Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

“Hm,” I say again.

  Rebecca laughs.

  It takes all of five minutes to reach Mrs. Hartley’s big, white house with its pretty hanging baskets and green-painted fence. Her kids are in the front garden, arguing over who gets the last choc ice and who’ll have to make do with rocket lollies. The minute they see me, their eyes widen. I hover by the garden gate behind Rebecca and consider smiling at them. Then I realise I’m casting a shadow—a literal fucking shadow—over the garden. Sigh. My awkward attempt at a smile would probably send them screaming.

  I don’t know how to deal with people. Never have. Plants are easier anyway.

  “Mam,” the eldest shouts, already unwrapping the choc ice for herself, debate be damned. “Miss Becky’s here.”

  A shout comes through the open front door: “Alright, Suzie.” And then a moment later, there’s Mrs. Hartley. She looks a little worn-out, I notice, her hair frazzled and her cheeks flushed pink, a tea towel in her hands. But she smiles as bright as ever when she sees us—both of us.

  Mrs. Hartley is one of those people, like Rebecca, who makes the knot in my chest get looser instead of tighter.

  “You two,” she grins wryly. “Never apart, not for a second, not since you were small.” Mrs. Hartley is only sixteen years older than me, but she sees me as a kid because she and Mum were almost the same age. And I call her Mrs. Hartley for the same reason.

  Rebecca’s parents are older than Mrs. Hartley, though, and Rebecca’s not a socially awkward human statue, so she leans over the fence and beams, “Maria!”

  “How are you, my darling?”

  “Curious,” Rebecca grins, and lowers her voice. “A little birdy told me you’ve smuggled a handsome man into the village.” This is what Rebecca’s like. She says shit like We’re going to spy, but here are three things she can’t do: keep a secret, lie, be subtle. People love it or hate it.

  Mrs. Hartley whips Rebecca with the tea towel and rolls her eyes, but she’s one of those who love it. “The gossip in this village, by God. He only arrived last night. And yes, he’s handsome, madam, but you’re a married lady.”

  “You lost me at but. Lewis knows how to share.” The two of them laugh. The children edge closer, trying to eavesdrop. And me? I don’t know. The conversation sort of fades into the background of my mind, like it always does when people laugh at jokes that don’t include me. Like I said, I’m awkward. Don’t know what to do with myself. My eyes wander up to the flat above Mrs. Hartley’s garage, persuaded into curiosity by Rebecca’s determination—which happens a lot. Sunlight flashes off the windows, and I squint. For a moment, I think I see something: a man. Just the slightest impression of a sharp, brown face, broad shoulders, a hand at the curtains. Then the light glints again, and he moves away, or maybe he was never there at all.

  But it feels as though he was.

  Chapter Two

  Griff

  He’s real, and I meet him the next day.

  Fernley’s a tiny place. I know the name of every family here, and everybody knows who I am. Sheep block the road often, but people never care. There’s no post office or corner shop, and only one pub. So, the stranger isn’t hard to spot.

  Especially since he’s currently in the only pub, sitting at the bar like a tropical flower.

  “He’s ridiculous,” Rebecca tells me, clearly stunned. It’s Sunday evening now, and we’re playing pool. Well, I’m playing pool; Rebecca’s got her knickers in a twist, has done ever since the stranger strolled in five minutes ago. She’s on her tiptoes, trying to murmur in my ear, but since she’s as tiny as this village—tinier, even—her mouth is level with my armpit. The pool cue in her hand’s as tall as her. She whispers ferociously, “Everyone said he was handsome, but this is just silly.”

  She’s not wrong. I study him subtly—I hope—trying to decide if he looks like a serial killer, because I always keep an eye on Mrs. Hartley’s visitors. But I can’t get a read on him, because he doesn’t even look real. He’s like a fucking sunset. Not that I’ll be admitting that to Bex. I grunt, turn, bend, and pot a red.

  “Oi,” Rebecca tuts. “I wasn’t ready.”

  My lips twitch at the corners. I didn’t know Rebecca had to be ready for my go.

  “Oh, stop smirking,” she mutters. “I’m taking this turn.” Rules mean almost nothing to her. Keeps me on my toes.

