“If you don’t come back here, I’m coming to get you.”
She didn’t reply, because she couldn’t trust her voice. Instead she marched to the kitchen, as if movement could erase the mortification of what had just happened.
She’d whimpered. Jesus fucking Christ. She would never live this down.
13
“Ruth.”
She sucked in a breath at the sound of his voice, a smoky caress. Evan filled the kitchen doorway, his face shadowed for a moment. Then he stepped into the light and stole the air from her lungs.
He was so fucking gorgeous.
He moved toward her, so slow and deliberate that she should have panicked. She should have felt clumsy or awkward or uncomfortable. Instead, she looked at him and remembered comfort and laughter and contentment, and somehow those memories short-circuited all her defences.
Ruth turned to the sink and dropped their mugs into the waiting water. She was suddenly and unreasonably outraged, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. It didn’t make sense. There were friends, and then there were men you’d shag senseless. He couldn’t be both, and yet somehow, he was, and if she blew up from the pressure of wanting him it would be all his fault.
She certainly wasn’t making him any more tea, the inconvenient bastard. He could survive on fresh air for the rest of his life, for all she cared. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing, looking at her like that? Being all gorgeous and smouldering and… ugh.
While she scowled at the sink, he moved closer. So close that she could feel his presence, even as she refused to look up. His face—his beautiful bloody face—would only make things worse.
“You do realise,” he said, “that you’re talking to yourself.”
She blinked. Finally, foolishly, looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He was closer than she’d thought. His eyes were almost electric, heavy-lidded, his lips parted. This was how he looked when he wanted.
“You’re talking to yourself,” he repeated, his voice a gentle rasp. “And I heard every word you just said.”
Ruth swallowed, forcing moisture into her suddenly dry throat. “You can go now.”
“No thank you.” His voice was low, husky, raw enough to make her stomach flip and her heart rate spike. “I think I’ll stay here.”
Every night, there came a point when she gave him the option to leave. Every night, he took it. And now, all of a sudden, he was not.
Oh, dear.
“You don’t like the way I look at you, Ruth?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She stared down at the bubbles in the sink and licked her lips.
“That’s what you said. I heard you. Do you want me to leave? Because if that’s what you want—”
“It’s not,” she blurted out. Who the fuck said that? It couldn’t have been her. Except, it definitely was.
“I didn’t think so.” His strong fingers reached out to cage her wrist, and sensation soared through her. His skin was warm against hers, the heat of his body pushing into her like a tidal wave. He was right there. She couldn’t ignore him.
He wouldn’t allow it.
“You ran away,” he said, his voice softer now. “Why?”
She swallowed, forcing herself to look up at him. “I… I don’t know.”
His lips quirked, full and soft beneath that thick, sandy beard. She’d spent too many nights this week wondering how that beard might feel against her skin.
“I do,” he murmured.
Desire bloomed between her legs—not like a flower, but like the mushroom cloud of an explosion. She knew what Marjaana would say right now. Talk.
Meeting his gaze, she asked, “What are you doing?”
His thumb skated over the inside of her wrist. “This is called flirting.”
“This is not flirting.”
He smiled. “Too much?” His hand slid from her wrist to her palm, their fingers locking together. Beneath the heat in his gaze, she saw that ever-present concern. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. You know that, don’t you?”
Silently, her pulse thundering in her ears, Ruth nodded. His hand tightened around hers.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to do,” he said. “And I know you don’t take hints well.”
Ruth bit down on a smile. Somehow, in the middle of all this shimmering tension, he managed to make her smile.
“So I’ve decided to ask you outright,” he murmured.
His hands moved to her waist, tightening before she could process the sudden touch. He lifted her, just slightly—enough for her to perch on the edge of the sink. Then he let go. But she still felt the ghost of that unexpected pressure, the heat of his palms burning