right now. He simply couldn’t. When his mind became heavy and grim like this, he wasn’t fit company for anyone. He’d go for a run instead, batter his muscles until they matched the state of his worn-out brain, and then he’d go to bed.
His joints creaked as he stood.
The neighbour could wait ‘til tomorrow.
5
Was there anything better than a Sunday evening?
Ruth was wearing her favourite set of PJs—the ones where tiny, cartoon Captain Americas chased tiny, cartoon Buckys all over the fabric. She was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, leaning against the side of the loveseat, belly full of her mother’s home cooking. Her tablet was in her lap, stylus flying.
The sweet spot had returned.
Lita and her superior officer were indeed hate-fucking on the Derbyshire peat desk, and even though Ruth preferred a fade-to-black style—it made securing ad revenue for her website much easier—she allowed herself to sketch out all the gory sexual details, just for the hell of it.
It wasn’t that she liked alien sex. She just liked drawing weird shit.
Everything was flowing beautifully until, for what felt like the thousandth fucking time—but was probably only the second—she heard her next-door neighbour’s front door open.
Yes; the walls were so thin, she could hear Aly Harper’s door open and shut. Amongst other things.
But Ruth could’ve shaken off that distraction—if it weren’t followed by a knock at her own door.
“For God’s sake,” she muttered, setting her tablet aside. “I should ignore her. It would serve her right.”
The empty flat maintained a judgemental silence.
Ruth had a policy, when it came to knocked doors: she didn’t answer them. She didn’t enjoy speaking to people willy-nilly. Anyone who wanted to see her could arrange it well in advance, preferably via text or email.
Plus, the girl next-door was, frankly, a bitch.
But since Aly disliked Ruth as much as Ruth disliked Aly, she supposed this must be some sort of emergency. And if someone was dying—even if that someone was a bitch—Ruth rather thought it her Christian duty to pretend to care.
With a resigned sigh, Ruth slid off her glasses and got up.
She answered the door in her oversized pyjamas and fluffy sleep socks, a blank expression on her face because it was better than a scowl. Hannah would tell her to smile, but Ruth only ever smiled by accident.
When she saw who was standing on her doorstep, she wished she’d worn the scowl after all.
Aly Harper’s annoying, familiar face was nowhere to be found. Instead, a beautiful man stood in her place.
Ruth’s mind said, Holy shit.
And that jogged her memory, helped her recognise the face. If she hadn’t been so shocked, she’d be proud of herself; recognising new faces was hard.
Then again, this one was difficult to forget.
The stranger from the car park seemed even more handsome than before. Maybe it was due to the dying sunlight that spilled into the corridor, burnishing the golden strands in his dark-blonde hair. Perhaps it was the way his shirt stretched over his broad chest, or the fact that his sleeves were rolled up to display thick, tattooed forearms.
Or maybe it was the huge, foil-covered dish in his hands that tipped him over the edge of perfection. The smell emanating from that dish made Ruth’s mouth water almost as much as the stranger’s firm biceps.
“It’s you,” he said. His voice was quiet, as if he’d spoken more to himself than to be heard. A frown furrowed his brow, but he smoothed it away almost instantly, straightening his spine. Since his posture was already excellent, this had the disturbing effect of making him look like a toy soldier.
A very attractive toy soldier whom Ruth, if given half the chance, would climb like a tree.
Oh, dear.
He offered her a genuine smile, the sort usually found on the faces of ordinary and unassuming men of strong moral fibre. She had never seen such a smile on a man gorgeous enough to take over the world. The combination was unnerving.
Sex appeal or sweetness. You can’t have both.
Apparently, this guy could.
“Where’s Aly?” she demanded. Because she had heard 1B’s door open. Perhaps this was Aly’s boyfriend.
I hope he’s not Aly’s boyfriend.
The man’s brows rose. “Who?”
“The girl next door.”
“Oh, well, actually… I live next door. I just moved in. It’s nice to meet you again, by the way.” He hefted the Pyrex dish in his arms, as if she could’ve missed it. “I made you a shepherd’s pie.”
Ruth stared. Mostly at the pie, but also at the way his long, blunt fingers