freedom to her. She had cradled a Nate-flavoured fantasy to her chest, a sweet, golden spark. She’d pulled it out when the other kids had mocked her and excluded her and ignored her, and she’d pulled it out when her moods had been low and her mind not her own and she’d known something was wrong with her but hadn’t known what.
When her own ephemeral confidence had failed her, she’d always bolstered herself by thinking, Nate wouldn’t care what people thought of him. Nate wouldn’t care about any of this. Nate doesn’t follow all the rules that you feel chained to obey.
And now here was Nate, proving that past, innocent version of Hannah wrong. Because he was looking at her so strangely, and he was so very silent, and now he opened his mouth to say…
“That was pretty fucking brave.”
Hannah barely choked down a baffled, What? Clamping her back teeth together, she settled on an astonished stare.
“But also, none of my business.”
She stared harder.
Nate stared back for a moment, as if they’d engaged in some kind of staring competition. Then he said, “You okay?”
Absolutely not. How dare you be so very relaxed while I study emotional rainbows in my head? How dare you pull the rug of expectation from under my feet with this complete lack of drama? How fucking dare you?
“Yes,” Hannah said. She might have the most mortifying habit of speaking her mind—which, incidentally, she blamed on Ruth’s corrupting influence—but even she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Most of the time. Sort of. Occasionally.
“Cool. Anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Oh, great. She’d had a vague idea that the conversation would stop here, to be honest. She hadn’t planned the rest of her grand reveal. And her heart might just give out if he produced any more of those long, dramatic, thoughtful pauses in response to her colourful confessions.
Hannah cleared her throat and blurted, “I used to be a nursery nurse.”
“So I hear.”
“But I’m not anymore.”
“So I hear.”
She shoved a stray braid out of her face and gritted out, “I am legally prohibited from my former occupation.”
“Are you trying to confuse me with big words?”
“No.”
“Because I’m a lot smarter than I was back at school.”
“…Okay?”
“I mean, I’ve read a thesaurus or two.” He raised his hands. “I’m not trying to brag. I’m just saying.”
“Are you… attempting to make me laugh?”
He gave her a crooked little smile, and that bloody dimple made an appearance. “Maybe. What is it people say? ‘God loves a trier?’”
She stared, thoroughly baffled. “You do understand what I’m telling you, correct?”
“I think so.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the silky strands off his forehead. She had no idea why, because it was an utter mess that she couldn’t see being tamed any time soon.
And she did not find that mess beguiling in the slightest. Hannah liked tidy men. Tidy, sensible men who did not have random swallows tattooed on their hands.
Nate tapped his long, blunt fingers against his glass and said, “You…. tried to kidnap North West?”
She stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know. Kanye’s—”
“I know who North West is. How would I ever come close to kidnapping North West?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I truly believe you could do anything you put your mind to. Including flying to the U.S. with the intention to liberate Kim Kardashian’s million-dollar child.”
“Why would I possibly want to—?” Hannah shook her head sharply. “I have no idea why I’m going along with this. You’re being ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I have a criminal record—”
“I know.”
“Which includes—” she broke off, her brain catching up with her mouth. “You… know?”
“I know you fucked up Daniel Burne’s Porsche.” He wrinkled his nose. “I always hated that guy.”
Hannah stared. “You know.”
“Obviously I know. Just because I left Ravenswood, doesn’t mean I was spared constant gossip via regular phone calls home.”
“Your mother told you?” she squeaked, mortified.
He smirked. “Ma doesn’t gossip. Zach told me.”
Oh, Zach. She was so going to enjoy strangling him, when next they spoke.
“So, just to be clear,” she said slowly, “you are not concerned by my numerous criminal convictions.”
“Nah. I’m used to having a convicted criminal in the house.”
“You… are?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in close, his expression conspiratorial, and she couldn’t help it—she leaned in too. Then he whispered, “It’s me.” And smiled.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Hannah sat back with a huff. “You don’t count.”
“I don’t?”
“No! You know that you’re trustworthy, because you’re you!”
“You think I’m trustworthy?”
“It doesn’t matter if I think you’re trustworthy—”