liked Black Panther?”
Evan blinked. That conversational boomerang had come around so suddenly, he felt slightly whiplashed. But still, he managed to gather his wits fairly quickly. “Yeah. I did.”
“Are you into comics?”
“I read some when I was a kid,” he said slowly. “But as I got older, things got…” He hesitated, unsure of how to explain his sudden transition from cheerful teenager to hardened adult. “Complicated,” he finally managed. “Things got complicated. I guess I stopped.”
She cocked her head, her eyes bright and dark. “We could make a deal, if you want.”
“A deal?”
“You give me more of that shepherd’s pie. I give you comic books.”
Evan stilled. Something inside him celebrated, popping champagne as if she’d offered him the keys to the town. He’d liked comics once upon a time, but the prospect of reading them again didn’t really excite him.
What excited him was the fact that she appeared to be relenting.
Since when are you so eager to cook for random women?
He wanted to help, he reminded himself. She seemed lonely. He just wanted to help.
“Okay,” he nodded. “That sounds like a deal.”
“You can’t keep them, though,” she added hurriedly. “I’d just lend them to you. So you can read them. But you have to bring them back.”
Evan held up his hands, unable to hide his grin. “Don’t worry, little one. I won’t steal your comics.”
She shot him a glare. “Don’t call me that.”
“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.
7
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