Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,324

that still doesn’t feel heavy or sweaty or too tight for my body. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because this man isn’t staring at me with avid greed, as if I’m a dead work of art or a cold clutch of jewels. Which is silly of him, since I am all those things and nothing more.

I brush off my confusion and murmur, “Evening, handsome.” I’m misbehaving, since he’s not handsome at all, but I can’t help it. I’ve never quite known how to be good, and recently, I don’t even care enough to try.

He breathes out through his nose like a bull, and his glower becomes an outright scowl, but he doesn’t call me out. “I’m Griff.” His words are hard enough to qualify as brute force. I’m not sure why he’s still talking to me. Five seconds of conversation, and it’s abundantly clear he doesn’t want to be here.

Maybe this is some sort of game. I like games. My emotions reach me through a thick coat of cotton these days, but the curiosity he’s stirring is sharp enough to prick at me. He’s like a little dose of the antidepressants I don’t take. “I’m—” Olu, that’s what I almost say, which is odd. Strangers don’t use that name. “Keynes,” I finish, my gaze steady, daring him to mention my hesitation.

Brazen it out, that’s always been my tactic. And who is more brazen than me?

Apparently, this man. After a moment, he asks, “You sure?”

Wonderful. A comedian. Though he’s taller than I am, I look down my nose at him—it’s a hard-won skill. “Quite sure. Are you capable of more than two syllables at once?”

A hollow pause, during which I study Griff. He looks… interesting. Oh, I don’t know why I’m being polite: he looks as if someone hammered chunks out of a mountain, saw a man’s likeness in the resulting craggy mess, and gave it life. He’s all weather-beaten skin, wild, midnight hair that falls into his eyes, and a nose that could be called a beak if beaks were crooked. His mouth is a grim, finely carved line that my own would suffocate, and his shoulders are like boulders. His knuckles are like walnuts. If I’m frank, he’s quite ugly, but there is something about him.

The fleeting urge to crack him open should have faded by now, but it’s still there.

Finally, he says, “Yes. I’m capable.”

“Well done,” I breathe, obnoxiously astonished. “That was five!”

The look he gives me says, very clearly, Go fuck yourself. No wonder he doesn’t speak much. His face does the job for him, when he wants it to.

“So,” I begin, leaning harder against the bar, starting to enjoy myself. “What are you doing over here?”

His jaw shifts and his eyes flick to the ceiling for a moment, as if he’s asking the heavens that very question.

“Am I in your way?” I prod, knowing that I’m not.

A tiny silence before he replies, “No.”

“Have you come to tell me that well-groomed facial hair won’t fly in this here village, and I’ve got until sunrise to pack my bags and leave?”

His gaze spears me, exasperated. His eyes are dark, dark, dark. “No.”

I let a slight smile curve my lips and notice him noticing. That gaze is on my mouth now. His hands curl into fists, just for a moment, a heartbeat, before he smooths them out. I purr, “Are you shy, Griff?”

Another of his little pauses. I finally realise that he’s simply slow to speak—as if he thinks carefully about each word that leaves his mouth.

My diametric opposite, then.

“I’m wondering,” he says finally, “which ale you chose tonight.”

The words are so unexpected, I almost miss the fact he dodged my question about shyness. Arching a brow, I ask, “Does my choice matter?”

“Yes.” It’s a single word in a flat-stone voice, but I think the silent giant is… teasing me. How thrilling.

“In that case,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to answer. What if I get it wrong?”

“You care?” he asks. Then adds, as if remembering full sentences are required: “Do you care what I think?” He has a gentle country accent that almost makes me want to smile. I’m not sure why.

“What you think? Not exactly. But you’re rather large, and I don’t know anyone here, and I’ve heard people take the strangest things to heart in the countryside. I’d hate to be driven out of the village with pitchforks because I’m drinking Rock Mild.”

“Rock Mild?” He blinks slowly, his lashes incongruously long and thick. “Hang