When August Ends(6)

Did you hear that? It was a record screeching.

I admit, that was ballsy, but being around him brought out my flirtatious side. Maybe his cologne and cigar smoke were going to my head.

“You’re joking, right?”

Okay. I shouldn’t have asked.

“Actually, I—”

“I’m practically old enough to be your father.”

Really? That’s how he saw me? I knew he was older than me…but he didn’t seem that old. No way. I’d pegged him as early thirties, though I truly had no idea how old he was.

I shook my head. “No, you’re not. That’s a lie. An older brother, maybe. How old are you?”

Instead of answering, he took two steps forward. “Let me make something clear.”

“Okay…”

“I was not insinuating anything by offering to help. And I will not be asking you out, propositioning you, or going anywhere near you, for that matter. We clear on that?”

Okay, then.

I swallowed. Disappointment washed over me as I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

“Good.” He made his way toward the door, turning around one last time. “You’d better go. It was nice chatting. Get me the list tomorrow.”

He disappeared into the house, leaving me on the porch to wallow in his lingering smell and feeling like a complete and utter idiot.

***

Back in my room that night, I replayed his words.

“I will not be asking you out, propositioning you, or going anywhere near you, for that matter. We clear on that?”

God.

His firm stance only made me more drawn to him. It’s funny how that works.

He treated me as if I were twelve. At twenty, I’m old enough to date anyone I want. I don’t care if they’re forty or eighty. A hundred years ago, the average lifespan of a woman was something like fifty. I’d be almost halfway done with life by now. Once you hit eighteen, age is just a number.

But apparently, that wasn’t how Noah felt. Or maybe he was just using the age thing as an excuse. But here’s the real issue: I was kidding around! (Sort of.) And he had to go and make it into a serious thing, make it known there was no way in hell anything would be happening between us. What was it about rejection that made me want him even more?

My need to know more about him was pretty intense. I opened my laptop and typed into Google: Noah Cavallari photographer Pennsylvania.

His website popped right up. It was the very first search result.

Noah Cavallari Photography. Yup. That had to be him.

I clicked on it. With a sleek black background, the main page of the site featured a slideshow of breathtaking images. From photos taken on African safaris to a presidential inauguration, Noah’s career had run the gamut. According to his bio, he was born outside of Philadelphia and began taking photos at a young age. After majoring in photojournalism in college, he’d spent most of his twenties working in construction for his father while taking photos on the side. He’d eventually been able to turn photography into a flourishing, full-time business.

His career had taken him all over the world, but in more recent years, he’d opened a studio and focused on private event photography and headshots. There were no photos of him on the site aside from the bio picture, where his face was covered by a gigantic camera lens. It showed just enough, though, to confirm that this was the Noah Cavallari living in my boathouse.

Well, color me intrigued. He seemed to have a fabulous career—seemed to have it all.

So that begged the question: Why is he here?

I began to theorize.

Oh my God. Is he dying?

No. He seems too healthy, too virile.

Running from the law?

Nope. I did that background check. Came out clean.

Why would he want to come here for three whole months? I didn’t get it.

A week or two, maybe. But why so long?

What are you escaping from, Noah Cavallari?

I was determined to find out.





CHAPTER THREE




* * *



HEATHER




Two days later, a text came in from an unknown number.



At Home Depot. What color exterior paint for the boathouse?



Based on the question, I knew exactly who it was. I’d forgotten Noah had my number. But I gave my number to all tenants in my welcome email in case they needed anything.

The day after our talk at the lake, he’d reminded me to make him the list and prioritize what needed to be done. Since the exterior of the boathouse was in shambles with the paint flaking off, I’d listed that job as the top priority. I still couldn’t believe he wanted to help. He certainly wasn’t wasting any time getting started.



Heather: How about a gray?



The little dots danced as he typed.



Noah: There are several shades of gray.



I decided to be a wiseass.



Heather: Fifty? ;-)



Noah: Very funny.



Heather: Thank you.



Noah then sent a photo of a paint card with five gray options.



Noah: Do you like any of these?



Heather: So you’re familiar with that book?