  While she squints at a yellow ball and tests 95 different angles, I look up—and find myself staring into the stranger’s eyes. He’s turned away from the bar and stands with a pint in his hand, leaning against the polished wood, watching me without shame. His head is cocked to one side, like he finds me as interesting as everyone finds him. Could be, he heard Rebecca’s awful excuse for a whisper. Could be, he noticed me because I’m hard not to notice. I look like God forgot to turn off my ‘grow’ switch. I look like I shouldn’t be allowed to hold children or small animals in case I snap their necks—that’s what a guy I once slept with told me. When I’m beside Rebecca, I might as well be a T-Rex. The stranger’s probably wondering if I’m part gorilla.

  I’m wondering if he paid for his face, the way people do these days. His skin is light brown, like autumn sunlight through sparse trees, and I suppose that must be natural. His hair, cropped and tightly curled, is a tawny shade that must be natural too, since his eyebrows seem to match. But the rest—the razor-sharp jaw, the soft, wide mouth and noble nose—surely no-one’s born with all that at once, perfectly symmetrical and unnervingly striking?

  Well, whether he bought it or not, it looks bloody good.

  I turn back to Rebecca. “Shoot.”

  “Piss off, you’re distracting me.”

  “From what?”

  She gives me a dark look over her shoulder. “Griffin Everett, you cheeky bastard. You’re watching a master at work, here. Prepare for a humiliating defeat.”

  I snort.

  She sniffs, shoots, and pots two of my balls. “Crap,” she says.

  “Ta, Bex.”

  “God, you’re smug.” Her voice lowers, her frown fades, and she goes up on tiptoe again. “So, about this handsome stranger.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Handsome?”

  “Don’t give me that. I think you should talk to him.”

  For a moment, I wonder what the hell she’s on about. Then I catch the gleam in her eye that means trouble, and the penny, slow as ever, drops.

  I give her a stony look. “No, Rebecca.” When she gets these ideas into her head, I have to be firm.

  “Why not? You haven’t gotten laid in eight-hundred-and-seventy-five years.”

  Thanks for the reminder. Definitely needed that. Had totally forgotten. “I can’t just talk to someone like him,” I mutter.

  “Why not? He’s perfect!” She starts ticking qualities off on her fingers. She’s painted little ladybirds on her nails. “Stranger, new in town, probably won’t be staying, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  Yeah, like lava is gorgeous. From a distance. Even across the pub, I can feel his heat, and I’m not interested in getting burned.

  “I don’t do pretty,” I mutter, moving around the table to line up my next shot.

  Sadly, Rebecca follows and keeps talking. “You did Annabelle Cross.”

  “That was a one-time thing.” All my things are one-time things. No-one ever keeps me. But some people—usually women—find my ugly mug a bit of a thrill, and when they want to misbehave, they call me over. Problem is, like I said, Fernley’s a small village. Last couple of years, I’ve run out of one-time things to tap.

  It feels like I’m running out of lots of things, lately. Like this place has nothing left for me to survive on. But I don’t dare think of that.

  “Griff,” Rebecca sighs, like she’s talking to a kid. “It’s just a shag. You’re not looking for a bloody boyfriend.”

  Aren’t I?

  No. You’re doomed to be alone, and that’s okay.

  I’ve learned over the years that I have to be firm with forbidden hopes, j
ust like I’m firm with Rebecca.

  Although, I never last long against Bex. She has this dizzying mix of charm and 1-2-3 logic that I struggle to fight. Plus, she talks really fast, and it makes her sound smart. Already I can feel my remaining braincells toddling after her toward a cliff’s edge.

  Still, I put up one last show of resistance. “Doubt he’s interested.”

  “He’s staring a hole into you, Griff. No, don’t look, you donkey. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  I finally take my shot and fluff it. “Year 2, you told me to pick up that stinging nettle—”

  “I thought it was a flower,” Rebecca interrupts. “Don’t be petty.”

  “Year 3, you convinced me to nab you a jam tart off your nana’s counter, and we both got—”

  “Griffin! Are you going over there or not?”

