When in Rome(14)

None of those men felt genuine. Unlike the man standing in front of me right now.

Noah clears his throat and steps back. “Tommy will be here at nine to get your car. He’ll take it to his shop and diagnose it.”

I swallow and nod, welcoming the cool air that replaces Noah’s body heat. Etiquette nudges me. “Great. And thanks again. I’m so sorry to be putting you out like this. I’d love to repay you.” Polite, polite, polite. At all costs, I am always faithfully polite.

“Don’t worry about it” is all he says before the room drops into silence again, and I feel jealous of his ability to just say things. He says only the things he wants and not a single word more.

It’s so quiet I can hear my own breathing. My thoughts knock around my head like a fly in a jar. I can’t help but wonder where he was this morning and why he came back? His note implied he wouldn’t be around today. But here he is.

As discreetly as possible, I size him up and speculate on what sort of job a man like him would have. He’s wearing a baseball hat and a T-shirt that hangs appropriately loose over his torso, but still snug enough around his shoulders and chest that it’s not sloppy or baggy. His jeans are simple yet still stylish. Well-worn and slightly whitewashed in areas that make me think they’re his favorite pair. On his feet are brown work boots. But here’s the catch, they’re not real work boots. They’re the kind that trendy guys wear to coffee shops in the city. Interesting.

“You’re squinting at me,” he states, making me blink out of my Sherlock Holmes investigation.

I feel compelled to a moment of rare honesty. “I’m trying to figure out what a man like you does for a living.”

He lifts a brow and crosses his arms. It’s a surly pose. “A man like me?”

“Yeah, you know…” I say, daring to give him a teasing smile. “All the muscles and scruff and commanding attitude.”

“And?” His tone is clipped. He doesn’t find me charming. I’m the most uncharming person in the world to him, and I think I love it.

“And what?”

He drops his arms (no more Surly Pose) and turns away to go open a cupboard and pull down a mixing bowl, leaving me lingering near the phone because I’m not sure where I should stand in his house. “What’s your guess?” he prompts gently.

I’m taken aback for a second because I didn’t think he’d play along. He doesn’t seem like the play-along type. Okay, then. Let’s do this.

“Hmm.” I give him one more thorough and blatant perusal. Damn. His body is good. Like really good. He’s got to be a little over six foot (I’d say three inches over if I had to bet), with veins extending out from under his short sleeves and wrapping down his long, lean biceps and sturdy forearms. I’d say he does something with his hands based on his upper body strength alone. And since he’s wearing a hat, maybe his job requires him to be in the sun a lot? The golden hair lightly flipping out from under his hat lends weight to my suspicion.

“A rancher?” I ask, leaving my phone friend behind to take one of the stools on the opposite side of the little island where Noah’s begun assembling ingredients for something.

“Nope.” He pulls a carton of buttermilk and a few eggs out of the fridge.

“A farmer?”

Next comes butter. “Wrong.”

“Okayyyyy. Then you own a lawn care service?”

Containers of flour, sugar, baking powder, and baking soda are the last to find their way to the counter. Noah’s eyes glance briefly at me and then away. “Should I be offended you haven’t mentioned a lawyer or doctor yet?” he says in a dry tone that somehow still conveys humor.

That tiny hint of teasing in his voice is enough incentive for me to try to win him over. He’s a little grumpy, there’s an edge to him that says careful, I might bite, but then his eyes whisper but I’ll be gentle. What a mystery he is. Then again, everything is a mystery to me lately. I feel like I’ve woken up from a cryogenic sleep, and suddenly, I’m having to relearn this new and evolved world around me.

“I don’t know many lawyers who would go to work in jeans.” I lean my elbow on the counter and rest my chin on my palm.

“That’s just because you haven’t met Larry yet.”

Yet. Why does that word make my stomach flip?

“Come on, tell me. I’m out of guesses.”

He shrugs, and after adding ingredients to a bowl without ever using a measuring tool, mixes it all together. His forearm flexes and draws my eye to the soft sprinkle of blond hair across his skin. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Noah turns around, fires up his gas stove, and melts some butter in a skillet. Not to stereotype but he moves with way more ease around the kitchen than I would expect from someone that looks as…well…male as he does. I keep quiet, enjoying this puzzle of a man more than I should. He scoops out a dollop of batter and drops it into a pan, and now I realize he’s making pancakes. Pancakes from scratch and without a recipe.

It hits me.

I gasp and point at him. “Baker! You’re a baker, aren’t you?” He earned those delicious forearms from kneading dough!

I can only see a sliver of Noah’s face as he tilts his head, but it’s enough to catch the hint of a grin. I feel that grin in the tops of my ears. In the tips of my toes. In the depths of my belly. “You guessed it, Nancy Drew. I own a pie shop.”