gripped the edges of the dish. She wondered when Aly had left, then decided she didn’t really care.
Her mouth slightly dry, she said, “Shepherd’s pie?”
“Yeah. Just to say hi.” He flashed another of those achingly earnest smiles.
“We already met,” she said flatly, clutching the edge of the door. It was sturdy and solid, its edges hard enough against her palm to keep her wits sharp.
She hoped.
At the mention of their previous meeting, a shadow passed over his face. “I am sorry about that,” he said, and for a second, she wondered if he meant it. If he really felt bad.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. This man had been with Daniel. He was probably just like Daniel. So he might say things, live things, breathe things, but that didn’t mean he meant it.
He said, “I know we bumped into each other—”
“Precisely.”
“—but I didn’t even tell you my name.”
Ruth tried not to worry about the fact that, despite her stony expression and clipped words, he didn’t seem to be going away. He wasn’t even displaying the tell-tale signs of a man who wanted to go away. No awkward shifting, no flitting gaze, no humming: Well... as a precursor to the inevitable I’ll be going now.
He just stood there, filling the doorway with his bloody shoulders, smiling that damned smile and waiting for her response.
She remained silent. Eventually, he realised that she wasn’t going to speak. He did not seem perturbed by that fact.
“Maybe we could start again,” the stranger said. “I’m Evan Miller. Ravenswood newbie and occupant of 1B, at your service.”
Ruth’s teeth were clenched, but somehow, words leapt from her mouth anyway. “I’m Ruth Kabbah. Town Jezebel. So you should probably avoid me.” Please, please avoid me.
“Right… what’s a Jezebel?”
Sigh. “You know; a harlot. A terrible, ungodly slut and misleader of men, etcetera, etcetera.”
With a sort of cheerful calm, he said, “Oh. Well, I appreciate the warning.” There was a twinkle in his eyes that should’ve set Ruth on her guard. It was one of those conspiratorial, we’re connected, let’s-keep-this-conversation-going twinkles. The kind typically used by confident men.
Was there anything worse than a confident man?
“Anyway,” he said, holding out the dish. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie.”
Ruth, like most sensible people, adored shepherd’s pie. She said, “I already ate.”
And still, his smile did not falter. His confidence did not fade away. He did not shrink.
Ruth’s mild alarm escalated to full-scale panic. Because not only was he unaffected by her usual tactics, but something deep inside her appeared to be finding that fact… attractive.
This would not do at all.
She didn’t even realise she was closing the door until he said, “Wait.” His movements slow and gentle, he held out the dish. “It’ll keep. Put it in the fridge. Reheat at 230.”
“I don’t have an oven,” she said.
He laughed. “That’s a hell of an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse. I don’t have an oven.”
She watched as his brow furrowed again. Most men, when they frowned, appeared intimidating at best and ugly at worst. This man—Evan—managed to remain disgracefully gorgeous.
“You don’t have an oven?” he echoed. “What do you eat?”
“Food,” she said flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Wait.” His voice lost its light-hearted quality, becoming quieter, deeper. “If you’re having trouble with… well, with anything, I want you to know that I’m happy to help.” His eyes pierced hers, uncomfortably direct. “You can use my oven, if you ever need to. You could take my microwave, if that would help. I don’t use it often.”
Ruth raised her brows. “Why would I possibly need your oven? Or your microwave? I have a microwave.”
He held up a hand, balancing the dish on one palm. “I wasn’t implying anything—”
“I am not in need of an oven. I had the oven removed.”
His brows lifted slightly. “I… see?”
He did not see. Which was usually just how Ruth liked things.
So why the hell did she feel the need to explain further?
“I had an accident about a year ago, and both my sister and the landlord got all pissy about the way I use ovens. Or something. So I thought, I never cook anyway—might as well stick with a microwave, a toaster, and a kettle.”
“What the hell do you make with a microwave, a toaster and a kettle?” he asked, sounding absolutely aghast.
Why did his obvious astonishment make her want to smile?
“Supernoodles, usually,” she said, just to watch his concern grow. “And toast. Lots of ready meals—”
He thrust out the pie. “You’re going to take this,” he said