  I sigh and stare at the green velvet in front of me, red and yellow balls dotted about. But after a second, that’s not what I’m seeing: my eyes are full of the beautiful stranger. I study the memory of him, since I’m not allowed to look, and list his pros and cons.

  The pros go like this.

  Jesus Christ, I need a good fuck.

  He’s intimidating. I like it.

  His bottom lip is the rounded curve of a plump, ripe peach, and that’s my favourite fruit. I want to bite.

  Yeah. The pros go off the rails pretty fast. I turn to cons.

  He’s out of my league.

  I’ve never seduced someone I don’t know. Fuck, living in a place like this, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to someone I don’t know.

  The whole pub, also known as half of Fernley, will be watching the entire time, thinking about how I’m a changeling or a freak.

  The cons are daunting, but that last one bothers me most of all—because it shouldn’t have even made the list. I’m not supposed to care what the village thinks of me. Their shit doesn’t belong in my head. That’s how my mum raised me, or tried to.

  All you can ever be is yourself, so try not to second-guess it.

  Fuck. Okay. Fine. No second-guessing.

  Nerves crawling over my skin like aphids on a rose, I hand Rebecca my pool cue. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Mind?” she echoes. “Oh, I’m sure, babe.”

  I huff out a laugh and start to turn away.

  She grabs me. “Wait, Griff—roll up your sleeves.”

  “…Why?”

  “You have really nice forearms.”

  My best friend is nuts. I do as she says.

  Olu

  I arrived in Fernley on Friday night and was promptly bored out of my skull. I remained in that state all weekend, dreadfully disappointed by the dullness of this rural eat-pray-love experience—then I looked up from my travel journal long enough to remember that, usually, in order to experience new things, one must leave the house.

  It has been a while since I took a trip like this. Perhaps I’ve lost the knack of running away.

  Whatever the case, I’ve finally dragged myself to the village’s only centre of entertainment. And from the looks of things, I am about to be entertained.

  The dark-haired giant moving toward me doesn’t seem to fit in around here. Since meeting my hostess, Maria Hartley, and looking around the place, I’ve gathered that things in this village tend to be bright and quick and simply done. But this man is slow and steady and impenetrable, with eyes like black mirrors and a near-tangible reserve that makes me want to crack him wide open.

  Not that I’d ever obey that urge. I’ve learned, over the years, that the more you know someone, the uglier they get.

  But the giant is striding over with obvious intent, forcing me to wonder—if he starts something, if he flirts with me, will I respond? The old me adored flirting. The new me is tense, ready for familiar, creeping disgust to come along and ruin everything. If this were one of the London nightclubs I periodically haunt like a poltergeist, my skin would already be sticky with apprehension. For some reason, the feeling hasn’t come yet, but it will.

  I wait for it and watch the giant. He has the stride of a minor god, and the pub’s patrons, with their muddy tweed and their well-trained dogs at their heels, part for him like he’s a rabid animal. Their worry is understandable: the glower on his suntanned, well-worn face can only be described as ferocious. Beneath a trimmed, black beard, his jaw is hard as iron. I wonder if he really is coming over to flirt or if he’s coming over to punch me. One blow with that meteoric fist and he might snuff me out like the dinosaurs, so I suppose I’ll have to dodge fast.

  But when he stands in front of me like a brick wall, it’s not to throw a punch. All he does is look at me and say, “Hello.”

  One word, two syllables, in a quiet, rasping voice that makes me oddly aware of my own skin—skin that still doesn’t feel heavy or sweaty or too tight for my body. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because this man isn’t staring at me with avid greed, as if I’m a dead work of art or a cold clutch of jewels. Which is silly of him, since I am all those things and nothing more.

  I brush off my confusion and murmur, “Evening, handsome.” I’m misbehaving, since he’s not handsome at all, but I can’t help it. I’ve never quite known how to be good, and recently, I don’t even care enough to try.

  He breathes out through his nose like a bull, and his glower becomes an outright scowl, but he doesn’t call me out. “I’m Griff.” His words are hard enough to qualify as brute force. I’m not sure why he’s still talking to me. Five seconds of conversation, and it’s abundantly clear he doesn’t want to be here.

