I have to do!”
The sister shrugged, and the action lifted the massive rucksack on her shoulders. Its fabric was darkened by rain, but Nate was pretty sure he could make out some kind of comic book shit on the side. His little brother loved that stuff. Suddenly, he understood exactly why Hannah was being so reckless. He’d put himself in a world of trouble to protect his dorky little sibling, too.
In fact, he was about to put himself in a world of trouble to protect hers, never mind his own. With a sigh, Nate shrugged off his rucksack and let it fall to the ground, ready to draw the boys’ attention.
Then Lee stepped forward and pushed Hannah, spitting, “Yeah? What you gonna do, Bugs?”
And Hannah stumbled back. No; she fell, landing square on her arse with a strangled little sound that made his heart sort of… stagger. Like when a car jolts over a pothole in the road. And suddenly, the anger Nate had managed to soothe with his rainy walk burst back to life, burning brighter than ever.
Who the fuck would push a girl? A little girl, for that matter? Hannah Kabbah, for all her sharp glares and superior attitude, was basically a tiny ball of fluff. Like a kitten. A newborn kitten that couldn’t quite open its eyes yet.
Nate did not like boys who stepped on kittens.
So he marched right up to Lee Beech, who was two years older and a foot wider than him. He met those cruel, smug eyes with his own. And when Lee sneered, “What the fuck do you want?” Nate answered by punching the bastard in the face.
For a moment, things moved as if in slow motion. Lee staggered back, clutching his nose, face slack with shock. Nate thought, for a moment, that things might end there. That he’d turn around, grab Hannah and Tinier Hannah, and they’d all leave.
But then a savage sort of roar went up, and Lee’s friends charged. They surrounded Nate all at once, like a wall of lanky teenage violence, and he had just enough time to think Ma’s gonna throttle me for this before the fight began.
Nate went home early that day with two black eyes, a dislocated shoulder, and a week’s worth of detentions.
And Hannah Kabbah—unbeknownst to him and much to her own discomfort—went home with a crush.
Chapter One
Ruth: Evan wants to know if you’re coming over for dinner.
Hannah: Aren’t *you* supposed to invite me to dinner? Since you’re my sister and everything?
Ruth: Do you want his fancy triple-fried chips or not??
As soon as the woman said, “Excuse me,” Hannah knew there would be trouble.
Maybe it was the way her razor-sharp bullshit-ometer shrieked like a newborn. Maybe it was her years of experience working with kids, AKA masters of pushing their luck and shirking responsibility. Whatever the reason, Hannah’s muscles tensed and her smile froze into place before she’d even turned to look at the customer. The customer who, according to her instincts, was about to try some nonsense.
It was the four-chai-tea-lattes-thanks blonde from five minutes ago, said chai lattes sitting on the counter in front of her. She pushed her honeyed fringe out of her eyes with a hand that bore a rock the size of Gibraltar. Then she tapped the counter impatiently with one French-manicured claw, just in case the solar flare coming off that ring wasn’t enough to alert Hannah to her presence.
“Can I help you?” Hannah asked sweetly, knowing very well that her patience was about to be tested. For the ninth time that day.
God must be punishing me for staring at Emma Dowl’s arse in church last week.
“I didn’t order these,” the woman said. “I wanted plain lattes. Not chai.” She spoke with such casual confidence, Hannah almost forgot that she was lying through her expensive teeth. But that blip of confidence passed quickly as her memory whirred to life.
“No,” Hannah said pleasantly. “I gave you exactly what you ordered. You came in…” She glanced up at the clock.“Seven minutes ago. You waited in the queue behind two other people—an older gentleman who ordered a teacake for his wife, and the gentleman in the suit who had a double espresso to go—and when it was your turn you ordered four chai lattes, double shot in two, caramel syrup in the others, one of the double shots 20 degrees cooler. I charged you £14.95, and you paid with a black Santander Select.”
The woman stared blankly at Hannah for a moment, like a robot forced to recalibrate. Then her pretty face twisted into an unattractive scowl, and she spat, “I don’t appreciate the way you’re speaking to me.”
Hannah maintained her calm smile and pleasant tone. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She should keep her mouth shut and make the woman her damn lattes. Again. But she’d been at work for eight hours, and she’d spent the last three manning the café alone. They were ten minutes from closing. Her shoes pinched and her uniform culottes—yes, culottes—dug into her hips awfully, because she’d gained weight again and the damned things didn’t come higher than a size 16.
Frankly, Hannah was Not in the Mood.
Apparently, neither was Ms. Latte. She huffed so hard, her fluffy, blonde fringe fluttered. Then she deployed the seven most dangerous words in customer service. “I want to speak to your manager!”
Oops.
Hannah hadn’t been a barista for long, but she had been waitressing for almost two years before this. And yet, she still hadn’t gotten the hang of this whole be nice to people who don’t deserve it malarkey. She’d never planned on a career that would require her to interact with adults, and certainly not with adults who considered her inherently beneath them. She had planned to spend the rest of her life looking after children—preferably babies—because they didn’t mind being
bossed around or managed, and because they gave credit where credit was due. Give a kid your time, energy and care, and they’d repay you with trust and happiness.
Give an adult the best fucking chai lattes they’d ever tasted, and they’d ask to speak to your manager. Honestly. The ingratitude.
As if summoned by some demonic magic, the man in charge, Anthony-but-call-me-Ant, emerged from his office. He’d spent the last few hours in there doing Super Important Official Things—like playing Candy Crush on his phone—and every time Hannah asked for help he’d waved her away with a load of supercilious bullshit about how busy he was. But of course, the moment he sensed a chance to reprimand her, the tit popped out like a mole from the earth and asked brightly, “Everything okay out here?”
No, Ant, everything is not okay. It’s even less okay now you’ve shoved your round, shiny, bowling-ball head into things. Why do you exist? Why do you selfishly breathe the precious oxygen that could be better used to sustain a local mischief of rats or perhaps an especially large ferret?
This was what Hannah thought. Angrily. She was quite an angry person, you see. Even her depression manifested as anger, which was always fun. But she’d been managing her medication quite wonderfully for the last few months, so she didn’t think that was to blame for today’s mental fuming. No, this was just her baseline rage talking.
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