When in Rome(65)

Spend the afternoon with Noah? I don’t know. I was trying to spend the day away from him so this thing we’ve had humming between us would hopefully die down. It’s why I’m planning to spend the day with James tomorrow, too. I thought Noah and I were on the same page—that he would want me to stay away from him given he spent the night at James’s house last night. But looking into Noah’s eyes, I go weak. I may be confused, but I couldn’t say no to him even if I tried.

But of course I have to annoy him first.

I bend slightly to rest my elbows on the counter, propping my chin on the backs of my knuckles. “Why? You miss me?”

He rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Absolutely not. Just trying to live up to the title of Mr. Hospitality.”

“You did miss me. You were just sulking around the shop because you don’t know what to do without me being all up in your life anymore.”

“Are you coming or not?”

I move around the counter to stand by him, blinking up at him like a coy Disney princess. “Was it so lonely without me?”

He starts pushing me by my lower back toward the door. Looks like I’m going with him then. “It was a hell of a lot more peaceful than it is now.”

“Just admit you missed me!” I’m giving a half-hearted attempt to put on the brakes, but he keeps pushing me right along with him, touching my back like he’s done this a thousand times. Like the warmth of his hand seeping through my shirt doesn’t send a current across my skin. Like I wouldn’t willingly go with him anywhere he wanted.

“Annie, I’m taking this spoiled pop star off your hands for the rest of the day.”

“Annabell! Make him admit he missed me!” I say, over my shoulder. My quick glance shows me a smiling Annie and smirking Mabel before Noah closes the door behind us.

“Quiet, you,” says Noah, pausing to look down at me when we make it out to the curb. I’m bubbling with laughter that I can’t contain even if I wanted to. It’s the kind of happy laughter that slows you down, makes you want to anchor your hands on your thighs just so you don’t fall to the ground.

Noah’s eyes drop to my mouth. They linger there for a full in and out breath, before his lashes rise back up to my eyes. “I missed you.”

My laughter stops.

My heart skips.

My lips part.

But before I can respond, he adds, “But you’re still a pain in my ass.”

How does he manage to say that in a way that makes me feel like I’m back in that fantasy bubble bath?



* * *



—

When I was younger, there was an oak tree in my front yard. It was enormous. In the summer, my favorite thing to do was sit at its base, lean my back against it, and listen to music. Sometimes I’d take my guitar out and play, writing songs and soaking in every last drop of sunshine. Nothing bad could touch me under that oak tree with the sun brushing my skin. No place in this world has ever been able to recapture that feeling of absolute soul-cuddling peace.

Until now.

My arm is hanging out the window of Noah’s truck, and my old friend Sunshine is rekindling our past love and kissing my exposed skin. The wind is twirling my hair all around my face, and at my side is Noah—hand draped casually over the steering wheel. A soft grin on his perfect chiseled face. And when I say perfect, I don’t mean classically perfect. Noah isn’t a pretty boy by any means. His face is tan and scruffy. Freckles down the bridge of his nose from too much sun and not enough sunscreen. He has a random little scar above his eyebrow and another above his lip. I imagine he got them in a fight as a boy. Someone called his best friend a mean name and he stepped in. But the unique concoction of rugged scars and long thick eyelashes framing bright green eyes—it should be illegal. Right up there with crystal meth.

Except for the wind, we’ve been driving in silence, me quickly sneaking peeks of Noah over my shoulder when I’m sure he’s not looking. Normally I like the quiet between us. But right now, I feel fidgety—which seems like it would be at war with the peace I’ve been feeling, but it’s not. They go hand in hand. It’s the very feeling of calm and serenity that lets me know something is unmistakably different. Noah has struck a chord inside me and it’s quivering. I need to bounce my knee. Gather my hair up in a ponytail. Check my phone, see that it still has zero bars of service, and turn it off again.

Noah notices, but his only reaction is a slight raise of his eyebrow. He knows that if I want to talk about it, I will. He’s not a man who needs constant reassuring—what I used to think was grumpy is really just him being earnest.

And that’s exactly why I’m dying in here with my body alone with his body. And my body wants to make him pull over so I can climb onto his body. Did I not just remind myself last night to stop pursuing my attraction to Noah? To not explore why I hang on his every intentionally spoken word. I decided to stay away from him. Far, far away. Put up a damn fortress between us. But now here I am, eyes tracing the lines of his face like a map I’m memorizing.

We need some music to fill this silence.

Reaching forward, I push the dial on his radio. It’s static—making me wonder if he even listens to music—so I turn it to the nearest station. It’s country. An old George Strait song fills the air and rides the breeze perfectly. I’m not really a fan of country music, but I have to admit that something about it pairs perfectly with golden sunshine and a warm day. I shut my eyes and let my head sink back against the headrest, enjoying the moment of stillness.