Untouchable: A Small Town Romance (Ravenswood Book 2)

by Talia Hibbert

  Two hours later, Nate was sitting on a chair he’d dragged into the garden while Hannah loomed over him like an avenging angel. An avenging angel with ladybird-printed kitchen scissors, fire-engine-red lipstick, and a mean stare.

  “Why are you glaring at me?” he finally asked, after a few minutes of gentle outdoor silence.

  “I’m visualising,” she murmured, cocking her head to the left.

  “Are you sure you know how to do this?”

  “It’s a trim, Nate. Relax.”

  “You’re telling me to relax? Now I’m worried.”

  To his surprise, she flashed him one of her rare, wicked grins. It warmed him from the inside out. Hell, it might even have pushed away the last vestiges of his headache. The smooth glide of Hannah’s painted lips over white teeth was apparently more powerful than aspirin. Good to know.

  “Okay,” she said suddenly. “My artistic process is complete. I am ready to begin.”

  He tried, and tragically failed, to hold back a snort of laughter. She rolled her eyes as she moved to stand behind him, but she was still smiling.

  It felt strange, sitting outside in the grass, listening to birds sing, feeling Hannah push his head gently this way and that. They fell into silence as the sharp snip of her scissors filled the air, and every so often she made a thoughtful little humming sound in the back of her throat. But she didn’t speak. She was probably concentrating.

  And that would’ve been fine, except the quiet let Nate’s mind wander to dangerous places. He thought about his mother, who he was still worried about—even though he’d called earlier and she’d insisted that she was fine. Oh, and told him to stop calling. Whatever. He forced himself to move on from that pointless avenue and fell headfirst into another forbidden well. At least this one was far more enjoyable.

  Hannah. He could smell her. He could feel her, almost as if she were pressing her body against his, when really, she was just standing particularly close. Occasionally, he felt her breath against the back of his neck, or his ear, or his jaw, and each time he worked hard not to betray himself. Not to reveal the way his muscles ached with the effort of keeping still, or the fact that his hands itched to touch her.

  He’d thought often—usually in the dark—about dragging up those longs skirts she wore and running his hands over her thighs. He’d thought about pulling her into his arms and sliding his palms down her back until he reached the lush curve of her arse. He’d thought about trailing his fingers over her breasts, circling her nipples just to see what sound she made… But he wouldn’t have to touch her like that. He’d be happy to hold her hand. He’d be happy to hug her again, because sometimes she seemed too small and sweet to stand alone all the time. She was like one of those tiny dogs who defended themselves with vicious fervour, but could, realistically, still be crushed by a toddler on a scooter.

  Regardless of how crushable she seemed, though, he couldn’t touch her. Ever. Nate was just reminding himself of this depressing fact when she said, “So. You’re a photographer.”

  He cleared his throat, but his reply still came out a little too raw. “Yep. Yeah. That’s me.”

  Her words flirted with laughter as she murmured, “Oh that’s you?”

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  “Are you a good photographer?”

  “You tell me. You’ve seen my pictures.”

  “I have?”

  “Any picture in this house that doesn’t include me, I took it.”

  “Oh.” She paused. He found himself almost anxious to hear what she thought. But in the end, all she said was, “They don’t look like Cindy Sherman’s.” From the tone of her voice, he felt like that might be a compliment.

  “Ah, well. I like natural portraiture for the family, but my popular stuff is all conceptual. It’s like… fantasy.”

  “Conceptual? Like Rosie Hardy?”

  “So you’ve heard of Rosie Hardy, too?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ll tell you now, I know nothing about photography. Don’t think you can start using fancy words and I’ll understand.” He saw her from the corner of his eye as she focused on the front of his hair. For a second he let himself sink into the ripe curve of her mouth, the texture of her lipstick over skin, the way her eyes tilted up slightly at the outer corners. Then he forced himself to look down at the grass.

  “I won’t use any fancy words,” he promised. “What do you like about her?”

  For a moment, she was quiet. Then she said softly, “The magic.”

  “That’s what I like too. Making magic.”

  He wasn’t supposed to be watching her. So why did he see her smile?

  And why did he hear himself say, as if listening to another man speak: “I want to photograph you, you know.”

  There was a pause as the steady snip of her scissors stopped. Nate used that pause to ask his mouth what the fuck it thought it was doing. When, precisely, had it decided to stop being a team player? His mouth did not respond.

  Finally, Hannah said, “Me?”

  So he added to the excruciating awkwardness by confirming: “Yeah.”

  After another pause, her scissors started up again. Well, that was a relief. At least she hadn’t, you know, stabbed him in alarm.

  “I’m aware,” he added, “that this is usually something guys say to get innocent, unsuspecting women out of their clothes—”

  “You want to photograph me naked?”

  “No,” he said. Actually, he kind of shouted it. Then, clearing his throat, added much more calmly, “That’s not really my thing. Usually. But what I’m trying to say is, I’m not telling you any of this in a weird way—”

  “I didn’t think you were,” she said. Which made him feel a hell of a lot better. “But I don’t really understand why you’d want to take my picture. I’m not very photogenic.”

