“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 toward 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—even though they weren’t touching—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.”
&nb
sp; “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.”
“Are 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.”
“What about short stuff?”
“No.”
“Sprite?”
“Fuck off.”
He laughed, and her lips twitched slightly. She did this odd thing where the corners of her mouth lifted a millimetre, and her eyes sparkled, and her lips pursed, and she wasn’t technically smiling—but she was.
Then the technically-not-a-smile disappeared. She said, “Stay there,” with the sort of serious inflection he’d use to instruct a child.
Evan raised his brows. She ignored him, striding out of the kitchen—brushing so close to him as she passed, he caught her scent. It must’ve been hers. Chocolate and coconut. He had no idea why a woman who didn’t cook would smell like dessert, but his nose was rarely wrong.
Maybe he should ask her.
Hey, I noticed you smell like chocolate. Mind telling me why?
Yeah, that would go down well. She wouldn’t think he was a complete creep, or anything.
As suddenly as she’d left, Ruth returned. She thrust two slim, hard-backed books in his hands before saying flatly, “You can go.”
Bemused, Evan looked down at the books. “These are—?”
“Black Panther. For the lasagne,” she cut in. Her eyes were flat, her full lips pursed. Not in an almost-smiling way, though. She looked firm, severe. Her hands were clasped in front of her, so tight that her dark skin paled slightly.
She was nervous again.
“Alright,” Evan said, trying his best to sound soothing. “I’m going now. Goodbye.”
Ruth nodded, making no move to follow as he left the kitchen.
But, just as he opened her front door, he heard her voice.
“Thanks,” she called. If he hadn’t been listening, hoping she’d say something—anything—he might’ve missed the word.
“No problem,” he called back.
Silence.
He left.
7
Three days after the Disastrous Lasagne Deal—as Ruth had christened it—she found herself standing on Evan Miller’s doorstep.
She had no idea what she was doing.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. His enormous Pyrex dish was in her hands, its delicious contents having been finished earlier that day. Stacked beneath the dish were a few more comics for him to read.
But Ruth felt suddenly unsure of herself, despite the fact that this was the bargain they’d made. He probably didn’t even like comics. He’d probably agreed to the deal because he just wanted to keep cooking for her.
And why did he want to keep cooking for her? So far, she had a few theories, none of which made her very happy.
The first was that, having heard of her reputation, he was on a mission to try the town bicycle for himself. The second option, that he was acting as some kind of spy for Daniel, trying to sniff out her weaknesses for a future, unknown torture, wasn’t much better. Her third suspicion was that Evan was actually a murderer and planned to slowly poison her under the guise of neighbourly good deeds.
Running through that list again made Ruth want to run back into her own flat. But it was too late for that; she’d already knocked. And since these flats only had two homes per floor, if she disappeared before he answered the door, he’d almost certainly come looking for her anyway.
With a sigh, Ruth awaited his arrival. A full minute passed in silence.
Perhaps, like her, he didn’t always answer the door—but that seemed unlikely. Evan Miller was the sort of do-gooding, neighbour-of-the-year type that always answered the door, even if they were in the middle of something important. Like sex. For example.
Not that Evan was in there having sex. She’d already know if he was; she’d have heard him. Through the wall.
Unless he was really quiet.
Why in God’s name was she thinking about this?
Without warning, the door finally opened. Ruth immediately remembered why her mind leapt to sex whenever it thought of Evan.
Dear Lord.
He’d been in the shower. It didn’t take a genius to work that out. He wore nothing but a towel wrapped around his slim hips, one that fell to his knees—which was a shame. She’d have liked to see his thighs. Ruth loved thighs.
But she’d satisfy herself with what she could see, which was plenty. His golden skin glistened with tiny drops of water. They decorated his broad shoulders, his thick arms and solid torso, sliding over his tattoos. She rather liked those tattoos.
She’d thought about getting one herself, only the sound of the machine
made her eyes blur. Clearly, Evan had no such problem, because the ink covering his arms adorned his chest, too—and those little drops of water gleamed over it all. Ruth imagined chasing the trails of moisture with her tongue.
Then Evan cleared his throat, and she snatched her gaze away.
For the first time, she focused on his face. Oh, dear. He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher, his brows raised.
“You done?” he asked, his voice low.
“Quite,” she clipped out, absolutely mortified. She thrust the dish and comics forward, and promptly hit him in the stomach.
He didn’t even wince. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m dying of embarrassment.
Laughter laced his voice as he asked, “Is there something on my chest?”
Ruth ground her teeth. “Actually, there is nothing on your chest.”
“Oh, I see. Is that why you’re blushing?”
“I am not blushing,” she gritted out. She was, but he had no way of knowing. Did he? “If you want to answer your door half-naked, that’s fine by me. Town Jezebel, remember?”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” He folded his arms, leaning lazily against the doorframe. His posture was always so perfect that this new position seemed dangerously calculated. “Are you retired?” he asked. “Reformed, perhaps? It’s just, you never seem to leave the house. So how are you—”
“I do leave the house,” she snapped. “I leave the house every Sunday.”
“Church?” he enquired mildly.
She glowered. “Sunday dinner. At my mother’s.”
“Ah,” he said. “Sunday dinner with your mother. How scandalous.”
“Will you take your bloody dish?”
He looked down at her—or rather, at the Pyrex dish she was waving. He seemed bigger than he had before, maybe because there were no clothes to hide the raw power of all that muscle. Ruth wasn’t sure; she just knew the sight of him was making her mouth weirdly dry and her knees worryingly weak.
Beneath that thick, dirty-blonde beard, his lips curled into a slow smile. “Did you like the lasagne?”
“Yes,” she ground out.
“And you’re bringing me more comics, I see.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know what I thought of the first ones?”
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