Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  “Are you okay?” he asked. The urge to touch her swelled within him like a river breaking its banks. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Yep,” she said shortly.

  “Because that sounded believable.”

  “Oh, piss off,” she muttered, but her lips tilted into a little smile. Then, after a few more silent steps, she said, “I don’t think the pub is a good idea. I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

  He frowned. “You are cheering me up. You made me soup.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Evan stopped. And then, finally, he touched her. Wrapped a hand around her arm, above her elbow, because then a layer of cotton would be between them, and she might not react so strongly.

  She choked back a gasp, then bit her lip.

  He let go. “Does it scare you? When I touch you?”

  She met his gaze. “You know it doesn’t.”

  That sparked a flame in his chest, one that felt part hopeful, part hungry. “I don’t mean to do it,” he said. “I suppose I’m just touchy.” He was not touchy. He helped old people carry their shopping; he picked up stray children and gave them back to their parents. That was the extent of his casual touching.

  Unless he was around Ruth.

  Ploughing on, he said, “If something’s bothering you—"

  “Shut up,” she said. Not in her usual, subtly teasing way, the way that dared him to ignore her. No; her voice was flat, her body rigid, her eyes pinned to something in front of them.

  Evan followed her gaze to a group of women about Ruth’s age, walking down the street toward them, dressed to the nines. He had no idea where they could be going on a Monday night, dressed like that, but they seemed happy enough. The women chatted and laughed together, looking carefree and perhaps slightly tipsy.

  Then one broke off from the others, her smile fading, her stride becoming purposeful. And her eyes were on Ruth.

  Evan’s internal alarm rang shrilly. Which was ridiculous. The sight of a skinny woman in a pair of high-heels shouldn’t rattle him, even if her biceps were impressively defined.

  But then, Ruth didn’t have defined biceps, and she was staring at the woman as if ready for battle. The woman’s face betrayed a similar expression, determination edged with the promise of violence.

  And, since he couldn’t let Ruth lose a fight, he might have to do something she’d hate, like pick her up and carry her home.

  For now, he grabbed her arm and tugged gently. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll make you something at mine.”

  “No,” she gritted out, her voice mutinous. “You wanted to go to the pub. We’re going to the pub.” With that, she began walking again, heading inexorably toward the group of women.

  What else could he do but follow?

  Evan wasn’t at all surprised when the women fell silent, one by one, as they noticed Ruth. As if by mutual agreement, when they came within a metre of each other, everybody stopped. About ten women on one side, he and Ruth on the other. The standoff held all the tension of a Wild West shootout.

  But, he hoped, with fewer guns.

  The woman leading the pack flicked grey eyes up and down Ruth’s body as if a gnat had crossed her path. She tossed her long, chestnut hair and drawled, “Ruth, honey. They let you out the whorehouse?”

  Evan ground his teeth.

  Ruth smiled a wicked little smile and said, “I’m doing a town tour, since you left your men unattended.”

  This elicited a chorus of scoffs and disgusted sighs from the women. All except one, whose blonde hair fell well past her waist in an improbable riot of curls. “Ruth,” she said softly, her voice chastising.

  Ruth turned to the girl and folded her arms. “Yes, Maria?”

  After a pause, Maria looked away.

  “Alright,” Evan said loudly. His patience for this—for the sharp, judgemental looks spearing a woman he respected—had worn thin surprisingly quickly. He hadn’t meant to force himself into whatever was going on here. But his temper was rising, and he could see that Ruth’s was too.

  Now was not the time to find out if she did reckless shit when she was angry.

  Slinging an arm around Ruth’s shoulders he said, “We’ll just be on our way. If you ladies wouldn’t mind.”

  For the first time, the women’s attention turned to him.

  The leader, the brunette, arched a brow. And then she smiled. It was a pretty smile; she was a pretty woman. “You’re Evan Miller, aren’t you?” she said.

  Evan set his jaw. “Yep.” He wouldn’t ask how she knew. It seemed like everyone did.

  But she told him anyway. “I’m Hayley Albright. Daniel Burne is married to my sister. You know, he’s told us all so much about you.” She stepped forward and held out a hand for him to shake.

  Since that would require him to remove his arm from Ruth’s shoulders, Evan simply gave the hand a blank look. After a moment, the woman’s cheeks coloured, and she stepped back.

  “Well,” she went on. “I know you’re new in town, but you should know that—”

  The blonde, Maria, cut in sharply. “Hayley,” she said, her voice low and warning. “Leave it. Let’s go.”

  Hayley rolled her eyes. It was an eloquent gesture that reminded him, strangely, of Ruth. “Fine,” she eventually clipped out. “We can’t let a little trash ruin our night, after all.”

  The group of women, now silent as a funeral procession, made their way past Ruth and Evan. They moved threateningly close, employing expert intimidation tactics.

  When they were finally gone, Evan looked down at Ruth. “If we circle past the Unicorn, we can head home and they won’t see us.”

  To his surprise, Ruth nodded without protest. “Please,” she said.

  Now he was really worried.

  18

  Evan had insisted that Ruth come back to his flat. She still hadn’t eaten, and he wasn’t happy about it.

