When in Rome(21)

Noah stands and walks over to me. Instead of giving me a repeat of this morning, he stops a few feet away. Butterflies swarm in my stomach and I’m sure that if he knew, he’d force me to drink hot sauce or something equally brutal to kill them all. Having his eyes on me reminds me that I need to be here—that the slow tingling-back-to-life sensation is essential and that Audrey Hepburn is never wrong. I need to lean into whatever this is, and Susan will have to deal without me being available 24-7 for once.

“Actually, Susan, I’ll call you Sunday night and tell you where to send a car to pick me up Monday morning. I’ll be out of pocket until then.”

“No, Rae, wa—”

I hang up.

And then I stare with wide eyes at the receiver. Did I really just do that? I feel free and powerful and INCREDIBLE…until the phone starts ringing again. I wince at the sound and look frantically over my shoulder at Noah. I have no idea why I’m looking at him. It’s not like he can do anyth—

Just like this morning, he’s behind me again. His arm reaches around my shoulder and he disconnects the landline, dropping the little curly cord to the floor. The ringing stops and I feel helpless to do anything but look up at him.

He’s not quite smiling but he’s not frowning, either, as he says, “Cavemen don’t need phones anyway.” He places a pair of pj’s into my hands.

I unfold the bundled fabric, and why am I not at all surprised to find that he’s handed me a matching, button-up, top-and-bottoms sleep set. Flannel fabric—slate blue with white vertical pinstripes. They look exactly like the sort of pj’s Gregory Peck would have worn in Roman Holiday. Sophisticated, wholesome, classic pa-ja-mas. Of course Noah would own these.

He sees me smiling at the pj’s and automatically knows why. “I have sisters,” he admits, and it’s truly a joy to witness his embarrassment. “They bought them for me as a gag gift at Christmas, because they say I’m like an old man.”

“Careful. That was a lot of words. I might think you like talking to me if you keep that up.” I smile faintly and raise the fabric to my face, running it lightly across my cheek, reveling in the softness. It’s a weird thing to do—and I don’t know why I feel comfortable enough to do it right in front of him.

He studies me closely for a moment and then looks over his shoulder, trying to keep me from seeing his smile. But I see it. “I have someone I have to meet for lunch before I go back to the shop.” Oh. Is that why he was lingering instead of going right back to work this morning? He has a lunch date? He said he was single, but I guess that doesn’t mean he’s not casually dating. And WHY does that make me clench my jaw?

He picks up his keys from the counter. “So um…there’s stuff in the fridge if you get hungry, and you know where the town is now, so there’s a bike out back if you need to go in for anything. Call 911 if there’s a fire.”

“Stop, drop, and roll,” I say with a grin.

He nods a few times. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll see ya later.”

“I guess you will.”





Chapter 9


    Noah


Beady eyes follow me everywhere I walk. Like annoying little gremlins that won’t leave me alone.

Amelia has been at my house for almost three full days now, but other than Mabel, no one has been able to confirm her existence because she hasn’t ventured out from under my roof, and I’ve kept a firm no-comment stance. I don’t know what in the hell she’s been doing there over the last two days because I’ve avoided her like I avoid Harriet at the…well, everywhere. But clearly speculation about Amelia—or Rae as they know her—has spread rapidly through the locals because my pie shop has had more foot traffic over the last two days than it’s had all month.

No one around here really listens to mainstream music, because they prefer songs with a country twang and lyrics about a man and his beloved dog driving over dusty roads. So no one’s been fanatic about seeing her or anything. No, they’re only in it for the juicy taste of gossip on their tongues. They hope to stir their coffee in Sunday school while coyly distributing details of the famous star like they’re graciously handing out hundred-dollar bills to the poor and needy.

Plus, they remember how it all went down with Merritt, and they want front-row seats to the potential sequel of my terrible love life. I’ve got news for them, they’re going to be sorely disappointed because I’m not going anywhere near Amelia.

Those are the only reasons they’re lurking around here. Everyone knows what pies I offer. They each have a favorite and I can name every town citizen’s usual order while flat-out drunk. And yet, they have all lingered and stared at the pie case like these little round pastries are a fresh invention.

“And this blackberry pie is filled with…?”

“Blackberries,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Well, I know that, but it doesn’t have any secondary berries in it?” asks Gemma, who owns the quilting shop across the way.

“Nope. Same ingredients it’s had for the last fifty years.” Gemma is around fifty years old herself, and also a town native, so she knows this as well as anyone.

She wrinkles her nose, admitting her stalling techniques have come to an end. I stare at her without a smile, willing her to just pick a damn pie and leave.