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 who lived 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 on Ruth’s doorstep.

Her 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.

But then, 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 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. 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 firmly, “and you’re going to eat it. Use your microwave or something. Just eat it. When you’re done, tell me, and I’ll make you something else.”

Ruth’s brows shot up. “I really don’t need you to—”

“Are you allergic to anything? Are you vegetarian? Kosher or halal or—”

“No,” she interrupted. “But you don’t need to cook for me.”

“I do,” he said calmly, “because if you die of malnutrition just next door, I’ll be drowned in guilt for the rest of my life.”

“That’s funny.”

“I’m extremely serious. Take the pie.”

Ruth hadn’t thought that this man, with his constant smiles and sweetness, could ever look forbidding. But now he wore the expression of someone who was not to be messed with, and his tone was equally firm. A reluctant smile tilting her lips, she finally accepted the Pyrex dish.

“Thanks,” she murmured. The word was almost painful.

Then, before he could do or say anything else, she kicked the door shut.