When in Rome(45)

He wags his eyebrows. “You jealous?”

And he’s flirting.

Noah is smiling, and flirting, and rumpled, and wow. I like drunk Noah a lot. Actually, I like every version of Noah and that’s a real problem.

“No.” I kneel down beside him and pick up his arm. He doesn’t resist. Just stares at me with a smile hitching the side of his mouth as I raise his palm for inspection. Just as I suspected: he’s bleeding. “I’m just wondering why these mysterious girls got you drunk but then left you to take care of yourself tonight. But I’m thankful you didn’t drive yourself home at least.”

I gingerly set down his hand and leave his side to go rummage through his kitchen drawers and cabinets. “Anna-Banana dropped me off. Oopssss. I gave away the mystery. I was with my sisters.”

I pause my rummaging mid-drawer to smile. Tension slides off my shoulders and the burning in my chest dissipates. Jealous Little Troll hops off my back and returns to his bed for the night. I won’t let myself consider why I felt such a strong reaction to Noah being with other women. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. He’s a friend, Amelia, get it through your head!

“Why didn’t she come inside?” I ask, striking out with another drawer. I go to the back of the couch and peek over the top. Noah’s eyes are shut but he’s still grinning like a drunken fool. I love it.

“I ’spect she’s trying to make sure you take care of me.”

“Me?”

He cracks open an eye. “Yeah, you. She’s scheming. She’s a schemer.”

“Why would she do that?” I shouldn’t be baiting him for answers like this while he’s out of his wits but I can’t help it. His tongue is loose and I feel like this is the only time I’ll get a straight answer out of him.

Or apparently not.

He smiles wider and raises a finger in the air. “Nice try. I’m not that drunk.”

“Hmm. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” I nudge his shoulder. “Where is your first aid kit?”

He chuckles deep and low in his chest. “Who do you think I am? A mom? I don’t have a firstaidkit.” Those words were particularly difficult for him to get out. “Box of Band-Aids is in the bathroom, though.”

I hurry to the bathroom to find a Band-Aid. I have to push aside his deodorant and toothpaste, razor, and bottle of cologne before I find the box of Band-Aids smooshed into the back of the drawer. What I really want to do is open that deodorant stick and sniff it until I pass out, but I don’t because I’m forcing myself to act like a civilized woman. Polite, polite, polite.

…One sniff of cologne won’t hurt anyone, though. I do it, and I’m immediately addicted. I spray a tiny—nearly microscopic—spritz onto my PJs. Reckless, reckless, reckless.

When I go back into the living room with a damp hand towel and a Band-Aid, Noah looks like he’s almost asleep. His smile has faded and he’s a sleepy bear. So cuddly and approachable. If he were awake, he’d snarl and bare his teeth as I approach him, but right now, he’s pliable and warm. I sit down on the floor beside the couch and lift his hand again. There’s a little stream of blood dripping down his palm, but I don’t think it looks bad enough to need stitches. I also don’t see any shards of glass, so that’s good.

It’s ironic that last night he took care of me when I was unconscious, and now I’m taking care of him. I’m not upset about the opportunity to level the field a bit.

Carefully, I pat the damp paper towel across his cut to clean him up. His hands are like big, hot bricks. He has those large man knuckles, too. Calluses line the top of his palms, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s never touched lotion a day in his life. I can’t help but stare, tracing a line with my gaze from the tips of his fingers all the way up his palm and wrist, turning my head to slide my eyes up his masculine forearm and bicep to his shoulder. There I find his startling green eyes blinking at me.

I clear my throat and whip my head back around to plaster the Band-Aid on his palm. I need to quit this futile pining. He’s. Not. Into. You. Amelia.

I work quickly with Noah’s arm draped over my shoulder, palm nearly in my lap. He doesn’t move or fight me. Which is good because I need to finish this up, clean the glass shards off the floor, and get my butt back into my bedroom before I fall in love with him.

“There ya go,” I say, giving the back of his hand a gentle pat and then sliding out from under his arm. “All doctored up. That will be a thousand dollars for my service.” I twist around to look at him, and when I do, he raises his hand and runs the back of his knuckles against my jaw. So tenderly, like he’s afraid if his big bear paw comes in contact with my skin it will bruise me. I shiver.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, without a slur but words heavy with sleep. “And you sing like an angel, too.”

“Thank you.” A soft joyous emotion bubbles from the pit of my stomach. I know he’s drunk. I know he doesn’t mean this. But I still want to catch his words in a net like butterflies. “And you’re sweet. Like powdered sugar.” His eyes drop to my mouth and I feel my stomach lurch into my throat. “So damn sweet.”

I smile and Noah hooks his finger under my chin and gently tugs me toward him. “Can I kiss you? Just one more time?”