Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  And he’d said without prompting, without a second thought, “I’ll be back tonight.”

  On the fourth day, he locked up the cafe, got in his car, and drove to Laura’s—as was becoming his routine. He’d barely stepped foot in his flat above Bianchi’s, except to pick up clothes and other shit he’d needed. She always left the front door unlocked for him, and when he entered the house he was greeted by the scent of oddly familiar spices. “Laura?” he called, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket. The fledgling summer had, to the surprise of no-one, turned sour. Ah, Great Britain.

  “Kitchen,” she called back, sounding almost like her old self. So close to her usual calm, he might’ve thought she was okay.

  If he hadn’t known her so well.

  But she was still cheerful enough to make him smile, to fill his heart with simple happiness. Laura in a good mood put Samir in a good mood. Laura the way she’d been these past few days made Samir want to hunt down and brutally murder everyone who’d ever hurt her.

  Not that he’d actually do such a thing, of course. He couldn’t help her sleep every night if he was behind bars, now, could he?

  He found her standing over the oven wearing a huge, fluffy jumper, stirring a pot of something that smelled suspiciously like—

  “Is that harira?” he asked, incredulous.

  That sweet flush spread up her throat. “Yes. Hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “Well, I tried.”

  He peered into the pot of rich, spicy soup, spotting chunks of lamb and fat chickpeas. “From the smell of things, you succeeded.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” she muttered. “You’ll jinx it.”

  Samir’s hands moved to her hips as he hovered behind her. It was automatic, now—he touched her before even thinking about it, maybe because he spent every night holding her. And yet, despite how natural it felt, a thrill still shot through him at the contact every time. A pulsing awareness that seemed at odds with the sweet, warm comfort she brought him.

  He ignored it, of course. He ignored it completely, with great, great effort.

  “Don’t think I’m not happy about it,” he said, “but why are you making this?”

  She relaxed into his touch, leaning slightly against him. He knew her back hurt, and probably her feet. He wished, sometimes, that she would lean on him completely—but she wouldn’t.

  Or rather, she hadn’t yet. He held out hope that she might, eventually.

  They were so close in height that when she turned to look at him, there was barely a breath between them. And yet, she spoke as if they weren’t inches away from a kiss. As if the air hadn’t grown thick and heavy and ripe around them in an instant.

  This was how they were now. It was safe, and it was good. It was what she wanted.

  “I made it for you,” she said.

  Which made sense. It was the obvious conclusion to draw. Laura Albright was making a Moroccan soup, one that she’d first come across in his house, years ago, and one that happened to be his favourite. Obviously, she’d made it for him.

  And yet, the very idea was so brilliant—brighter than the sun, too difficult to look at head-on. Samir cleared his throat to rid it of all the pesky adoration that threatened to spill out. He couldn’t get on his knees and pledge eternal devotion because she’d made his favourite fucking soup.

  Of course, if he did pledge eternal devotion it would be because she was Laura, so different and yet the same, so fragile but steel-hard and ice cold, so lonely and so determinedly alone.

  But she wouldn’t know that. She’d think it was the soup.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said. “I’ve been… a bit much, the past few days. I know that.”

  He stiffened. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Well—”

  “What does that even mean? A bit much? You’re already everything.”

  She turned then, facing him properly with a little frown. She looked confused, perplexed. “Everything?”

  He hadn’t really meant to say that, but he wasn’t about to take it back. “Laura, you don’t—please don’t thank me. Don’t thank me for the last few days, don’t thank me for anything between us. Not ever. When I say it’s my pleasure—you don’t even understand how much I mean that.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I was going to tell you… I mean, I was thinking we should talk.”

  “About?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know. This. Us.”

  He was torn between elation at the word us and devastation at the way she’d said it. The emotions flew off in different directions, threatening to rip him in two, until all at once, Samir decided. All the mixed-up thoughts and feelings and deep, insistent needs she’d dragged from him over the last few months finally came together. The truth sank into his thick skull as if some magician somewhere had snapped his fingers and let the fog clear.

  Samir knew, without a shadow of a doubt, exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it.

  His hands rose to cradle her cheeks, always so sweet and soft and ready to smile, even when her eyes seemed heavy with despair. They weren’t heavy right now. They were wide and confused, almost silvery. His thumbs swept over her skin, memorising its texture.

  “Listen,” he began. His voice was so low it almost disappeared beneath the echo of rain against the roof. “I don’t know what you think we need to talk about, but there’s something I want to say first.”

  “Samir,” she whispered. “You’re going to complicate things.”

  “Good. I want to complicate things with you. I want us tied together in a knot so indecipherable, people look at us and can’t imagine how we’d ever come apart.”

  She bit her lip. “You don’t—there are a lot of things I haven’t told you.”

  “So tell me. Tell me everything. I’ll still be yours.”

  “Oh, God, don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  She seemed to be searching frantically for a response, her mouth working. “I—I’m pregnant!”

  He laughed. “You’re adorable.”

  “This isn’t funny!”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He schooled his expression into something approaching gravity. “Okay, so. You’re pregnant. Does that bother you?”

