“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.
Chapter Seven
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; the ink covering his arms adorned his chest, too. And over it all gleamed those little drops of water. 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?” His 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?”
That brought her up short. Did she want to know?
Maybe. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d have any opinion to offer—which was ridiculous. Of course he’d have an opinion. Everyone had opinions.
But no-one ever seemed to have an opinion on the things she cared about—aside from, “That’s stupid”. The only people in this town who wanted to debate comics were the kids at the local library, and Ruth hadn’t volunteered there since… Well. Since before.
But there was no use thinking about that now.
She studied Evan’s soft smile, the clear, bright blue of his eyes. He was basically an overgrown Cub Scout with unreasonable muscle definition. He wouldn’t be cruel to her, would he?
Probably, her mind said.
She ignored it. “Okay.”
He stepped back, opening the door completely, and said, “Come in.”
Oh. Oh. She hadn’t expected that.
Ruth couldn’t back down, and she couldn’t show weakness. Especially not her weakness, the sort that other people didn’t understand. If she said, Oh, I thought you were suggesting that we talk in the future, and I planned t
o prepare for that interaction in advance because I have to plan most conversations very carefully so that I don’t freak other people out… Well, he’d probably be freaked out.
So she walked into his flat and tried not to jump as he shut the door behind them.
Evan led her into a living room that was the mirror image of her own—but much tidier and better decorated. He said, “Hang on; I’ll be back in a second.” Then he disappeared down the hall, hopefully to get dressed.
Because as much as she enjoyed staring at his near-nudity, it wouldn’t help her a bit when it came to decent conversation.
Ruth put the dish and the comics down on his low, glass coffee table, staring at the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. She didn’t have a TV. She only ever watched Netflix on her laptop.
For the first time in a while, she realised how strange she must seem.
This was one of the many, many reasons she didn’t talk to other people. Why she stayed in the house and only called her sister or her mother. Being around people who were supposedly ‘normal’ made her feel abnormal.
She’d never had that problem, before. Her life was split in two like that: before versus after.
“You’re my sweet little weirdo, aren’t you Ruthie? God, I love you.”
“You hungry?”
Her heart almost leapt out of her chest. She came back to the present, staring blankly at the man in the doorway. Evan. He was, tragically, completely clothed.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
“You sure?”
Ruth stared. “Are you a feeder?”
Evan wandered over to her with a slight frown marring his pretty face. He sat down beside her, and even though the sofa was big enough for three, she felt slightly panicked.
Too close. She wouldn’t mind, if she didn’t know she’d end up embarrassing herself somehow.
“What’s a feeder?” He asked.
“Someone who has a fetish involving… you know, feeding people. Feeding fat people.”
He looked down at her, his eyes running over her body, achingly slow. Ruth swallowed.
Then he looked up at her face again and said, “I’m not a feeder. Are you wearing pyjamas?”
“I always wear pyjamas.”
“Why?”
Ruth felt her cheeks heat. “I just do,” she muttered.
“What if you went out somewhere? Say, on a date. Would you wear pyjamas?”
“I don’t go on dates,” Ruth said.
He smiled again. “You’re not good at this ‘Jezebel’ thing.”
“Ask your friends how good I am.”
Evan cocked his head. “Are you trying to put me off?”
“Put you off what?”
He studied her for a moment, his eyes boring into her face. His gaze was a living, breathing thing, and she was suffocating beneath it.
Not necessarily in a bad way.
Eventually he said, “Don’t worry about it.”
She had no idea what he meant, but she was used to that. He probably wasn’t making fun of her. In fact, she was almost sure he wasn’t.
Which was odd. Ruth was rarely sure, when it came to that kind of thing.
He produced the comics she’d given him the last time they spoke, holding one in each hand.
“These were good,” he said. “I mean, a good place to start, for someone as ignorant as me. They seemed to follow on from the film.”
“Kind of,” she nodded, “but the MCU often differs from the comic books in multiple ways, for commercial reasons.”
“MCU?” He arched one thick, blond brow. She liked it when he did that, which was a disturbing realisation.
Looking down at her hands, Ruth explained, “MCU: Marvel Cinematic Universe. There are lots of different timelines and realities when it comes to this sort of thing, and it’s good to know and separate them. Otherwise you open a book expected T’Challa and Storm to be estranged, only to find they actually have a son.”
“Huh.” Evan blinked down at the comic books. “Sounds like some soap opera shit.”
“Of course. Comics are very dramatic.”
“They’re kind of… very everything, aren’t they?” He asked. “There’s drama, comedy, tragedy—”
“Everything!” Ruth echoed. Her voice was louder, more excited than she’d meant it to be. Oops. Toning it down slightly, she went on. “That’s exactly it. That’s why I love them so much!”
He grinned. “I get it.”
