Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,189

his, when really, she was just standing particularly close. Occasionally, he felt her breath against the back of his neck, or his ear, or his jaw, and each time he worked hard not to betray himself. Not to reveal the way his muscles ached with the effort of keeping still, or the fact that his hands itched to touch her.

He’d thought often—usually in the dark—about dragging up those long skirts she wore and running his hands over her thighs. He’d thought about pulling her into his arms and sliding his palms down her back until he reached the lush curve of her arse. He’d thought about trailing his fingers over her breasts, circling her nipples just to see what sound she made… But he wouldn’t have to touch her like that. He’d be happy to hold her hand. He’d be happy to hug her again, because sometimes she seemed too small and sweet to stand alone all the time. She was like one of those tiny dogs who defended themselves with vicious fervour, but could, realistically, still be crushed by a toddler on a scooter.

Regardless of how crushable she seemed, though, he couldn’t touch her. Ever. Nate was just reminding himself of this depressing fact when she said, “So. You’re a photographer.”

He cleared his throat, but his reply still came out a little too raw. “Yep. Yeah. That’s me.”

Her words flirted with laughter as she murmured, “Oh that’s you?”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“Are you a good photographer?”

“You tell me. You’ve seen my pictures.”

“I have?”

“Any picture in this house that doesn’t include me, I took it.”

“Oh.” She paused. He found himself almost anxious to hear what she thought. But in the end, all she said was, “They don’t look like Cindy Sherman’s.” From the tone of her voice, he felt like that might be a compliment.

“Ah, well. I like natural portraiture for the family, but my popular stuff is all conceptual. It’s like… fantasy.”

“Conceptual? Like Rosie Hardy?”

“You’ve heard of Rosie Hardy, too?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I’ll tell you now, I know nothing about photography. Don’t think you can start using fancy words and I’ll understand.” He saw her from the corner of his eye as she focused on the front of his hair. For a second, he let himself sink into the ripe curve of her mouth, the velvet texture of her lipstick, the way her eyes tilted up slightly at the outer corners. Then he forced himself to look down at the grass.

“I won’t use any fancy words,” he promised. “What do you like about her?”

For a moment, she was quiet. Then she said softly, “The magic.”

“That’s what I like too. Making magic.”

He wasn’t supposed to be watching her. So why did he see her smile?

And why did he hear himself say, as if listening to another man speak: “I want to photograph you, you know.”

There was a pause as the steady snip of her scissors stopped. Nate used that pause to ask his mouth what the fuck it thought it was doing. When, precisely, had it decided to stop being a team player? His mouth did not respond.

Finally, Hannah said, “Me?”

So he added to the excruciating awkwardness by confirming: “Yeah.”

After another pause, her scissors started up again. Well, that was a relief. At least she hadn’t, you know, stabbed him in alarm.

“I’m aware,” he added, “that this is usually something guys say to get innocent, unsuspecting women out of their clothes—”

“You want to photograph me naked?”

“No,” he said. Actually, he kind of shouted it. Then, clearing his throat, added much more calmly, “That’s not really my thing. Usually. But what I’m trying to say is, I’m not telling you any of this in a weird way—”

“I didn’t think you were,” she said. Which made him feel a hell of a lot better. “But I don’t really understand why you’d want to take my picture. I’m not very photogenic.”

“Really? Because you have an unusually symmetrical face, so I’d think you would be.”

She ran a hand through his hair, sending a dart of sensation down his spine. It didn’t seem fair that at any moment she could just touch him and make him burn like this. As if it was nothing. He short-circuited and caught fire while she stood there looking pristine as ever.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m not. I’m too self-conscious. I’m awkward, when people are watching. Your hair’s done.”

“Right,” he murmured absently. “I mean, thanks.”

“Do you want to see it?”

“I’m sure you did a great job.”

He was sure he