This should be a safe conversation. It was one of the topics on her list of Acceptable Things to Say: What do you do? Along with, Where are you from? and, How’s the family? If they’d met in the ordinary way, she’d have asked those things immediately instead of blathering on about nonsense.
For some reason, with Evan, she didn’t feel as much pressure to use her list. She didn’t feel a need to waste energy on trying to seem acceptable—but she didn’t do her best to seem outrageous, either. On Saturday, their conversation had meandered from the ridiculous to the impossible and back again.
She didn’t want to think about what that meant.
Instead of chasing his comment about her work, she said, “What do you do?”
He scooped up some Bolognese. “I’m a blacksmith. I work for Burne & Co.”
Ruth almost choked on her pasta.
Evan noticed, too. Of course he noticed. He’d already figured out that she was, in a word, clumsy, and now he watched her like a hawk. It had all started when she told him about burning her comic books. Or, as everyone else called it, setting the kitchen on fire.
Now he pushed a glass of water toward her, clearly concerned. Ruth glared as she took a sip, the cool fluid soothing her raw throat. Glares were her most common expression of thanks.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Burne & Co., hm?” she shot back. She hadn’t meant to sound quite so bitter, quite so accusatory, but her tone was searing.
She took another sip of water. Oops.
Evan frowned. “Um… yeah. Why?”
She ignored the question and studied his face, searching for the clues she must have missed. The sly judgement, the hidden disdain.
She didn’t find anything incriminating, because she was rubbish at that sort of thing. Evan stared back at her, and all she gained from the uncomfortable eye contact was unwelcome arousal. He really was gorgeous. It was quite inconvenient.
“That explains why you were with Daniel Burne,” she finally said. Clearly, she’d have to rely on words here.
“Well, yeah,” he replied. “It’s not like I spend time with him voluntarily.”
Ruth took a moment to digest that. “Hmph,” she grunted, aware that she sounded like a grumpy old woman. To move the conversation on, she added, “So you’re a blacksmith. Is that what you did in the army?”
His brows flew up. Mission accomplished. “How’d you know I was in the army?” he asked.
The truth was that she’d stalked his social media through her friend Marjaana’s account—since Ruth didn’t have Facebook. But that would sound incredibly odd, so she lied. “It was your speech about Captain America on Saturday. You’re a complete fanboy.”
Evan smirked. “That doesn’t mean I was in the army.”
“There’s honestly no other reason for anyone to like Captain America.” Which was true. “Unless you think he’s hot.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s hot.”
“He kind of looks like you.”
Evan’s eyes lit up. “Do you think he’s hot?”
Ruth froze, her fork halfway on its journey to her mouth. “I…” Her mind rushed to process what, exactly, had just happened. It failed, probably because it was trying so hard. So she blurted out, “Yes. I do.”
For a moment, Evan’s eyes seemed to darken. He leaned forward, and Ruth licked her lips. She was suddenly hyper-conscious of her breathing—or rather, the rise and fall of her own chest.
Which was a bad sign.
But then, just as quickly, the crackling tension in Evan’s eyes seemed to fade. He sat back in his chair and said, “Well, you’re right. I was in the army. But that’s not why I like Captain America.”
Relief flooding her, Ruth stuffed a mouthful of pasta into her gob and mumbled, “Why then?”
Evan put down his fork, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know. He seems very… noble. Is that the right word?”
“He’s an annoying do-gooder.”
“You’re a very harsh woman.” He said it almost… fondly. A smile tilted his lips.
Ruth reminded herself that harsh women were not to anyone’s taste and took another bite of pasta.
9
When they were done, Ruth grabbed the plates and took them both to the sink. She turned the taps on as high as they’d go, and watched the water rise over the dirty dishes, and tried to convince herself that she could not feel Evan staring at her.
That would be ridiculous.
To prove it, she took a peek over her shoulder at him. Just a little one, she told herself, to quiet her rambling mind. To prove to herself that, just because he was awfully attractive and funny and sweet, and he seemed