  “Really? Because you have an unusually symmetrical face, so I’d think you would be.”

  She ran a hand through his hair, sending a dart of sensation down his spine. It didn’t seem fair that at any moment she could just touch him and make him burn like this. As if it was nothing. He short-circuited and caught fire while she stood there looking pristine as ever.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I’m not. I’m too self-conscious. I’m awkward, when people are watching. Your hair’s done.”

  “Right,” he murmured absently. “I mean, thanks.”

  “Do you want to see it?”

  “I’m sure you did a great job.”

  He was sure he didn’t give a shit, because even if she’d completely fucked up his hair it would be worth it. Worth it to sit there for a while and have the full force of her exhilarating focus. Worth it to feel that electric thrill when she ran her fingers through his hair…

  “What if I could take your picture without you knowing?” he asked suddenly. His mouth had decided to run away again. He’d be giving the thing a stern talking to. There is no I in team, mouth. And talking shit like this is not going to result in the outcome you so clearly want. Give it up.

  He had a feeling his mouth would never listen, though. It did, after all, belong to him.

  She arched her brows, standing in front of him with those scissors still in hand. “Like… when I’m not looking?”

  “So you wouldn’t be uncomfortable. That helps people, sometimes.”

  She shrugged. “I think I’d know, even if I couldn’t see you. I feel it when… when—people look at me.” Hannah faltered for a moment, but her next words were smooth as silk. “You’re welcome to try, though. Don’t blame me if you end up disappointed.”

  He stood, an odd sort of anticipation spreading through his body like low heat. He had permission. His rogue mouth had actually done something useful. Unbelievable. “We’ll see,” he said. “I might surprise you.”

  She gave him a wry look over her shoulder as she walked towards the house. “I am rarely surprised.”

  And he, after grabbing the chair they’d dragged outside, fol
lowed like the obsessed mess that he was. “Then I’ll definitely surprise you. Someone has to.”

  She snorted. “Good luck. You’re covered in hair, so brush it off before you come into the kitchen.”

  Nate shrugged and put the chair down on the patio, pulling off his T-shirt. He probably should’ve done that before, to be honest, but he hadn’t been thinking. Or rather, he’d been too busy thinking about Hannah. He shook the shirt out on the concrete, then followed her inside.

  And found her leaning against the kitchen island, staring at him as if she’d been frozen.

  “What?” he asked.

  She continued to stare.

  “Hannah. What?”

  Her name seemed to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and he watched her throat shift as she swallowed. “Nothing!” she said brightly, and turned to hurry off.

  Which struck him as exactly the sort of thing Hannah would do if, say, the apocalypse was nigh but she didn’t want to worry anyone.

  So Nate reached out to take her hand, tugging her gently to a stop. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He reeled her in closer, frowning at the odd expression on her face. “No you’re not.”

  “Yes I am.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m just worried about you running around half-naked all the time. You’ll catch your death.”

  Would he? “…It’s at least twenty degrees outside.”

  “But it’s about to rain!”

  “Hannah, we’re in the house.”

  She spluttered for a moment, looking completely un-Hannah-like and thoroughly adorable. Finally, she burst out, “I think you might be anaemic.”

  “Why would I be anaemic?” And what does that have to do with my shirt?

  “You’re so pale!”

  He laughed. “Ouch.”

  “Oh, stop it. I didn’t mean it like that. You look…”

  Nate arched a brow. “Terrible? I feel like we’ve covered this before.”

  “What? No. You don’t think that, do you?” The strange expression on Hannah’s face turned to worry, that little arrow appearing between her brows as she frowned. “You’re gorgeous.”

  He almost collapsed in shock. The words were unbelievable enough, coming from Hannah of all people. But even better was the way she slapped her hands to her cheeks after she said it, like a character in a play. She spun away from him, her hair whipping through the air.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered to herself. “Why, Hannah, why?”

  Good fucking question. Because he really didn’t think Hannah came out with statements like that very often. Especially not accidentally. An impossible explanation flashed into his head, bright enough to leave him blinking rapidly. Really, it was more of a fantasy—maybe a side-effect of excessive shower masturbation—than an explanation. Yet something wicked and hopeful coiled inside him, urging him to ask… “Hannah, do you—?”

  “There is really no need to finish that sentence,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cool and calm as usual. It was clipped in a way that told him, loud and clear, how nervous she was.

  Which made Nate actually consider that the impossible explanation he’d dreamt up was more than just wishful thinking. And then she turned to face him, her expression somewhere between irritation and embarrassment, and he was sure. Impossibly, he was sure.

  “It’s really nothing personal,” she scowled. “It’s just, you know. You look like that. And you can’t keep a bloody shirt on for more than five minutes!”

  His mouth, previously so very active, was now having trouble forming words. “I… look… like…”

  “You look like—have you ever read those books about Hades and Persephone where Hades is inexplicably hot and… okay, you know what? You have definitely never read one of those books.”

