Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
NOAH
V ictoria is going to unravel me. It’s bad enough that she’s here demanding all of my attention without even trying. But the way she looks at me with those wide blue eyes, as if she can’t decide whether to punch me in the gut or kiss me until I forget my name—that’s going to be a problem.
Because I really want it to be the latter. As soon as humanly possible.
The kids are hyper-focused during orientation, giving Sophie their full attention as she explains what everyone can expect from their camp experience. I’m hyper-focused because I can’t tear my eyes away from Victoria’s delicate neck, where a smudge of grease lies just below her ear, a swipe perhaps made by her fingers as she was changing that flat tire. There’s just one empty seat between us in the auditorium, and she draws my gaze like a magnet—just like she always has. She’s wearing a clean shirt now, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that swings every time she moves her head. When she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, I spot another smudge on her cheekbone that I’m dying to reach over and wipe away with my thumb.
I hate that she didn’t call me for help. She’s perfectly capable of changing a tire, but having a bunch of kids around like this can make even the simplest task more difficult because you have to keep one eye on them all the time. It’s like having a box full of kittens that keep crawling out and scurrying off the second you look away. Plus, I know the roads around here and I wouldn’t want to change a flat on any of them. It’s all blind curves and narrow shoulders on this mountain, and I don’t like to think of her putting herself in danger.
More than that, I hate the idea that she feels uncomfortable asking me for help.
I drag my fingers through my hair, trying to set aside all those unsettling thoughts. Probably, she didn’t call me because she was embarrassed. I need her to know that she can trust me and depend on me to help her when she needs it. She’s always been independent and never liked asking for my help—whether it was to fix a busted radiator in her car or pay her electric bill when it was overdue—so I shouldn’t expect her to ask for it now.
Now she’s twirling the end of her ponytail in her fingers, and that smear of grease is taunting me. Helpless to tear my gaze away, I study the line of her neck, that elegant curve where it meets her shoulder, and then think of how it would feel to kiss her there, to drag my lips down to her collarbone as I push the collar of that shirt aside and undo the buttons with my teeth.
She coughs, and I look up to meet her eyes.
Busted.
I tap my fingers on my neck, in the approximate area where her smudge is. She lifts a brow and then catches on, rubbing her skin and frowning when she sees the grease on her hand. Her cheeks turn pink, as if she’s disappointed that the smudge is what held my gaze. She rubs her hand on her dark jeans, where the knees show some dirt, and turns her attention back to the stage.
Sophie introduces the two instructors, Dr. Cassie and Dr. Sanjay, both of whom insist the kids call them by their first names. Dr. Cassie, a petite blond woman from the University of New Mexico, was here last year and has this endless energy that we’d all love to bottle for ourselves. Dr. Sanjay is new to us—a doctoral student at the University of Virginia, he interned with NASA down in Cape Canaveral. He towers over Dr. Cassie, but his big blue-framed glasses and orange sneakers give him an approachable yet nerdy vibe that the kids will no doubt love. In between space puns, he tells them about how during his internship, he experienced zero gravity just long enough to make him puke.
The kids groan and laugh. Already, he and Dr. Cassie are their heroes.
“I think that’s the closest I’ll come to being an astronaut,” Dr. Sanjay says. “Does anyone here want to travel to space?”
Hands shoot into the air as the kids shout excitedly.
As he and Dr. Cassie take turns at the microphone, I keep my eyes fixed on them, where there’s zero chance of staring at Victoria and her lovely collarbones. I can’t for the life of me figure out how she ended up here—what are the chances that we’d ever cross paths again? And the chances of meeting her in a summer camp for kids? It seems more likely that I’d win the lottery. But here she sits, somehow even more beautiful than she was in college, turning my world upside down all over again.
On the day we met, I knew two things for certain: one, that Victoria was not like any other girl I’d met before, and two, that I had to find a way to spend more time with her.
We collided at a Halloween party freshman year. My roommates were throwing a huge bash, and our house was overflowing with people, most of whom I’d never met. Our tiny backyard was beyond capacity, so I’d escaped to the upstairs balcony because it was the only space left where I could sit still without being elbowed in the kidney.
My cousin Ray had insisted I wear a costume, but I’d refused to wear anything that wasn’t inside my closet already because I didn’t want to be at that stupid party at all. Exasperated, he’d dug through my clothes until he found a white tee shirt, jeans, and my beat-up motorcycle jacket. “Looks like you’re either Danny Zuko or Wolverine,” he said, tossing my old harness boots at me. “Take your pick.”
The choice was obvious.
Hours later, I escaped to the balcony and had been out there less than twenty minutes when a woman came bursting through the skinny French doors connecting to Ray’s bedroom. The glass panes rattled as she fumbled with the doors, which never wanted to come together just right. When they finally banged shut, she leaned against them and let out an adorable irritated grunt.
Cheers and shouts erupted below us, where someone was doing yet another keg stand.
“Hi,” I said. It seemed a greeting would make the moment less awkward since I was sitting a few feet away from her in a corner, deep in the shadow of a palmetto.
