Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VON
The next three weeks are unlike any I’ve had in recent memory.
With no other cases on my desk besides Noah’s, I find I have more time on my hands. I can get home from the office in time for dinner—and if I ever work late, giving a helping hand to any junior partner who might need it, Noah leaves me leftovers in the fridge, covered in foil, usually with a Post-it note with a smiley face on it.
Doing something nice for him felt good. Surprisingly good. I find I want to keep doing it. I wrote down all the things he mentioned at the lake. It becomes, in my mind, like an IOU off. Whenever Noah does something nice for me, I return the favor. Noah fixes the leaky sink in my bathroom. I take him to the firm’s box at Yankee stadium. Noah completes his intuitive revamp of the kitchen. I book us tickets to a Broadway matinee.
We’ve done Korean barbecue and bought a duck in Chinatown (Noah cleans out my linen closet and donates the sheets I haven’t used in years). The Peking duck was a failed experiment, but it was kind of fun trying. He let me help out and I learned that I have zero natural talent when it comes to cooking. We ended up ordering Indian takeout instead.
He invites me to this book club he joined in the building—a gay couple, Roger and Sanath in apartment 11C. I tell him I haven’t read the book but it turns out, book club is just an excuse to drink wine and gossip about other people in the building. I bring a bottle of Everton cabernet franc, which is well received. Noah reveals that Virginia, an older woman in 9F, has been not so subtly hinting at having an affair with him when her husband goes out of town. I choke on my wine at that, but Roger laughs and Sanath says, “Oh yeah, she hit on me too when we moved in before she realized she’s barking up the wrong tree.”
Trying to out-nice Noah has made me understand that he doesn’t realize he’s being nice. It comes naturally to him. I always thought it was something he did on purpose.
And what I said to him at the lake rings truer and truer each day: he doesn’t think to take time for himself. He’s always checking in with his grandfather, or asking Caden about how the transition at Everton is going, or letting Isla bounce ideas off him about what pastries to make for her next client. So when I suggest the Yankees game, or the matinee, or golfing at Chelsea Piers, he gets this look like I’ve offered to take him to the moon. And honestly, it feels pretty great.
I find myself making excuses to touch him, whether brushing past him to get a glass in the kitchen or leaning close as we look at the case files together. I keep reminding myself he’s with Charlotte—and that’s a good thing. I’ve heard them on the phone together a couple of times. She must be a really cool girlfriend because she doesn’t seem to care that he’s basically living with another woman. Whatever these feelings are that squirm in my stomach or blossom in my chest when he laughs, or scratches at his beard, or pins me with a sardonic look, they’re nothing more than a passing phase. Errant thoughts and feelings. I repeat my list over and over again in my head: He’s my client. He’s Caden’s best friend. He’s got a girlfriend.
I feel deeply aware that our time in New York is coming to an end. September is drawing to a close, and October looms in the distance, the pretrial hearing, the move back to Magnolia Bay. As I return from the office on Friday, I try to think of what else I can do for Noah this weekend. I check the list. Ugh. Looks like the Empire State Building is the only thing left.
When the elevator doors open, I step inside to more jazz music. I think it’s Dave Brubeck this time. An idea hits me—I should take Noah to a jazz club. Maybe Smalls or the Blue Note. I bet he’d like that. And it would be nice to do something I thought of myself—something not on his list.
The familiar scent of roasting food wafts over me. This is what I’ve come to expect over these past few weeks—my apartment full of music and delicious smells. I’ll miss it when the trial is over, and things go back to normal.
But I glance around and realize something else is missing. Noah.
“Hello?” I call. I walk over to the oven and see a rack of lamb inside that makes my mouth water.
I check the terrace, but Noah isn’t there. I walk back into the living room just as the timer on the stove goes off. I hear a door open down the hall and a muttered, “Shit.” I laugh softly to myself as footsteps pad toward me. I’m about to call out and tell him that I can turn the oven off when Noah skids into the kitchen and my brain goes entirely blank.
He’s only wearing a towel.