  Usually, Ruth wouldn’t be either—but that evening’s standoff had stolen her appetite. Still, they sat at his narrow kitchen table, and she ate a sandwich, and he watched as if he’d never seen mastication before.

  Finally, forcing down a leaden bite of bread and ham, she asked, “What?”

  He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table-top. “You going to tell me what that was about?”

  Ruth shrugged. “Figure it out.”

  “You know, I’d love to. I’d love to figure you out. But I need all the pieces before I can assemble the puzzle.”

  She took another bite of her sandwich.

  After a moment, he sighed. “Okay. Keep your secrets.”

  And, just like that, she felt guilty. It took a few bites of sandwich for the guilt to really get to her, but it was there.

  You need to decide if you want him to know you. Don’t do things halfway.

  Throwing the crust down on her plate, she said, “Me and Hayley and Maria were friends.”

  He looked up, barely hiding his surprise. “Friends?”

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t really funny, but she still found herself smirking. “I did have friends, you know. Before.”

  “Before what?” he asked immediately.

  She shrugged. Deciding to trust him was one thing. Parading her biggest mistakes before a man she really fucking liked was something else entirely.

  And shit, she hadn’t meant to admit—even to herself—how much she liked Evan. But it was far too late now. Because, all of a sudden, she was thinking about how she would tell him.

  Eventually.

  “Why would your friends treat you like that?” he scowled. “I mean, that Hayley girl—even if you aren’t friends anymore—”

  “I’d do the same,” Ruth said, “if I was her. She’s loyal.”

  “To who?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Alright, Miss Mystery.” He smiled at her, really smiled. “I won’t squeeze everything out of you tonight.”

  Maybe I wish you would.

  Ruth buried her
face in her hands and sighed. She was starting to piss herself off.

  When she felt the gentle pressure of Evan’s hand against the back of her neck, she bit her lip. It was either that or make a highly embarrassing noise.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. His fingers kneaded tense muscles, strong and skillful.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sick of everything being so dramatic. I was trying to make you feel better, and it just…” She didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

  Gently, he tugged her hands away from her face. She blinked at the sudden light, then stared at him. His eyes were serious, his fingers still wrapped around each of her wrists. She felt as if she was burning. And enjoying it.

  “You did make me feel better,” he said firmly. “I very much enjoyed your microwaved soup.”

  Despite her determination to be dour, she giggled. Then cursed him for it.

  He continued, his voice softening. “Just talking to you made me feel better. Also, seeing you in leggings.”

  Now she didn’t know if she should laugh or gasp. She compromised by choking on her own spit.

  Evan waited patiently for her eyes to stop watering before he handed her a glass of water.

  After a few calming sips, she forced herself to say, “I should go.”

  He watched her impassively, leaning back in his seat. “Should you?”

  For a moment, she wavered. But then she remembered the way Hayley had looked at her. The pity in Maria’s eyes.

  In Year Eight, Ruth had provided Maria with illicit tampons, because her Irish Catholic mother insisted they were sinful. Tonight, Maria had looked at Ruth and fingered the pearl-studded cross around her neck.

  It hurt.

  “You should know,” Evan said slowly, “that I care about you. I didn’t say that before, but it’s important, and I should have.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not. I asked you to trust me, but I should trust you too. I should trust you to figure out your own boundaries and… you know, all that shit.”

  Ruth huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. All that shit. But I probably should’ve told you before now that I’m public enemy number one. And I shouldn’t have suggested that walk.”

  Across the table, Evan cracked a smile. “Because I’m so terrified of the town’s avenging angels?”

  She snorted. “Keep laughing. They’ll eat you alive.”

  He reached out and caught her hand, placing it palm-up on the table. Casually, his fingers traced the veins in her wrist. “I assume everyone hates you because you’re a man-eating succubus.”

  She tried to suppress a shiver at the languid touch of his fingers and failed miserably. “Pretty much.”

  “You take advantage of their poor, innocent menfolk.”

  “Something like that.”

  He looked up, his gaze heavy. “Would you take advantage of me? If I asked you nicely?”

  She smiled. “I think I respect you too much.”

  “That’s funny, because I respect you a lot. But I still want to rip your clothes off.”

  Ruth’s heart stuttered. She bit her lip.

  “Tell me no, Ruth.” His fingers slid back and forth, over the inside of her wrist. “Or tell me yes. I need to know I’m not losing it.”

  “I can’t do that.” She hadn’t realised the words were true until they came out of her mouth.

  “You can’t say yes?” His fingers stopped.

  “I can’t say yes. I can’t say no, either.”

  He swallowed. Hard. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No.” She’d never been less afraid of a man in her life. “I just…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t give you permission to fuck me over.”

  He smiled slightly. “That’s not exactly what I want to do.”

  “But you will,” she said sharply. Was this really what she thought?

  Yes.

  “You will, and when you do, at least I’ll know I never gave you permission.”

  He stared. She’d really fucked things up now, she realised; all the ways she was damaged had been neatly exposed in the space of five seconds, and he’d wish he’d never made her that bloody shepherd’s pie.

