Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,116

moment, she felt as if it was deserved.

But he didn’t say anything of the sort. Instead, he put the bowl back on the tray and said, “Later, then.”

She nodded. Bit her lip. Barely felt the sting. After several heavy seconds passed, she managed to force out the words: “Did you hear?”

A shadow passed over his face. “Let’s not talk right now. You should sleep. Will you do that for me?”

“Will I… sleep?” Her brain felt as if it was moving more slowly than usual. Sluggish; that was the word. She didn’t mind. The slower her brain was, the less her sister’s voice could replay in her head.

In fact, she hadn’t heard her sister’s voice at all, while she was talking to Samir.

“Yes, angel,” he said. “Sleep. Please?”

Sleep would be nice. If she could manage it. If her mind would shut up. Laura looked down at her hands, which seemed suddenly small and pathetic. “Will you stay?”

He shouldn’t have heard her. She was so quiet, she barely heard herself. But the way he stiffened, the way every inch of him became suddenly alert, and yet contained, she knew that he had.

Still, a taught heartbeat passed before he replied. “Stay here?”

“With me.” Shame, her closest friend, had suddenly gone missing. The contrary bitch was probably off sunning itself in Martinique while Laura remained here in rainy old Norfolk, acting a fucking fool.

But then Samir said, “Of course I’ll stay. Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

And that would’ve been good enough, but he did something even better. He pushed her gently back against the pillows, pulled the covers over her and tucked her in. Then he lay beside her, on top of the blankets. He gathered her up against his chest, his arm cradling her belly carefully, her head tucked under his chin. Comfort warmed her aching bones like hot soup on a cold day. He said, “Sleep.”

Laura decided that shame could stay on its holiday for as long as it liked.

Then she slept.

13

For the next three nights, Samir slept in Laura’s bed.

They didn’t discuss it. He wasn’t even sure how he’d fallen asleep that first night. He hadn’t meant to. He couldn’t leave her—not after the snatches of conversation he’d heard as he came into her room, as he put on the clothes she’d left for him. Not when he’d heard her sob, “Hayley.” As if something inside her had cracked. Smashed. To pieces.

He still had no idea what, exactly, had happened; he just knew he could never have left her.

But he really hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He hadn’t meant to wake her, either, in the early hours of the following morning, when he’d grabbed his salt-water soaked phone and wallet and pressed a kiss to her sleeping cheek. But she’d woken up anyway. She hadn’t said a word. She’d simply looked at him with eyes like a stormy sky.

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