When in Rome(46)

My breath freezes in my lungs. I want to let him kiss me more than anything. His lips on my lips would be incredible—I know from experience. But I can’t let him, because, you know…alcohol and all that. It wouldn’t be fair to kiss a man who’s not fully present in his senses.

So instead, I tip forward and I kiss his forehead. It’s a soft little peck—there’s no reason this nonlip contact should feel like a lightning strike in the rain. But it does. The feel of my lips against his skin, the closeness of our faces and bodies—it all pulses through me. And when Noah breathes in deep and lightly hums a sound of delight in the back of his throat, I’m permanently changed.

I break contact and look at him.

“Thanks,” he says and his thumb lightly strokes my jawline. It’s an indulgent gesture. So sweet my bones ache. So warm I’ll never need a blanket again. Even drunk Noah knows how to be tender and safe.

His eyes don’t open again, but he does smile. I can’t help but sit here and stare at him as his breathing turns heavy and his hand falls away. I want to figure him out—but I’m afraid I never will. He’s gruff and curt, and also poetic and kind. He doesn’t want me in his house but he goes out of his way to make sure I’m comfortable and taken care of. He’s strong and calloused, but tender and affectionate. He’s not interested but he asks for another kiss.

I finally clean up the glass and cover Noah with a blanket, and when I’m buried under the soft patchwork quilt on my bed, I fall asleep to the smell of Noah’s cologne and the misplaced hope that one day we’ll kiss again.





Chapter 18


    Noah


Morning hits like a brick to the head.

Apparently at some point in the night I stumbled my way to my bed. It’s weird how drunk versions of ourselves can feel like totally different people. For instance, now that I’m sober, I’m able to cringe that I was so drunk I only managed to pull my shirt off over my head and out of one arm. It hangs limply off one shoulder until I rip it all the way off and throw it across the room to my laundry hamper. Just that slight movement makes me wonder if someone replaced my brain with a spike ball. Hangovers hit different after the age of thirty, which is why I never get drunk anymore. And definitely not at game night with my sisters. It was the only way I could get through it, though. They continued to pelt me with questions about Amelia and it was all I could do to stop thinking about her. Alcohol was my only shield, which actually turned out to be the knife I stabbed myself in the back with.

I groan, rolling over in bed and wiping my face with my hand. I feel a soft scratch of something across my face and squint at my palm. A Band-Aid. Annnnnnd there it is. Fuzzy memories of last night come back to me. I remember getting home and breaking a lamp when I bumped into the table. I tried to clean it up and then I cut my hand. And then…Amelia.

Oh shit. I woke her up and she took care of my bleeding cut and then I told her how pretty she was and asked to kiss her again. This is unbelievable. All the work I’ve been doing to keep her at arm’s length, and after a few too many beers, I try to pull her into my arms. I’m such an idiot. Is it cowardly to climb out the window and hide until she leaves town? Even more unfortunate, it’s my day off today. I have someone who runs the shop for me on Sundays and Mondays, but today, I need my employee to go home so I can have my hiding place back.

Also, is that…I sit up, sniffing the air, and yep, that’s definitely smoke. I’m already throwing the covers off my body and launching out of bed when the fire alarm starts blaring. I fly out of my bedroom and into the kitchen where I find Amelia in her oversized pajamas, swearing like a teenager who just learned about cuss words for the first time. She’s surrounded by a cloud of smoke at the stove and fanning it with her hand.

“AH! Noah! Help!” She’s still swatting at the smoking pan.

I push by her and pick up the pan. She’s already turned off the burner, and nothing is on fire yet, so I carry the pan over to the sink and douse it with water. It hisses and pops loudly when the cold water streams over it. I leave the faucet running while I open the front door and a few windows for ventilation. Amelia is now standing under the smoke detector, swatting at it with a dish towel like it cheated on her with her best friend. She’s hopping to reach it over and over again. Hop, swat. Hop, swat. Hop, swat. The sight is too much. Before I realize it, my hands are braced on my hips and I have to angle my face down to keep from cracking up. It doesn’t work. I feel the desire building in my stomach until laughter is rolling out of my mouth.

When the smoke clears and the alarm stops blaring, all that’s left is the sound of my voice. Amelia gasps and walks over to me. Her bare feet enter my line of sight. “You are not laughing at me right now.”

“I am.”

“Well…” she says, sounding righteously indignant. “Don’t! I’m so embarrassed!”

I raise my gaze and look right into her big beautiful blue eyes. They’re blinking and nervous—eyebrows crinkled together. I want to pull her into my arms and hug her, but I resist because that kiss request is still whispering between us. I can’t touch her again. I won’t. “What were you trying to do in here besides set my house on fire?”

Her shoulders sag adorably. “I was trying to make your pancakes.”