  Nate resolved to memorise every word she’d just said and Google random combinations of them all until he found the books she was talking about.

  “This really has nothing to do with you,” she said.

  Finally, his mouth started working again. Maybe because he’d finally absorbed the fact that Hannah appeared to be saying she was… attracted to him? “What has nothing to do with me?”

  She didn’t seem to hear. “I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating,” she went on, as if talking to herself. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “Oh, why the fuck did you say that, Hannah?”

  “Why don’t you say more, Hannah?”

  “No thanks,” she squeaked.

  Her eyes opened bit by bit, as if she was afraid of what she might see. And, in the end, she was. Because the moment she realised that Nate was walking slowly towards her, she stepped back.

  And again.

  And again.

  But he didn’t stop walking. He couldn’t. Instead, he said, “Let me make sure I’m understanding this correctly.”

  “Or,” she interjected, “you could forget I ever said anything at all.”

  He decided to ignore that suggestion. “You’re saying that I shouldn’t take my shirt off—”

  “I don’t think I said that—”

  “Because I’m…” his lips twitched. “Gorgeous.”

  “You are so fucking smug. Why do I even like you?”

  “And also because you’re ovulating.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ please don’t sack me—”

  “Hannah. I’m not going to sack you. You could set fire to the dining room curtains and I wouldn’t sack you.”

  She paused for a moment in her steady retreat. “That seems oddly specific.”

  “You did set fire to my dustbin the other day.”

  Her back came into contact with the fridge, bringing her retreat to a sudden stop. “That… that was for the kids. It was science.”

  “I know. You’re big on experimentation, right?”

  “Um… right?”

  He put his hands against the fridge on either side of her head, caging her in. The appliance felt more like a freezer against his heated palms. Nate leaned down until he was as close to eye-level with Hannah as he was likely to get. It helped that she rose up on her toes to meet him. He wondered if she knew that she was doing it.

  Probably not. Her pupils were so blown that, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’d taken something. Her tongue slid out to glide over her scarlet lower lip, and then she said, “You don’t seem very upset about this.”

  “Guess why.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re not interested in me at all, are you? You’re just…” he bit back a laugh. “Ovulating.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah: I think your lack of filter is rubbing off on me.

  Ruth: Nah. You’ve always had a big mouth.

  Hannah wasn’t sure what would kill her first: abject mortification, the way her heart was ricocheting around her chest—which couldn’t be healthy—or the rather concerning fever she seemed to have developed some time in the last thirty seconds.

  Actually, that fever had started when Nate had whipped off his T-shirt like it was nothing—like he didn’t have a despicably broad chest covered in tattoos she shouldn’t like so much, with that little silver bar winking through one nipple. And her temperature had increased to truly dangerous levels when he started smiling like… like he wanted to eat her.

  Which he was still doing right this minute, at worryingly close quarters.

  She could see swirls of frost in his blue eyes, see the tiny, rough hairs that made up the shadow on his jaw—see the softness of that generous mouth. She wished she couldn’t. She should close her eyes. Things were bad enough right now without a close-up view of the handsomeness that had been turning her brain to mush for the last few weeks.

  He buried his face in her hair and she felt him take slow, deep breaths. For a few precious seconds, she was enveloped in the shadows of his body and the sweet, smoky scent of him, and she felt incongruously safe. As if she could let down h
er own exhausting shields and allow him to take over for a while.

  Then his lips brushed her forehead. It could barely be called a kiss, she knew that. Still, arousal sparked at the chaste press of his mouth, shimmering through her body until it landed between her legs. Fuck.

  Nate pulled back, looking at her with a rueful expression. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.

  She should be happy at this sign that he was beginning to see sense, but all she felt was that delicious zing of need, along with a disturbing disappointment at his words.

  Apparently, her face conveyed that disappointment without authorisation, because he smiled—oh, she wished he wouldn’t smile—and murmured, “You disagree?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I think you’re right.”

  Nate sighed. “This was a lot easier before I knew you. Now I can tell when you’re lying.”

  She decided to ignore the more concerning part of that statement; nobody knew when Hannah was lying. “This?”

  “This. Pretending I didn’t want to touch you. Not cornering you in the kitchen like some kind of pervert. Resisting the urge to kiss you.”

  “You haven’t kissed me.”

  “Yet.” But then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. No. I’m not going to kiss you. I’m not going to touch you.”

  “Because you don’t… like me.” That was what she’d thought, but it was getting harder and harder to believe it.

  Especially when Nate opened his eyes with a frown and asked, “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I like you.”

  “Right.” She nodded calmly, as if she’d been aware of this all along. Which, really, she kind of had—but it had just seemed so impossible. When did anyone ever like her and want her all at the same time? Never, that’s when.

  Now, actually. Someone likes you and wants you now.

  “The problem,” Nate said slowly, as if making sure she understood, “is that you work for me.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, yes. I knew that.” I just somehow didn’t consider it at all, because I was far too preoccupied with pre-teen anxiety about who does and does not like me. Wonderful.