Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,323

hole into you, Griff. No, don’t look, you donkey. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

I finally take my shot and fluff it. “Year 2, you told me to pick up that stinging nettle—”

“I thought it was a flower,” Rebecca interrupts. “Don’t be petty.”

“Year 3, you convinced me to nab you a jam tart off your nana’s counter, and we both got—”

“Griffin! Are you going over there or not?”

I sigh and stare at the green velvet in front of me, red and yellow balls dotted about. But after a second, that’s not what I’m seeing: my eyes are full of the beautiful stranger. I study the memory of him, since I’m not allowed to look, and list his pros and cons.

The pros go like this.

Jesus Christ, I need a good fuck.

He’s intimidating. I like it.

His bottom lip is the rounded curve of a plump, ripe peach, and that’s my favourite fruit. I want to bite.

Yeah. The pros go off the rails pretty fast. I turn to cons.

He’s out of my league.

I’ve never seduced someone I don’t know. Fuck, living in a place like this, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to someone I don’t know.

The whole pub, also known as half of Fernley, will be watching the entire time, thinking about how I’m a changeling or a freak.

The cons are daunting, but that last one bothers me most of all—because it shouldn’t have even made the list. I’m not supposed to care what the village thinks of me. Their shit doesn’t belong in my head. That’s how my mum raised me, or tried to.

All you can ever be is yourself, so try not to second-guess it.

Fuck. Okay. Fine. No second-guessing.

Nerves crawling over my skin like aphids on a rose, I hand Rebecca my pool cue. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” she echoes. “Oh, I’m sure, babe.”

I huff out a laugh and start to turn away.

She grabs me. “Wait, Griff—roll up your sleeves.”

“…Why?”

“You have really nice forearms.”

My best friend is nuts. I do as she says.

Olu

I arrived in Fernley on Friday night and was promptly bored out of my skull. I remained in that state all weekend, dreadfully disappointed by the dullness of this rural eat-pray-love experience—then I looked up from my travel journal long enough to remember that, usually, in order to experience new things, one must leave the house.

It has been a while since I took a trip like this. Perhaps I’ve lost the knack of running away.

Whatever the case, I’ve finally dragged myself to the village’s only centre of entertainment. And from the looks of things, I am about to be entertained.

The dark-haired giant moving toward me doesn’t seem to fit in around here. Since meeting my hostess, Maria Hartley, and looking around the place, I’ve gathered that things in this village tend to be bright and quick and simply done. But this man is slow and steady and impenetrable, with eyes like black mirrors and a near-tangible reserve that makes me want to crack him wide open.

Not that I’d ever obey that urge. I’ve learned, over the years, that the more you know someone, the uglier they get.

But the giant is striding over with obvious intent, forcing me to wonder—if he starts something, if he flirts with me, will I respond? The old me adored flirting. The new me is tense, ready for familiar, creeping disgust to come along and ruin everything. If this were one of the London nightclubs I periodically haunt like a poltergeist, my skin would already be sticky with apprehension. For some reason, the feeling hasn’t come yet, but it will.

I wait for it and watch the giant. He has the stride of a minor god, and the pub’s patrons, with their muddy tweed and their well-trained dogs at their heels, part for him like he’s a rabid animal. Their worry is understandable: the glower on his suntanned, well-worn face can only be described as ferocious. Beneath a trimmed, black beard, his jaw is hard as iron. I wonder if he really is coming over to flirt or if he’s coming over to punch me. One blow with that meteoric fist and he might snuff me out like the dinosaurs, so I suppose I’ll have to dodge fast.

But when he stands in front of me like a brick wall, it’s not to throw a punch. All he does is look at me and say, “Hello.”

One word, two syllables, in a quiet, rasping voice that makes me oddly aware of my own skin—skin