Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,254

his hand through his hair instead.

Rae’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. She knew what had just run through his mind. Turned out, things weren’t quite fixed between them yet.

I should tell her.

Tell her about his sexuality, when he hadn’t even told his own brother? He couldn’t want to do that, not really. It made no sense.

“Listen,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “This sounds like a shit storm of epic proportions, and I need to get back to work, so we should catch up later. You want to come over tonight and talk?”

She arched a brow. “To yours? I don’t even know where you live.”

“Sure you do,” he said cheerfully. “I’m in the old white house by the main road.”

Rae let out a burst of laughter, then sobered when he didn’t join in. “Wait, seriously? You live in the haunted serial killer house?”

“It was only one murder. And yeah, I do. Rent’s great.”

She stared. “Jesus take the wheel. I am not stepping foot in that creepy, creepy place. You can come to me.”

“Chicken.”

“I’m black. Black people die first in horror films, which is why we don’t put ourselves in the paths of demons.”

He snorted. “Whatever. I’ll come over around seven?” And I might share something I’ve never said before. Maybe that’s what you do for me. You make everything easier, the way I do for everyone else.

She was already leaving, Duke bringing up the rear. “Yes. Bring donuts,” she called over her shoulder. Her smile burned away his doubts.

Rae had spent all weekend marinating in rejection. She’d really rolled around in there, letting the memories soak into her bones like an extra layer of protection. If someone bit her, she’d taste like Who the hell do you think you are? She’d taste like Get over it, you’re embarrassing yourself. She’d taste like the look on Zach’s face when he’d rejected her as clearly as humanly possible because she couldn’t take the fucking hint.

Jesus, what had she thought? That he’d automatically be gagging to sleep with her, like it was a benefits package that came with his friendship, and she just had to make a request? Alcohol and horniness had rotted her brain, clearly. In fact, there’d been a moment after she arrived home that Rae had honestly thought she might… cry.

Clearly, she’d drunk even more than she’d realised.

But she was stone-cold sober now and supremely over it, since the offer had meant nothing in the first place. And, just to make sure Zach knew that—just to emphasise how unimportant and purely physical the whole proposition had been—Rae was going to behave completely normally around him.

Starting right now.

It was evening, and he was here. He’d shown up with a sweet smile and damp hair, wearing jeans that adored his thighs and a T-shirt that worshipped the breadth of his chest. She’d offered him a beer, and he’d noticed the dead spotlight in her kitchen. Now he was changing it for her, because he was that kind of guy.

His T-shirt was riding up. While he fiddled with the light, she held a torch and tried to ignore the eye candy. She’d already ogled him enough, and she wasn’t a pest or a bad friend… but it turned out she was highly susceptible to wanton gorgeousness, because she couldn’t tear her gaze away. He was a carefully carved slab of marble with those sharp, diagonal lines at his hips that acted like blinking arrows. Those lines had no sympathy for the plight of a woman hopelessly in lust. Hey, they said, look down here. Lower. She resisted, focusing on the faint trail of dark hair that dusted his abdomen. But that was pointing downward, too.

This was a conspiracy. Zach’s body was out to get her, and she wanted to be caught.

No. Nope. Bad Rae. We’ve been through this. Zach didn’t want her. She didn’t mind. For the sake of their friendship, she had to stop being weird.

“There we go,” he said, climbing off her dining chair. “Flick the switch.”

She did as she was told, and the kitchen glowed to life, every spotlight present and correct. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“This is the kitchen where you make fantastic brownies. I definitely had to. By the way, I want some more.”

“I bet you do.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed her lemonade. She was avoiding wine for the rest of the month. “You’re lucky I baked at all. I hate doing things for men.”

“Men, specifically?” He followed her into the living room, sips of