RUSH (City Lights, #3)(24)

“You’re six for seven. You may not care what kind of trouble you put Lucien through each time he has to go and find another assistant, but I do. I care about him and so it’s for him I’m going to do the best job I can.”

“Right,” he snorted. “And the salary and free rent have nothing to do with it.”

“No, you’re right. They had quite a lot to do with it. I was sort of…running on empty until this opportunity came around.” I firmed my voice. “I have a lot at stake here, so you can snipe and snarl at me all you want, but I’m not going anywhere. Fair warning.”

There was a silence and I thought I’d probably crossed the line. Or that he’d laugh at me. He could wait a week and fire me, telling Lucien that I just didn’t work out. Feeling foolish, I waited until he spoke, waited for the derision and sneering.

Instead, Noah cocked his head, his brow furrowed. “Are you always this honest?”

“Um, well, yes. I don’t intend to be rude to you, or anything…” I shuffled my feet. “I don’t get that you feel the same.”

“Honesty is better than pretending everything is rainbows and sunshine, and infinitely better than pity.”

“Is that why you’re so rude to people? To avoid pity?”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“Not with everyone.” I softened my voice. “I…I know about your accident. Lucien told me and I—”

Noah put up a hand as if to ward off my words. I could hear his voice strain for the sarcastic tone of earlier, but he just sounded weary and deeply grief-stricken. “I can’t think of one single reason why we need to discuss the accident, can you?”

I shook my head. “No, I guess not.”

“Your quarters are on the first floor,” Noah said dully. “Mine, the third. Unless you’re carrying out your duties, stay out. The second floor is yours too, if you want it. I’m hardly ever down here, but that doesn’t mean you get to bring your friends over for a party every other day. Or ever. It’s still my f*cking house.”

“Uh, okay, no problem,” I said, and then watched, shocked, as Noah carefully stood up.

Oh my god…

I knew he was tall but I didn’t expect six-foot-four, maybe even five. I was barely five-three. If we were slow dancing—with me in heels—I might come up to his chin.

Slow dancing with Noah? Where on earth did that come from? I shut my gaping mouth and watched as he walked slowly into the living room. He kept his hands to his sides, straining to appear casual, until his hip found the back of the chair he’d been sitting in earlier. He maneuvered around it and sat.

My heart ached for him a little bit then—not for his blindness, but because he was trying so hard to appear as if it didn’t exist.

“My Spidey senses are tingling,” he said. “You’re staring at me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You’re a lot taller than I had thought.”

He mustered some of his usual derision. “I’m taller than you thought, younger than you thought, and yet somehow you remain a complete mystery to me. So, let’s unravel. What do you look like?”

I froze. “Pardon?”

“Is it a difficult question? And sit down, if you don’t mind.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “I have piss-poor aim as it is. The least you could do is give me a fighting chance.”

I sank back onto the couch. Interview, round two. My pulse quickened a bit, as this conversation, I could tell, was going to be a whole lot different than the first.

“You want to know what I look like?”

“Is it an unfair request, all things considered?”

“No, I guess not.”

He recoiled at the softness in my voice. “If it’s too much for you to process all at once, I’ll break it down. Hair color?”

“Uh, brown.”

“Brown.” Noah scrubbed his face. “Jesus, and I’m the blind one. Dark? Light? What does it look like in the sun? Reddish tints or gold? Or is it just plain old drab dishwater brown?”

“It has some light blonde in it. Especially in the sun.”

“Chestnut then. Progress. Is it long? Short?”

“Shoulder-length. I wear it up though most days since it’s really thick and can get out of hand.”

“That’s fascinating. Eyes?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Blue.”

“Just blue?”

“They’re just blue if you’re going to be that rude.”

He sighed, and carved his hand through his dark hair. “I remember colors, okay? Lots of them. All combinations, shades, and tints. When you say ‘blue’ I don’t know what that means.”

“Blue with a little bit of gray.”

“Hallelujah. Skin?”

“Yes, I have skin,” I said and laughed shortly. He made a face. “It was a funny question.”

The corner of his mouth twitched but he said nothing.

“I have pale skin with a few freckles. I can tan if given the time, which I don’t have. Not to mention, New York’s not really known for its white sand beaches.”

“No. It’s not.”

His face took on a faraway expression, and I guessed he was remembering real white sand beaches he’d visited in his ‘other life.’ I made a mental note to at least try to watch what I said. But then he opened his mouth again, and any sympathy I had flew out the window.