Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,37

pyjamas even then.

But, as she’d crisply informed him ten minutes ago, that had been a ‘period emergency’. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded grim.

Apparently, when she deigned to leave the house, Ruth actually wore leggings and oversized T-shirts. The T-shirt was barely distinguishable from her pyjamas, but the leggings…

Dear God, the leggings.

“I know you’re always running and shit,” she said. The word running sounded like an epithet, coming from her lips.

Evan tore his gaze off of her legging-clad calves just in time. She was looking up at him, waiting for an answer while his mind scrambled.

“You should come with me,” he finally managed.

She barked out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s good for your heart.”

“Fanfic is good for my heart. Running is a disaster waiting to happen, and you know it.”

Evan snorted. “We should take more walks, then. It’s bad for you, staying inside all the time.”

“You’re such a dad.”

He grinned. “That’s me.”

Ruth smiled back. Not her usual purse of the lips, a smile that was more in the eyes than anything else—no. Her cheeks plumped and her mouth widened and her adorable teeth came into view, and Evan thought he might do something ill-advised. Like kiss her in the middle of town.

Instead, he forced himself to look away. “Speaking of substitute parenting,” he said, “have you eaten?”

She snorted. “You know I haven’t.”

“Do you want to?” Evan’s gaze slid back to her legs of its own accord. He focused on her ankles this time, on the snatch of brown skin between her socks and the hem of her leggings. “We could go to the Unicorn,” he said, naming the local pub—he hoped. It was hard to think clearly when he could see the shift of her muscles beneath tight, grey fabric. Her thighs shook as she walked. If that T-shirt weren’t so fucking huge he’d be able to see her arse.

“I don’t know,” Ruth said. Her voice was tight. He dragged his eyes up to her face and found her looking tense, distant. She was gazing across the town square at the pub in question, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Probably because he’d been distracted by her legs.

Evan didn’t think he’d ever stared at a woman so much in his life. What the hell was he doing? Knowing Ruth, she wouldn’t notice for a while—but then she would. And even though they were okay now—supposedly—he had no idea where they stood on the whole… I’d like to keep you in my bed for a week and feed you grapes but I don’t even know if you’re single, issue.

He probably should’ve asked her earlier, when she’d been ready to apologise. Ah, well.

Forcing himself to stare straight ahead, at the shops lining the street, at the cars circling the square—at anything other than Ruth—Evan spoke. “You don’t go to the pub much, I take it?”

It was a ridiculous question, because he knew very well that she didn’t. He had the vague idea that it was down to her reputation, as archaic as that sounded. Ruth acted like she was some kind of social pariah.

Then again, so did everybody else.

Evan turned his gaze back to Ruth—her face, this time. She hadn’t answered. That didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong; she often fell silent for no reason that he could discern. Thinking, she’d say.

But she didn’t always stare into the middle distance with despondent eyes as she did so.

“Are you okay?” he asked. The urge to touch her swelled within him like a river breaking its banks. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Yep,” she said shortly.

“Because that sounded believable.”

“Oh, piss off,” she muttered, but her lips tilted into a little smile. Then, after a few more silent steps, she said, “I don’t think the pub is a good idea. I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

He frowned. “You are cheering me up. You made me soup.”

She didn’t laugh.

Evan stopped. And then, finally, he touched her. Wrapped a hand around her arm, above her elbow, because then a layer of cotton would be between them, and she might not react so strongly.

She choked back a gasp, then bit her lip.

He let go. “Does it scare you? When I touch you?”

She met his gaze. “You know it doesn’t.”

That sparked a flame in his chest, one that felt part hopeful, part hungry. “I don’t mean to do it,” he said. “I suppose I’m just touchy.” He was not touchy. He helped old people carry their shopping; he picked