Don't Let Go(12)

“What?” I asked, though not much of the word came out.
Noah shook his head and his expression cleared a little. “Just weird being back here, I guess. In this kitchen.” He gestured with a small hand flick. “Seeing you here.”
“I know the feeling,” I said softly, turning back to grab a mug whether he wanted one or not.
“Linny told me you were living here again,” he said. “Sorry to hear about your mom.”
My hands shook as I poured the hot black liquid and turned to set his mug on the counter.
“Thanks,” I managed to push out. “Sugar and creamer are right there,” I said with a gesture.
“Black’s fine,” he said.
I nodded and headed into the living room for my cup. Shit, Jules, breathe. I planned to come back, but he followed me. Shit. The kitchen felt more stable. We could stand up in there. Have the island between us. The living room was cozy and said please sit and stay a while. Granted, I did have to go to work—in an hour and a half. Shit.
I licked my lips again and sat back down where I was earlier. Feet curled beneath me. Two pillows on my lap for security. I felt every centimeter of my nakedness under the robe and wished for more clothing, but it was big enough for him not to know that. I just thanked God for giving me the wisdom to get ready early and not be sitting here with wet hair or raccoon eyes. And then I mentally kicked myself for caring. He didn’t. I wondered if his woman knew he was paying me a visit. Or if she even knew who I was.
Noah took his time in the room, his eyes not missing a thing. That was different. The old Noah was open and carefree. This one was wary and overtly observant, taking in the changes as well as the familiar. I saw him take note of the photos of Becca on nearly every surface. Of the abstract art on the walls, and then stop in front of one that I wished he wouldn’t.
He had matured into an amazing-looking man, I noticed, not wanting to. Everything about his body was solid and powerful, like he took root wherever he stood. He looked comfortable in his own skin, like he could rock a tux as easily as the jeans and soft leather jacket and boots he currently had on. Not that I was picturing that at all.
“These are yours,” he said without turning.
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He nodded, still staring at the canvas. “I can tell. Do you sell them?” he asked, turning his head.
I chuckled. “No. Gave some away, but I’ve never tried to sell anything.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why not? You have a gift.”
The back of my neck prickled at the old topic. “Life doesn’t always care what our gifts are. I have Mom’s store to deal with.” My store. My store.
He looked at me a few seconds longer, as if processing that, and then turned back to the painting. When he finally sank onto the sofa across from me, his gaze landed on me like it had in the diner the day before. Heavy and purposeful. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making me look away, so I lifted my chin, gripped my mug and focused on the heat searing my palm. That was good. Pain was distracting.
The only sound was that of the nearby clock on the table, and the screaming tension between us seemed to amplify it. He seemed to be weighing out his words, so before the agony of silence stretched out any further, I decided to cut to the point.
“How’ve you been, Noah?” I asked, my voice wavering on his name. It sounded so odd to say it out loud. To be talking to him after so many years. Even Ruthie and I rarely brought the subject up.
“I’m good,” he said. “It’s nice to be home.”
Home. “What drove that decision?” I asked, wondering where the words were coming from, because it certainly wasn’t me. There was nothing in me capable of thinking out coherent questions at that point.
His gaze dropped to his cup. “Just been on my mind since I retired—”
“Congratulations—on that, by the way,” I said.
He met my eyes again with a small smile that sent a tingle to my stomach. Damn it. I made a mental note not to bring about any more smiles. I didn’t need to see him that way. Think of him that way.
Harley rounded the corner of the sofa he was sitting on and hurtled her big body up there with him, to his surprise—and mine. He laughed and rubbed her neck as she rested her head on his leg. Traitor, I said in my mind, trying to shoot her mental ice daggers. She turned her face so that she couldn’t see me.
“Thanks,” he said. “And Dad’s getting old. Linny’s not gonna be able to do everything by herself when he can’t work in the diner anymore.”
“You’re gonna cook?” I asked.
He looked at me with something akin to playfulness, and I cursed myself again.
“I’m a damn good cook.”
I held my palms up in my version of playing back, but I was beginning to sweat under that robe. “Hey, you want to come back here to be a short-order cook, knock yourself out.”
He gave a small silent chuckle that didn’t really reach the rest of his face and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I—have other irons in the fire, too.”
“Oh?” I asked. “What’s that?”
He paused. “Private security.”
“Ah.” Made sense. His background was perfect for that. Secret soldiers that morph out of water are a good choice for security. But I was running out of nods and agreements and small-talk questions. It was going to come around full circle shortly, and I decided to make it now. “Why’d you come over here, Noah?”
The question barely made it out of my mouth. In fact, the last words were little more than a whisper, but he knew what I said. The intense look came back. The one that felt like lead, making the room feel lighter in comparison. Instead of answering, he picked up a framed photograph from the side table next to him. One with a smiling Becca and smaller Harley posing in the backyard.