  Maybe this is some sort of game. I like games. My emotions reach me through a thick coat of cotton these days, but the curiosity he’s stirring is sharp enough to prick at me. He’s like a little dose of the antidepressants I don’t take. “I’m—” Olu, that’s what I almost say, which is odd. Strangers don’t use that name. “Keynes,” I finish, my gaze steady, daring him to mention my hesitation.

  Brazen it out, that’s always been my tactic. And who is more brazen than me?

  Apparently, this man. After a moment, he asks, “You sure?”

  Wonderful. A comedian. Though he’s taller than I am, I look down my nose at him—it’s a hard-won skill. “Quite sure. Are you capable of more than two syllables at once?”

  A hollow pause, during which I study Griff. He looks… interesting. Oh, I don’t know why I’m being polite: he looks as if someone hammered chunks out of a mountain, saw a man’s likeness in the resulting craggy mess, and gave it life. He’s all weather-beaten skin, wild, midnight hair that falls into his eyes, and a nose that could be called a beak if beaks were crooked. His mouth is a grim, finely carved line that my own would suffocate, and his shoulders are like boulders. His knuckles are like walnuts. If I’m frank, he’s quite ugly, but there is something about him.

  The fleeting urge to crack him open should have faded by now, but it’s still there.

  Finally, he says, “Yes. I’m capable.”

  “Well done,” I breathe, obnoxiously astonished. “That was five!”

  The look he gives me says, very clearly, Go fuck yourself. No wonder he doesn’t speak much. His face does the job for him, when he wants it to.

  “So,” I begin, leaning harder against the bar, starting to enjoy myself. “What are you doing over here?”

  His jaw shifts and his eyes flick to the ceiling for a moment, as if he’s asking the heavens that very question.

  “Am I in your way?” I prod, knowing that I’m not.

  A tiny silence before he replies, “No.”

  “Have you come to tell me that well-groomed facial hair won’t fly in this here village, and I’ve got until sunrise to pack my bags and leave?”

  His gaze spears me, exasperated. His eyes are dark, dark, dark. “No.”

  I let a slight smile curve my lips and notice him noticing. That gaze is on my mouth now. His hands curl into fists, just for a moment, a heartbeat, before he smooths them out. I purr, “Are you
shy, Griff?”

  Another of his little pauses. I finally realise that he’s simply slow to speak—as if he thinks carefully about each word that leaves his mouth.

  My diametric opposite, then.

  “I’m wondering,” he says finally, “which ale you chose tonight.”

  The words are so unexpected, I almost miss the fact he dodged my question about shyness. Arching a brow, I ask, “Does my choice matter?”

  “Yes.” It’s a single word in a flat-stone voice, but I think the silent giant is… teasing me. How thrilling.

  “In that case,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to answer. What if I get it wrong?”

  “You care?” he asks. Then adds, as if remembering full sentences are required: “Do you care what I think?” He has a gentle country accent that almost makes me want to smile. I’m not sure why.

  “What you think? Not exactly. But you’re rather large, and I don’t know anyone here, and I’ve heard people take the strangest things to heart in the countryside. I’d hate to be driven out of the village with pitchforks because I’m drinking Rock Mild.”

  “Rock Mild?” He blinks slowly, his lashes incongruously long and thick. “Hang on. My pitchfork’s out back.”

  I laugh. It’s a short, awkward bark, more of a “Ha” than anything else, but it counts. I did it. I’m clinging to it. And I was right—Griff is teasing me. His own mouth curls at the edges, not quite a smile but the ghost of one, and I find myself wanting to see teeth. It’s natural that I’m curious about him: he’s displaying strange behaviour. Men never tease me at bars. They coax me, they catch me, they relentlessly desire me. And, even before Jean-Pierre, I never really enjoyed that. Being desired is such a dull sort of danger. I’m so used to eyes picking me apart.

  But this? This is starting to feel like being with a friend, sans the added weight of hiding my recent… struggles. It’s an unobjectionable dynamic. Perhaps even a pleasant one. Maybe that’s why I tease him back. “So, are you as scary as you look?”

  Through the messy fall of his hair, I see his eyebrows rise. “You admitting I’m scary?” He’s warming up to me. I do believe I like him warm.