“Sweet baby cheeses,” she said, holding a hand to her chest. “You scared the daylights out of me.”
“Said the bull in the china shop. I could barely hear the music over that clatter.”
She cocked her head and pursed her lips, fixing me with a curious stare. Long blond hair fell in waves past her shoulders. Her emerald-green dress hugged her curves and flared out at the bottom like a mermaid’s tail. Atop her head sat a crown made of flowers and two small deer-like antlers. Ethereal and lovely, she was like something from a fairy tale—and entirely out of place at a raucous party like this one.
“Well, in a moment, this bull will be out of your way.” She nudged past me and peered over the iron railing, studying the line of the roof as she reached for the trellis that was overgrown with ivy and lord knows what else.
“Easy there, Rapunzel,” I said. “That thing’s historic. And likely teeming with tetanus.”
“Rapunzel brought the prince up ,” she said, slipping off her green heels. “I’m looking for a way down.”
“Don’t even think about that trellis. It’s entirely decorative and not one bit practical.”
She turned and fixed me with her stare, her plump lip caught between her teeth.
“Who are you hiding from?” I asked, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to protect her. Hopefully, whoever she was trying to outrun wasn’t twice my size, but I could easily see myself making all kinds of bad decisions for this girl.
She snorted. “You’ve been out here longer than I have. Who are you hiding from?”
“Everyone.”
Her brow lifted, her attention fully on me.
“I don’t love these parties,” I grumbled. Being packed in a house with people I didn’t know or especially like was the worst.
“Then why did you come?”
“I live here.”
She smirked. “So the unlikely hero is also the unlikely host. That tracks.” She waved her hand in front of her in a small circle, as if to emphasize my whole ensemble, from the leather jacket to the jeans and beat-up boots.
I fought back a grin, shoving a hand into the pocket of my jacket. “Does it count as a costume if it’s your normal clothes?”
“So you always dress like low-profile Wolverine? Interesting.” That devilish twinkle in her eye was quickly becoming one of my favorite things about her. The corner of her lip ticked upward as she said, “Not that it isn’t a good look for you.”
“Thank you. And wood nymph is a good look for you.”
She grinned as she sat in the empty wire-framed chair next to me. Her dress filled what little space was left between us. “I’m a party animal,” she deadpanned. “Get it?” She squirmed in the chair, no doubt trying to adjust the dress so she could breathe properly. “It was my roommate’s idea—genius, I know. Plus, I get to wear this old bridesmaid’s dress one more time, so I feel like I got my money’s worth.”
“That explains the antlers,” I said. “Very clever.”
“That hair is very clever,” she said, motioning toward my head.
“The hair is what makes the costume. Without it, I’m just a surly guy in a rad leather jacket.”
“And three-day-old beard scruff.”
“I grew it special.”
She pursed her lips again and fixed me with an ice-blue gaze that made my heart hammer in my chest. “I admire that level of commitment.”
“Some things are worth committing to one hundred percent,” I said.
“That must have taken a startling amount of aerosol.” She reached over to pat the top of my hair like it was a shy puppy, and I decided right then that I liked her more than anyone I’d met on campus.
“Egg whites,” I said.
“Clever and eco-friendly.” Her eyes held mine for a moment that could have been two seconds or an eternity.
Then she pulled a small flask from somewhere in her cleavage and unscrewed the cap. After taking a quick sip, she offered it to me like a goddess passing me ambrosia.
The whiskey danced on my tongue and burned a trail straight down my chest. When I handed the flask back to her, her fingers brushed over mine and sent an electric current zipping along my skin. She was so close that I could see a faint spray of freckles over her cheeks—real ones that were under the bits of makeup that were painted on like the soft brown and white spots on a fawn.
“I’m Noah,” I said.
“Victoria,” she said, her eyes glittering. “Nice digs.”
“This is my uncle’s house. Lucky for us, he only wants enough rent to cover the mortgage.” It was a typical row house, two stories with three tiny bedrooms, big windows, a claw-foot tub, and not a single plumb wall or level floor. Charlestonians called that character .
“Nice of him,” she said.
I nodded. “Still takes four of us to pay it, and part of the deal is that we fix it up while we live here. We spent last summer painting every square inch of this place.”
“Sounds like your uncle might be coming out on the better end of that deal.”
“Oh, we’ve totally been had,” I quipped. “I’m pretty sure it’s haunted, but at least it’s close to campus.”
“And down the street from the best bakery in town.”
“That totally makes up for the haunting.”
Her eyes sparkled when she smiled, and I felt some invisible thread drawing me closer.
Downstairs, the music shifted to something with enough bass to rattle the floorboards. It was warmer than usual, and a rare breeze kept lifting her hair in a mesmerizing way.
“You never said why you were running,” I said, holding her gaze.
She took another quick drink before shoving the flask back into the bodice of her dress. “I slapped a dude downstairs dressed like James Bond, and he didn’t take it well. Figured it was time to split.”
“I’m sure he deserved it.”
Her brow arched. “Sure did.”
