a good thing going. She would not derail it by introducing complications such as kissing and touching and talking about serious things, even if she felt a painful need to engage in the first two and a strange, tentative desire for the last.
She bore that fact in mind on Saturday, when she heard Evan’s familiar knock. He’d come over early because it was a weekend, she told herself firmly. He had no work, and time to kill. It didn’t mean he was eager to see her. She shouldn’t be eager to see him.
Ruth forced herself to walk to the door, stifling the urge to skip through the house like a kid hyped up on E numbers. She took a deep breath before she opened up, hoping that the anticipation bursting in her chest wouldn’t show.
“Hey,” he said. “Since when do you wear glasses?”
Crap. Ruth yanked off the round, baby-pink frames, as if he hadn’t already gotten a good look. “I only wear them when I’m working.” And then, to explain their frivolous appearance: “I got them years ago.”
Back when she’d been someone else.
He followed her inside, toward the kitchen, as was their habit. “Don’t you need them all the time?”
She shrugged and took today’s steaming dishes off his hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice her lack of response.
But Evan noticed everything. “You know,” he said, arching a brow, “I’m kind of glad you don’t go out much. I’m surprised you haven’t been hit by a bus.”
“I don’t like having things on my face.” She sat down and dug into what appeared to be steak and kidney pie.
“Even if those things allow you to see?”
“Eat your food.”
“As my lady wishes.”
“Shut up.”
He smirked. It wasn’t an unusual exchange for the two of them, but something in the way he looked at her, something smouldering beneath the calm depths of his ocean eyes, made Ruth suddenly and uncomfortably… aware. Aware of him, aware of herself, aware of the memory of his hands against her skin. Painfully aware.
She hoped to God that she wasn’t making it obvious. Only, knowing her, she absolutely was. Somehow. Ruth went over their every interaction as she ate, running through memories of the previous days, making sure she hadn’t messed up.
“You finished?”
She jolted at the sound of his voice. His plate was empty, and so was hers, though she didn’t remember eating. She did that sometimes: disappeared.
He was looking at her expectantly, with his usual gentle smile—and was she imagining something else there? Something satisfied and hungry all at once?
Maybe she was projecting. That was another thing she did sometimes.
“Yes,” Ruth said, jumping up from her seat. “Of course. Let me take your plate.”
“I can—”
“Let me!” Her voice sounded squeakier than it should. She cleared her throat. “Um… Can I get you some…”
“Tea? Yes, please.”
She set the plates aside and went through the familiar motions of preparing their drinks. Typically, this was what she did toward the end of the evening. If she hurried up their unofficial routine, he would leave earlier. Right?
But you don’t want him to leave.
Yes, I do.
No, you don’t. He doesn’t want to leave, either.
“Ruth?”
“Quiet!” she snapped. It was automatic. Any interruption to the voices in her head, especially when she felt on the verge of an Important Discovery, was to be avoided.
But then she remembered that telling guests to shut up was extremely ill-mannered, and then she remembered that Evan was one of the few people in the world who deserved all of her time and all of her kindness. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that.”
He didn’t look offended. In fact, he was sitting casually in her little kitchen chair with an easy smile on his handsome face. “I know. It’s just your artistic temperament.”
Ruth pursed her lips. “I do not have an artistic temperament.” She turned back to the counter and grabbed a couple of tea bags, plopping them into the mugs before pouring the hot water.
“Sure you do. It’s why you won’t let me see your web comic.”
“No-one sees my web comic.”
“How do you make money from it if no-one sees it?”
The familiar back-and-forth eased her tightly coiled nerves. Feeling a little more like herself, Ruth rolled her eyes. “No-one I know sees it.” Except Marjaana, of course. “Strangers see plenty.” One sugar for her. Three, disturbingly, for him. Though she supposed his excessive taste could be justified by his ridiculous size.
“See?” He nodded sagely. “Artistic temperament. It also explains why you’re