  She flushed. “Does it bother me?”

  “Do you want to be single right now?”

  “I…” She hesitated. He’d kind of sprung this on her, hadn’t he? Only it didn’t feel like that. It felt like something that had been growing underground, a bulb unfurling throughout the seasons until it finally sprouted and bloomed.

  “You know you can tell me the truth,” he said softly. “You don’t have to keep me happy. There are no consequences with me.”

  Something in her seemed to relax. That was both satisfying and infuriating, because it only confirmed what he’d long suspected. But he wasn’t going to think about that—about the man in her past—right now. All he could focus on was her face, and the play of emotions flitting through her eyes like shadows over still water.

  Finally, she whispered, “I did want to be single. Not just single—I wanted to be alone. I felt… I felt like I didn’t know myself anymore. Like I needed to get back to me again, so I could be better in time for…” She nodded down between their bodies, to the swell of her stomach. And, yeah, he knew. Better than she’d expect. Better than he’d ever expected.

  He’d been feeling a similar urge, recently, to become the best man he could be.

  “So I did want to be single.” She sucked in a shaking breath. “I just didn’t expect to find someone who’d make me feel more like myself than I have in years.”

  His pleasure was hot and golden, shot through with a silvery promise that was just like her eyes. Her gaze was always so cool, but right now it felt molten. “Laura,” he murmured, “I want to be with you. And I know you have a lot more to risk than I do, but I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t all in. I love you.” Now he’d said the words, he wonde
red how he’d ever managed to keep them in.

  She squeezed her eyes shut—but not fast enough to stop a tear escaping, gliding down her cheek silently.

  “Oh, angel, don’t cry.” Samir’s heart squeezed even as he bent his head to kiss the tear away. “Please don’t cry. I’m telling you because you should know, not because I need anything from you. I’m saying this because it’s true. I don’t want a thing in return.”

  “I know you don’t,” she choked out. “I just—I don’t—you shouldn’t—”

  “Shh. Let’s make a deal, okay? You don’t tell me I can’t love you, or I don’t love you, or I shouldn’t love you—”

  “But I have so much—”

  “Or that I can’t love the baby—”

  Her eyes flew open. “You—?”

  “Of course I love the baby. That’s why I’ve been working so hard to protect them from your horrible taste in names.”

  She snorted out a laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth. But as soon as her eyes met his, her embarrassment melted back into amusement. She laughed again.

  She didn’t stop herself this time.

  “So,” he said smugly as she giggled. “You don’t tell me who I can and can’t love, and in return…”

  “Yes?” she asked innocently. “In return, what?”

  Because she knew, the minx, that he hadn’t thought his bargain through. But he managed to think on his feet. “In return, I’ll put something Italian on the menu at Bianchi’s.”

  She narrowed her eyes, considering. “Pizza. It has to be pizza.”

  “Seriously? You want me to sell pizza at a cafe?”

  “I said what I said.” She arched a brow.

  “Fine! Pizza it is. Deal?”

  A slow smile spread across her face as she said, “Deal.”

  In that moment, with splotches of pink blooming across her tear-stained skin, and hesitant happiness lighting her up, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His chest hurt. Apparently, being hopelessly in love kind of felt like a heart attack.

  God, Hassan was going to be so fucking smug about this. Although he’d been wrong about one thing: the way Samir loved Laura was nothing like the teenage adoration and attraction between them, no matter how deep that bond had been.

  The way Samir loved Laura right now was deeper than anything he’d ever felt.

  14

  The sound of Samir brushing his teeth in the en-suite was both reassuring and terrifying.

  Over the past few nights, Laura’s subconscious had come to associate that sound with a long, peaceful, dreamless sleep. The feel of Samir’s broad chest against her back, his slow, heavy breaths over her hair, his big hand resting on her belly like a shield, had become her anchor. But now…

  Now, Samir thought he loved her. When he’d said it, her heart had cartwheeled around in her chest for a second. Then it had put its back out, twisted an ankle, and remembered that it was a fragile, useless, battered old thing for a reason.

  When Samir came out of the bathroom, she’d have to tell him. Everything. And not just because he deserved honesty—not just because a lie, even a lie of omission, would be like taking his trust and drowning it.

  She had to tell him because she loved him.

  “You seem serious.” He stood in the bathroom’s narrow doorway, looking obnoxiously handsome and alarmingly broad. As usual. The sight of his slow, easy grin had her heart pounding; add in his bare chest and it was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed yet. Really, half-nakedness was highly irresponsible, coming from a man who looked like that.

  “We need to talk,” she said, then wanted to take it back immediately. We need to talk? Could she be anymore obliquely ominous? “I mean—I’d like us to… have… a chat.” She pushed her hair behind her ears, except there was nothing to push because she’d braided it up for bed. So she ended up kind of… uselessly stroking her own face.

  Cool, Laura. Very cool.

  He raised his brows as he came toward her. “Is this about your addiction to deep conditioner? Because it’s okay. I already know. I snooped through your bathroom cabinet two days ago.”

