Despicable, all those razor-sharp eyes seemed to say.
Delicious, Rae thought at the sight of Zach’s smile. She leaned in to kiss it.
He turned as if he’d read her mind, curling an arm around her shoulders, dragging her close, kissing her hard. By the time they finished, Nate was rolling his eyes in a way that didn’t quite match his delighted grin, and Ruth was looking vaguely horrified.
But the poor woman couldn’t be too grossed-out, since she managed to complain a moment later. “Do you realise how horrendous it is that we are all engaged? At the same time? As if we planned it, like… like sorority sisters?”
Evan’s look of triumph hadn’t faded for months. Even now, it sharpened as he winked at his fiancée. “I think it’s cute.”
“You would,” Ruth muttered, but she fingered the fine, silver necklace where her engagement ring hung, and her eyes seemed to smile while her mouth stayed disapproving.
“I agree,” Hannah said. “It’s cute.” When all eyes turned to her in astonishment, she arched her perfectly shaped brows. “What? It is.”
“That’s it,” Ruth snorted. “The world is ending. The apocalypse is now.”
“It’s a shame Laura and Samir are already married,” Evan mused. “We could’ve planned a four-way wedding.”
“We could’ve planned a what?!”
While the rest of the table wound Ruth up, Rae put her head on Zach’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of happiness: lemonade and red wine, hot, languid summer, and Zach. Her love. Molten iron, dappled sunlight, and cool certainty.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and murmured. “Penny for your thoughts.”
She smiled. “You can have them for free.”
The End
Thank you for reading Hold Me Close! I hope it held you close and offered a comforting, cozy distraction when you needed it most.
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And keep reading for a sneak peek at my M/M novel WORK FOR IT—an enemies-to-lovers romance set in a tiny, rural village near Ravenswood…
Chapter One
Griff
It’s a warm, sunny Saturday—proper lovely, bright enough to beam through my rose-printed curtains and paint my living room blood-red. Which, now I mention it, looks a bit weird. But still; this is a nice, spring day.
Now, ask me what I’m doing. Go on. Say, What are you up to with your weekend, Griffin?
Right now, I’m sat in the (creepy) blood-red living room, staring at my mother’s candles on the end table. There’s three of them, burned down to different heights, all as thick as my wrist, which is pretty fucking thick. They used to be black, but their colour is messed up by the thick layer of dust that’s settled over the last ten years. Dribbles of wax cling to their edges, frozen forever, because these candles will never be lit again. Mum’s not here to do it, after all. But I’m not thinking about that.
No; on this fine Saturday, I’m thinking about ginger, and all the ways it’s causing me problems.
I stormed into the living room five minutes ago, because if I’d stayed in the kitchen, I might have tried to brutally murder a root. The twist in my latest cordial recipe, a rich orange and cinnamon spice I’m planning in time for Christmas, is frustrating the shit out of me. It’s not right. It wasn’t right on Monday evening, either, or Tuesday or Wednesday or the rest of the week, which is why I’m still fiddling with winter flavours in the middle of spring on a Saturday—because Rebecca reckons holiday options will keep the business’s momentum going, and who’ll come up with those options if I don’t? Definitely not our bloody boss. He—
Ah. Ah. I’ve fucking got it.
I jump up—or, rather, I get up slowly because this sofa hasn’t changed since Mum died either, and it whines whenever I sit or stand. Doesn’t matter. This is my, what do you call it? My eureka moment. Fuck the details. I stride back into the kitchen, pick up the wrinkled knot of ginger I threw down a while ago, and snag a red chilli from the little plant on the windowsill. If I can DIY some minor infusion, just as a test run—
Bang, bang, bang.
Aaaand that is the sound of my Saturday work session coming to a fast and definite end. I drop the ginger—at this rate, it’ll bruise like a peach in protest—and smile in spite of myself. Only one tiny fist has