A crash came from inside the bedroom, followed by a loud pop and laughter. One peek through the French doors showed me exactly what I did not want to see: Ray and a young woman fumbling their way toward his bed. Her costume consisted of a bunch of purple balloons strategically attached to her body like a cluster of grapes. And Ray, dressed as Elvis in the early years, was trying clumsily to pop them with his teeth.
“Okay,” I told my wood nymph, taking her hand. “Time to beat feet. Unless you want to spend all night on this balcony. Ray can be laser-focused when he wants to be.”
She squeaked with surprise as I pulled open the narrow doors and led her inside.
“Don’t mind us,” I hollered, striding past the bed. “Just passing through.”
Ray paid us zero attention, too focused on which balloon to pop next. His lady friend giggled and ran a hand through her dark hair, knocking her leaf-and-stem hat askew.
“Great costume!” Victoria yelled to her as we scurried through the bedroom and out into the hallway.
“This way,” I told her. “Secret stairs.”
We hurried through the hall, down the narrow back stairs of the house, and squeezed past the crowd in the kitchen to escape through the side door into the alley.
When we were finally alone, she said, “Whew. It pays to put your trust in the reluctant hero.”
“I’m no one’s hero,” I told her, which was the absolute truth.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “How do you feel about waffles?”
From that moment on, we were inseparable. Since she was a marketing major and I studied English, our classes never intersected—except for those times we took electives like “Life of the Geologic Past” because learning about dinosaurs sounded like a fun time.
Spoiler alert: it was. It also inspired us to dress like a pterodactyl and dimetrodon the following Halloween and gave us both nightmares about how a meteor large enough to cause the next great extinction was long overdue.
We saw each other every day, even if it was just to scarf greasy take-out and watch woefully bad movies so we could snort with laughter. Vic was funny, down to earth, and easy to talk to. For my introverted self, that was a big deal because I had a hard time letting people get close to me. Plus, college had just reinforced the fact that I was the guy people hung around with when their only other option was being alone. People talked to me only until someone more interesting came along. But Victoria wasn’t like those other people, and she didn’t leave. Soon, she became one of the few people I could be comfortable around, and we had fun together. She seemed to like me just as I was, quirks and all—and I was hopelessly in love with her. But I also knew that I might never have another friend like her, so I shoved those other feelings into a neat little box in the corner of my heart and swore that I’d never cross that line unless she made it clear she wanted me to. There was just too much we stood to lose, and I couldn’t bear to lose Victoria.
But then I made one stupid move and lost her anyway.
“Hey, moon unit,” Vic says, “Ready to come back to Earth and break some ice?” She’s standing next to me, bumping her knee against my thigh. The last of the kids are leaving the auditorium, and clearly I stopped paying attention sometime after Dr. Sanjay made his joke about tossing his cookies during space camp.
“Yeah,” I tell her, swallowing hard.
“You look beat,” she says. “You gonna make it?”
I try to ignore the curve of her hip that is now just inches from my face. I’d love nothing more than to pull her down onto my lap and show her how much I’ve missed her and precisely how I’d like to make that up to her, but for now, I have to settle for boring work-appropriate words instead.
“Long day,” I tell her. “It’s just catching up with me, I guess.”
She lifts a brow like she doesn’t believe that for a second, but she doesn’t press me.
“Let’s go catch up with the kiddos,” she says. “Before they decide to run this camp without us.”
I follow her out and then move quickly to her side because walking behind her allows me to admire how even her tee shirts and jeans seem to be tailor-made to emphasize her lovely curves. My brain doesn’t need any more help cataloguing the most stunning things about Victoria right now.
We catch up with the kids and head back over to one of the meeting rooms in the admin building. I’ve nearly put her out of my mind as we start in on the games and icebreakers, the usual way we get the kids to open up a little and get to know each other.
Soon Victoria and Sophie are laughing and cheering as the kids holler out guesses in a heated round of charades. When Vic does her adorable snort-laugh, it fills me with an ache that nearly buckles my knees. Why can’t I just put her out of my mind for an hour and focus on what I’m here to do?
Pretend we’re strangers , she said. Obviously, she’s not interested in being anything other than co-workers.
When we take a break and switch to the next game, Sophie plops down next to me and says, “Hey, are you okay?” Her brows are pinched together with concern, and for a moment, I’m convinced she can read all of my thoughts like a book.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Super.”
“Your creepy Patrick Bateman smile says otherwise,” she says, arching a brow. She always teases me about slapping on an American Psycho fake smile when I want to pretend something isn’t bothering me. My sister Hannah says the same thing, so it must be true.
“All good,” I say, trying for a real smile. And I am. I’m good. I can deal with being on top of a mountain with Victoria for three weeks.
Really.
“I’m around if you want to talk about it later,” Sophie says and heads back to the games.
I keep repeating my words like a mantra until free time is over and it’s lights out in the cabins. And then I stand in front of the tiny mirror in my room and tell myself again: Everything is fine. You’ve got this .
But the words still feel like a lie.
And when I smile to reassure myself, it’s another Bateman smile.
I am so screwed.