  She was trying so hard to be mature, and he ruined it without effort. Even as she resented her own helpless snort of laughter, she loved him. So much. Probably too much.

  Definitely too much, since he’d be gone within the hour.

  “Sit down,” she said, and he sat. Fuck, she wished they weren’t doing this now, but it had taken her all night to gather up what scraps of courage she had left. She felt a little safer, curled up under the blankets, but that comfort was undermined by the sight of him shirtless in her bed, wearing those clingy pyjama bottoms that, in her opinion, showed far too much of the shape of his thighs…

  Not that she was necessarily complaining.

  Focus!

  He was looking at her with gentle interest, but not an ounce of worry. He wasn’t bracing himself for a hit, for the sting of betrayal. He should be.

  “I’m still married,” she blurted out.

  Ah. There it was. His face slackened for a minute, mouth falling open, those sharp brows twitching as if he was too shocked to actually raise them. After a heavy pause, he said, “Married?”

  Laura’s throat was tight. Her skin was stretched too thin, hot and prickling with shame. She looked down at her lap and found her hands twisting anxiously together, her fingers red and white like candy cane. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “To Daniel.” Samir’s tone was suddenly flat, devoid of the swell of emotion that made him him. No matter how he felt, it was always right there in his voice, his eyes, his actions, for anyone to see.

  But not right now, apparently.

  That was a bad sign, wasn’t it? Not just a bad sign, her mind supplied—a dangerous one. Laura’s clinging hands released each other and crept toward her belly, as if they could do anything against a man Samir’s size. And even though it had been months since she’d left Daniel, months since she’d had to do this, her mind fell back into the routine easily: cataloguing paths to the nearest exit, considering what to say that might talk him down or distract him or appease him—

  “Jesus, Laura, breathe. I’m not—” Samir’s hand rose, and she couldn’t help it—she jerked away, so fast and so hard she almost fell off the bed.

  But he grabbed her, wrapping an arm around her hips, dragging her back. Toward him.

  “Angel, I’m not mad at you. You know that, don’t you?” He pulled her into his lap as if she were a child and took her face in his hands, frowning down at her. “Laura. Please. Breathe. You’re worrying me.”

  Her brain seemed to be delayed, panicking too hard to process instantly, but the words finally sank in. She was holding her breath. As soon as she became conscious of it, the tight scream of her lungs went from unnoticed to unbearable, and Laura exhaled on a gasp.

  As she sucked down oxygen, Samir’s hand circled her back, slow and soothing. Which didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t supposed to be touching her, helping her, caring for her—

  But then the last of Laura’s instinctive panic faded, and she remembered that this was Samir. Not Daniel. Not even remotely Daniel. Samir wasn’t going to hurt her. He could hate her fucking guts and he still wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t want any harm to come to her, and especially not to the baby.

  “You okay?” he asked softly. His other hand closed around her wrist, his thumb stroking back and forth, flutters of sensation gliding over her raw nerves. She wished he wouldn’t be like this. She wished he wouldn’t be so gentle, wouldn’t make her feel so safe, even as he prepared to leave her.

  Because he was going to leave her, no matter what he said. She’d seen it in his face. He was horrified.

  Samir brought a hand to her chin and pushed, making her meet his eyes. His beautiful, impossible, midnight-ocean eyes. “Hey,” he murmured. “Speak to me.”

  Through sheer force of will, Laura managed to sound passably calm. “I’m fine. You can… put me down, or whateve
r.”

  His lips tilted slightly. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep hold of you.”

  She blinked rapidly. And then, in a sparkling display of intelligence, said: “Um. What?”

  He settled back against the cushions, drawing her closer to his chest. “This sounds like a conversation that’s going to piss me off. Holding on to you keeps me calm. Please, continue.”

  “Con…tinue?”

  “Yeah. With the talking. Say something else. Like, I don’t know—I’m married to Daniel, but he died in a mysterious boating accident last week. Like that.”

  Ah. Laura gave a heavy sigh. “He’s not dead.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  She shouldn’t laugh. This was a very serious conversation. But she had to smile a little bit. She couldn’t help it.

  “So what you’re telling me,” Samir said, “is that Daniel—the man who won’t take responsibility for his own kid, the man who left you—”

  “I left him,” Laura interrupted, because apparently she still had her pride.

  “Sorry,” he said wryly. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that was a smile she heard in his voice. But she couldn’t see, because he was holding her head quite firmly against his chest. She could hear his heart beating, way faster than it should, and feel the rumble of his deep voice. “The man you left,” he amended. “The man you’re fucking terrified of—”

  “I—I’m not—” She wanted to say, I’m not terrified of him. But then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be lying.

  After a little pause, Samir said grimly, “Right. Him. That guy. That Daniel. You’re telling me that he’s your husband?”

  He was angry, but trying to hide it—or at least tone it down. She felt it anyway, because she felt him, too intense to miss. It almost made her nervous.

  And yet, the soothing stroke of his thumb over her arm was so… relaxing. When she managed to choke out, “Yes,” she sounded as if she were trapped halfway between anxiety and exhaustion. Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate. Although the anxiety part was fading with each passing second.