  Then he said, “I can’t tell you I’ll never hurt you. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

  Even though she’d known it was coming, it hurt. It hurt like the time she’d sketched her favourite teacher and the teacher had crumpled the paper and thrown it in the bin because she was supposed to be doing fractions, except this time the paper was possibly, maybe her heart. Or something.

  Evan grasped her hand firmly in his, drawing her attention back to him. “But I can promise,” he continued, “that I will always treat you as you deserve to be treated. That I will always respect you. That I won’t lie to you or betray your trust. I try not to say never, but I will say this: hurting you is something I would never choose to do. I swear.”

  She felt unwelcome prickles beneath her eyelids, threatening tears. How embarrassing. She hadn’t cried in years, and she certainly wouldn’t now.

  “I also know,” he said, “that I can’t make you believe me. I have to show you. I’m okay with that. But Ruth, you need to know that I won’t take this any further until you tell me what you want.”

  “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

  “No,” he said. “It’s just, I want to do things with you. Not to you. There’s a difference.”

  “Believe me,” she muttered, “I know.” And then, from the flash of concern in his eyes, she realised she’d said too much again.

  His voice carefully calm—maybe too calm—he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  Ruth shrugged, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. But he waited patiently for her to find the right words, and she didn’t feel the pressure to speak that so often kept her silent.

  Finally, she said, “I was with a guy. Kind of. Before. And once I agreed to be with him, I suppose that meant, in his mind, that I always agreed.”

  Evan’s jaw tightened. “You mean—”

  “I mean, he didn’t really care if I said yes. Most people don’t care about yes. A few more people care about no.” She shrugged. “So I have this new thing where, if I want someone to leave me alone, I bite their dick off.”

  It was a joke. Evan didn’t laugh. She didn’t laugh either.

  If she’d ever felt like she could actually do that—like she could fight someone off—maybe it would’ve been funny. Lighthearted. Even empowering. But she hadn’t.

  She hadn’t even felt like she could scream, because, really, wouldn’t that be so dramatic? Wouldn’t she be attention-seeking, or causing problems? People said it all the time; if you’re in bed with a man, you’ve already said yes.

  But she knew that Evan didn’t think like that. Evan didn’t think like that, and honestly, neither did she.

  After a tense second, he spoke. “If I killed this guy you were... kind of with, would you come and visit me in prison?”

  She bit down on her smile, but it spread anyway. “That’s funny.”

  “I’m not joking, love.”

  Ruth forced herself to roll her eyes, because it was easy and familiar and something other than crying. Why on earth was she so close to crying?

  Pulling her hand from his, she said, “I should go.”

  And he said again, “Should you?”

  Ruth took a breath. “Um… yes. Definitely yes.”

  This time, he didn’t stop her. But he did say, steady as always, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Was she grateful or terrified?

  19

  The next day was painfully boring. Evan ploughed through his workload with the dull determination of a farm animal, only pausing to thank God that Daniel Burne was mysteriously absent.

  As soon as the clock struck five, he was gone. Evan didn’t drive to work, because he never used a car when his legs would do—but today, he wished he had. It would be so much faster
to drive home.

  When he finally reached his little block of flats, he was sweaty from work, dog-tired, and all he wanted to do was see Ruth.

  He should’ve gone to his own door, let himself in, and calmed down. Showered.

  Instead, he went straight to 1A and knocked. Twice slow, three times fast. He couldn’t remember when he’d developed his own weird knock especially for Ruth. He just knew that she felt better about answering when she knew exactly who was there.

  As evidenced by the speed with which her front door opened.

  He smiled automatically—but then he faltered. Because the girl standing in the doorway wasn’t Ruth.

  She had Ruth’s dark skin and diminutive height, but her curves were clad in denim jeans and a perfectly respectable, form-fitting blouse. She had Ruth’s dense, crinkled hair, but it was held back with cute golden barrettes.

  Ruth would rather die than use barrettes.

  He looked down at the stranger with Ruth’s face and scowled when he noticed her front teeth. Even they were the same; too big for her mouth, slightly too prominent.

  His mind thought, almost feverishly, that no-one else should look like Ruth.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, as if it wasn’t obvious.

  The girl looked him up and down, slowly. Her dark eyes lingered critically over his sweaty brow and worn-out clothes, the tattoos on his arms. Then she met his gaze and said, “I’m Hannah Kabbah. And you’re Evan Miller. Elm block, 1B. Blacksmith at Burne & Co. Making my little sister act weird as fuck. We need to talk.”

  When she spoke, her resemblance to Ruth disappeared. Her voice, the subtle expression in her every movement, the sharp focus in her eyes—it was all wrong. She didn’t smell like Ruth either; no chocolate and coconut here. She turned on that dead-eyed look like Ruth, but she wasn’t quite as good at it. Beneath her glower he could see concern, apprehension, things he hadn’t seen in Ruth until he’d gotten to know her.

  Evan tried his best to sound patient and friendly. It was difficult, since he’d been waiting all day to set eyes on one woman, and this near-imitation felt like some kind of cosmic joke. “I’m happy to talk to you. But I came to see your sister.”