His chest is bare, drops of water clinging to his skin and leaving faint trails over the hard swells of his pecs, some catching in the smattering of coarse hairs. My gaze slides over the dents and curves of his abs, snagging on the teasing V at his hipbone. His hair is all mussed and tousled, and his bicep bulges as he holds the towel in place .
I can’t think. I can’t move. My pulse pounds too loud in my ears. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling the kitchen. Or maybe the kitchen is shrinking around him. I don’t know. I’ve shrunk myself, cratered down to nothing but the insistent throb between my thighs. He’s so…sculpted. Like the statue of David come to life. I have a sudden desire to lick the droplet of water that clings to his left collarbone. My ribs ache and my scalp prickles.
He doesn’t see me, his eyes focused on the stove and the timer still beeping away.
“Noah,” I say, shocked my voice isn’t hoarse but strong and powerful.
Noah shrieks and drops the towel .
Oh god. I catch the briefest glimpse of a pair of strong thighs covered in dark hair, and a large, long shaft hanging between— no , I tell myself, whirling around, my cheeks on fire, my heart racing.
“Von!” Noah cries.
“Sorry!” I squeak as I hear Noah scamper from the room, then the door to his bedroom shuts.
My head spins and my legs feel numb and tingly. I can’t shake the image of all that taut muscle, that smooth wet skin, of Noah’s enormous—no, no, no, I will not think about that. I go through my trusty reasons. He’s my client. He’s my brother’s best friend. He has a girlfriend.
Okay, Von, I tell myself. Compartmentalize. Shut it down. Put that image in a box.
I take a few deep breaths and hear the bedroom door open. I scramble to look cool and collected, perching on the edge of one the armchairs and pretending to be very busy on my phone.
“Hi,” Noah says, and his voice sends a thousand shivers scuttling down my spine. I refuse to look up.
“Hi,” I say.
“Sorry about that,” he says with an embarrassed chuckle. I can imagine him, running a hand through his hair, his mouth curving shyly .
I can’t keep staring at my phone like this. If anything, it makes me look guilty.
“It’s fine,” I say. My voice sounds weird. Tight and breathy at the same time.
“Von.”
“Mm?”
“I’m wearing clothes now.” There’s the faintest trace of teasing in his voice but also something else—nerves, maybe?
I surreptitiously take a steadying breath and look up. He’s wearing his usual tee and jeans combo. His feet are bare, his hair still mussed. Every one of my nerve endings is raw and aching.
“I’m making lamb for dinner,” he says, silencing the timer and pulling the pan out of the oven. He frowns at it—I know he’s worried by the dent that forms between his eyebrows—then smiles with relief. God, when did his smile become the best part of my day? When did I learn the minutiae of his facial expressions? “It’s not overdone,” he says, looking up at me.
“Okay. Good. Great.” I finally wrench myself out of my uncomfortable perch. My heart pitter-patters wildly but I keep my expression neutral. I’m good at this—hiding my emotions. “Do you mind if I change before we eat?”
I need a minute alone.
“Sure,” Noah says as I sweep past him and up the stairs to my room. I close the door and lean my head against it, pressing my eyes closed, the impression of Noah’s bare chest imprinted on the inside of my lids. Desire tickles the back of my throat, sweet and thick like molasses. I inhale sharply. I am stronger than these feelings. They don’t mean anything. It was shock, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting a naked Noah in my kitchen.
I wonder if he’s going to tell Charlotte about it. The thought makes my stomach dip.
I kick off my shoes and change into a pair of mauve slacks and an off-the-shoulder white cashmere blouse. I’ve started wearing more casual clothes around Noah since the rowboats. I release my hair from its sleek bun and run a brush through it, the sensation sending more prickles over my neck and shoulders. I have a brief thought of the way Noah’s hands might feel, sinking into my hair, massaging my scalp, his rough palm cupping the nape of my neck.
Get it together , I tell myself. I pull my hair back into a low pony, freshen my lipstick, give myself a parting glance in the mirror, then head back downstairs.