And it quickly became apparent that he really, truly did. They spoke for ages about the comics he’d read, and then he spent even longer trying to trick spoilers out of her. He failed, of course. Ruth Kabbah was no fool.
At least, she didn’t like to think she was.
Eventually, when the window showed the orange glow of streetlights instead of the afternoon sun, Ruth pulled herself back into the real world.
“I should go,” she said, cutting off Evan’s speech about the upcoming Avengers film. She’d pulled up the trailer on her phone—and now, of course, he was full of opinions and questions.
But she couldn’t stay to hear them.
He frowned. “You’re leaving? Already?”
Ruth checked the time. “I’ve been here for over three hours.”
He looked astonished. “Three hours?”
“Yes. I should go.”
“Wait—” As she stood, he reached out to grab her wrist. His long fingers pressed firmly against her skin, hot as a brand. Ruth choked down a gasp at the sudden, unfamiliar sensation.
He heard. Instantly, he let go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. It took all of her willpower not to look down at her wrist, not to cradle it against her chest as though he’d hurt her. He hadn’t hurt her.
He’d scared her. Because, with just a touch, he’d set her alight. That had happened once before, and it had been bad news.
Evan stood too, towering over her. For the first time, his expression betrayed something other than confidence. He seemed uncertain, confused.
“Well,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “It’s Sunday. I’m going to my mother’s.”
“Oh.” He nodded slightly. “But I’ll see you soon. Right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ruth.” He didn’t touch her again, but he did move slightly in front of her. Not enough to block her way; just enough to make her look at him, whether she wanted to or not. “I like talking to you,” he said. “I’d like to keep doing this. Like… a book club. Would you like that?”
Ruth swallowed, hard, under the force of his gaze. It was so gentle, and yet it seemed so intense. It was strange; she’d always expected his beauty to be the most dangerous thing about him, but it wasn’t his handsome face or strong body that compelled her to nod.
It was his kindness.
“Good,” he said softly. He smiled, as if he were actually, truly happy about the prospect of doing this again. Sitting around talking comics with a neighbour he barely knew.
Maybe there was something wrong with him.
That would probably make him perfect for her.
“I’m leaving,” she said, and left. Instead of stopping her, or trying to tease out a proper goodbye, he simply followed her to the front door. He unlocked it for her, held it open. Stood in the doorway and watched as she opened her own.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
She shrugged, and went inside.
Then she hovered in the front hall, her hand against the paper-thin wall that connected them. After a few, long minutes, she heard his door shut too.
Ruth decided that the next time she saw Evan Miller, she would wear her best pyjamas.
Chapter Eight
It was Zach who invited Evan over on Sunday—but Evan spent most of his time talking to Shirley.
He perched on a stool by the older woman’s bed, where she lay propped against a mountain
of pillows. Zach leant in the doorway of her bedroom, his arms folded, a teasing smile on his face.
“You got designs on my mother, Miller?”
Evan gave Shirley a wink. “Maybe. But I doubt she’d have me.”
Zach barked out a laugh. Shirley chuckled along too, clutching at her chest as though it was the funniest thing she’d heard all week.
Her amusement was real. Zach’s was hollow. There was too much worry beneath his smile, too much force behind his joviality. While Shirley laughed, Zach looked at his mother with so much hopeless love in his eyes, Evan felt his own heart twist.
He met Zach’s gaze. Hoped the message was clear. Go somewhere. Do something. Try to breathe.
Zach nodded slightly. “Tea, Mum?”
“Oh, yes, please, my darling.”
“Evan?”
“Cheers.”
Zach left, and Evan hoped he’d take a minute, or even a second, to calm down. To occupy his mind with something other than concern and heavy dread. He knew from experience, though, that it wasn’t that easy.
“So,” Shirley said, flicking the tail of her silk scarf over her shoulder. “How have you been, sweetheart?”
Her crooked smile was a feminine twin of Zach’s. Evan returned it with ease. Shirley, as he’d discovered the previous week, was a fun time.
“I’m good, Shirl. What about you? Any luck with the nurse?”
Shirley winked. “She’s playing hard to get.”
“Don’t give up.”
She leaned forward slightly, her arm outstretched. He realised with a start that she was reaching for him, for the hand resting against his thigh. So he gave it to her, and was surprised to find her thin, pale fingers clutching his firmly.
“I hope you’re doing well,” she said, with a gravity that he didn’t quite understand. “Zach was telling me about you, the other day. He said you met a couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s right,” Evan said slowly. “I moved to Ravenswood at the end of February.”
“I’ve known the people in this town for years,” she said. “Zach’s had the same friends since he was at school. And since my diagnosis, we’ve heard nothing from any of them.”
Evan swallowed. He remembered that part well. Remembered people who were a backdrop in his life disappearing one by one, just as he needed them most, proving how alone he and his mother really were. At the worst possible time.
A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1) Page 5