When in Rome(44)

Wait, I hear something. It sounds like a…

AH—a truck!

I let the blinds I was freakishly peeking through snap back into place and dive away from the window. What should I do?! Where do I hide? He can’t know I was just standing in here like a psycho waiting for him to get back.

I hear the door to the truck slam shut and I yelp. He’s coming and I have the house still lit up like the Fourth of July. There’s no way he won’t know I’m waiting up. Or wait. He doesn’t have to know I’m waiting up. For all he knows I’m a night owl and this is how life works for me. Yes, I’m a celebrity with a thriving nightlife. That’s what I’m going to let him believe at least.

I race into the living room and slide in my socks across the floor, reenacting Risky Business in my oversized button-down pj shirt of his. Also, hello, Amelia, where’s your pants? YOU NEED PANTS. Years of skimpy stage costumes and magazine covers have desensitized me to modesty, and I forget other people don’t walk around half nude like I do.

Now I’m a cartoon trying to gain traction while running in place as I slip and slide my way to my room, jerk my legs into the pajama bottoms, and race back to the living room and dive onto the couch. There’s a blanket nearby so I snatch it and cocoon myself inside it similar to how Noah wrapped me earlier today. Does this look staged? Does it look like I haven’t moved since he left? That seems creepier somehow. At the last second, I decide to ditch the blanket, shut off the TV, and run into the bathroom. That’s a more normal thing to do and doesn’t scream I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU AND HAVE BEEN WAITING UP TO SEE YOU.

The second I shut the bathroom door, I hear the front door open. I sag against the door and catch my breath. I flip on the water to make it sound like I’m washing my hands—buys me an extra thirty seconds of recovery. Except it’s cut to fifteen seconds when I hear a crash in the living room.

Oh shit. Is that not Noah out there? Maybe it’s an intruder. A stalker who found out where I’m staying. What should I do? I could call out his name but then it would also alert my presence to the creep in the living room. I look around the bathroom and find a mirror. Thanks to the movie that ruined my childhood, I know what to do with this thing. (The movie was Signs in case you were wondering and it was horrifying.)

I slip the mirror under the door and angle it so I can see into the living room. It’s tougher to maneuver than it looked in the movie, but I finally get it to work. That’s when I see Noah crouched down scooping something up from the floor.

Whew.

Not going to die tonight. What a relief.

Giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror, and not choosing to wonder why I care so much what he thinks of how I look, I put the mirror back and go out into the living room.

Noah is hunched over a pile of broken glass from a lamp that he must have knocked off the end table and is scooping it up…with his hands. He hisses and his muscles bunch underneath his T-shirt when a shard of glass pricks his hand.

“Noah!” I move quickly to his side so I can tug on his arm, getting him to leave the glass alone and stand. “Drop those! What are you doing picking up glass with your bare hands?”

When I get the man standing, he immediately sways as if we’re on a ship and it was just pummeled by a massive wave. I have to wrap my arms around his torso just to keep him from stumbling backward. “I’m s’fine,” he says in a long slur, but not fighting my help.

“Noah, are you…drunk?” I ask once I have him safely standing and can release him. I won’t lie, I don’t really want to let go. This man is sturdy as an oak tree. Holding on to him like this, I can confirm that everything below this thin cotton shirt is solid muscle. Tempting, well-formed muscle. How does a baker get a body like that? Not fair.

When I step back, I look up into his grinning face. He looks almost boyish right now. I can’t help but chuckle because his hat is off and his hair is all askew and sticking up like he’s been running his hands all through it. Or I assume it’s Noah who’s been running his hands through it. But maybe it was a woman. Maybe it’s the mysterious woman he keeps meeting for lunch. Why does that inspire a jealous little troll to jump on my back and taunt me to start a war?

“Yeah. The girls can drink me under the table. Butdon’tworry, I didn’t drive mysmelf home,” he says, swaying heavily again. This time I take his arm and wrap it around my neck, steering him away from the pile of glass on the floor so I can plop him down onto the couch. He falls onto the cushions like a tree falling in the forest—on his stomach with the side of his face smashed onto the cushion, arm dangling off onto the floor.

I would take a minute to admire the way his body takes up this entire couch, but my mind is too busy obsessing over the word girls. Plural. Is Noah a playboy? How would that even be possible in a town this size? Although it’s always the small towns you have to watch out for. They are the ones you see surface in Netflix documentaries about how they had a whole underground meth lab.

“Girls, huh?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips and staring down at him like I have any right to be annoyed.

He smiles. SMILES. It’s blinding. My heart stops and then starts again, galloping right out of my chest. Good Gouda, that man has gorgeous teeth. And crinkles beside his eyes. When he smiles like that, he looks so approachable and comfy that I want to drape myself over him and just squeeze him in a giant hug. He’s huggable. The Grumpy Pie Shop owner is absolutely huggable.