Chapter Thirteen
AMIRA
I didn’t want to leave the bed. I wanted to curl myself under the blankets, blissful in the memory of whatever it was that happened between me and Noah this morning. I wanted to do it again.
Waking up in Noah’s arms was, I’ll admit, startling at first. My initial thought was that he didn’t stay on his side of the bed. I wanted to berate him for it, maybe tease him a little that he couldn’t stay away after seeing a hint of my skin. But when I shifted my body, trying to get away, I felt his cock against my ass and all was forgotten. Raw need took its place and desire clouded my better judgement.
I could never regret this morning, not when it was so fiercely empowering and good . To take control was unexpected, to say the least, but using Noah in that way felt so natural I couldn’t resist. The fact it built into one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever experienced is something else entirely. I don’t know if it’s because everything was so focused on me and my pleasure, or if it was the feeling of being in control. Or fuck if it was just because it was Noah. But I’m starting to worry I’ll never experience a release so life-altering again. And there was something about the way he looked at me after, like I was shining brighter than all the stars in the sky. He looked awestruck and bewildered, and I want to see him look like that again. Cum in his pants and all.
My body protested as finally I crawled out of bed once Noah was out of the bathroom. And again as he got dressed and left the room. Through the door, I heard him greet Ella, brew a quick coffee, and leave the apartment. All before I had dressed myself. I’m not going to pretend that didn’t sting a little.
But isn’t that to be expected? This whole thing, whatever it is, has sped past the boundaries we so loosely set out. Does one morning … together … make us a couple? Probably not. But I have no idea where it actually does leave us. Are we in some kind of fake relationship with real benefits?
Hell, if that’s on the table I definitely wouldn’t say no.
I yank the mixer from its spot under the stove with a forced sigh. Today is technically my day off from working behind the coffee cart at the boutique, but if I don’t make some new iced biscuits, we’ll run out before my shift tomorrow.
“You okay?” Ella calls from the couch. She sits with her laptop open on her legs. Her feet rest on the table in pink fluffy socks and Kitch eyes them off, ready to pounce. She’s crouched on the sunny patch of the coffee table with her bum in the air.
My brow furrows at the sight. The cat is mostly self-sufficient, at least from the less than twenty-four hours I’ve known her. Noah set up her kitty litter behind the doors of our tiny Euro laundry space, with the sliding door propped open just enough for her to squeeze through. Besides that, there’s no obvious sign a cat lives here now. No cat tree by the window or toys spread across the rug. It’s sad, and I hope Noah didn’t feel like he had to leave all her fun things behind when they came here.
Odd, too, that he said she doesn’t warm up to people when all she’s done since being here is follow either me or Ella around. Maybe she just didn’t warm up to Noah. I don’t blame her.
With the heavy appliance in its spot on the bench, I reach under the counter again to grab the disinfectant spray and a disposable wipe. It’s standard food safety, but with a cat now in the apartment, I’m extra cautious to wipe down every surface.
“Can you keep the cat over there?”
Ella leans forward to scoop Kitch into her arms. They settle back down together, and I start pulling ingredients from the pantry.
“I noticed something about you this morning,” Ella says as she walks over once the trays of biscuits are in the oven. Kitch has found a sunny spot by the window and is curled up to eye off the birds that dare perch on the handrail of the balcony. If she had a climbing frame, that’s where it would be. I make a mental note to ask Noah.
“What’s that?” I keep my eye on the measurements as I begin mixing the royal icing.
Leaning across the bench, she tickles my arm.
“I can see your elbows.”
I stop what I’m doing, ready to tell her that no, she can’t. But looking down I realise she can. Instead of my standard long-sleeved tops, this morning I pulled on a T-shirt. The floppy purple sleeves end just after my shoulder.
“Huh?” My brain struggles to compute.
I could try to convince myself it’s just because I’m home, but even with Cassidy I always covered up more than I am now. And I’d known her for years. Ultra-modest clothing was such a norm for me, I don’t even remember buying this shirt. Or the last time I wore it. Briefly, I wonder if it’s something of Cassidy’s that got mixed up in the laundry and left behind. That’s the most logical reasoning, but it still doesn’t explain why I put it on today.
It can’t have had anything to do with my conversation with Noah though, could it? Surely not.
With a shrug, I do my best to change the subject, even as Ella tries to force the conversation further.
“So how long do you plan on being in Melbourne?” I finally ask the question I should already know the answer to. It roughly translates to ‘how long will you be staying in my apartment?’ and ‘how long do I have to keep this up with Noah?’
“Your mum didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head, dividing the icing mixture into various bowls so I can colour it. Ella steps back to sit back down on the couch, twisting her body to hang over the back as she talks.
“I’m moving here. I just need to find a job and a permanent place to live.”
In the back of my mind, it registers that as family I should tell her she can stay as long as she needs. It’s what my mother would expect of me, and it’s what Ella would say if our roles were reversed. But the words are stuck deep in my windpipe, and I can’t get them out. Because I don’t want her here for ‘as long as she needs’. I’m glad she’s here, I’m enjoying her company now she’s had a full night’s sleep, but it’s not that simple.
I can’t expect Noah to stay indefinitely.
“Oh, I would hire you for the shop if we were busy enough,” I fumble out after far too long. Although business is growing, we still can’t justify any extra help. The casual barista we hired to help on weekends stretches the budget as thin as we can allow, especially with Madison going on maternity leave soon. Beyond that, we do what we need to make it work. Even if it means I’m baking on my so-called day off.
The timer on the oven dings and I turn my back to Ella to pull out the three trays of cookies. Steam hits me when I open the door, and for a moment I think I burnt them, but when it settles I can see the perfectly shaped blobs are a light tan, just as they should be. They’ll be beautiful cookies, once they’ve cooled and I’ve iced them to look like the stunning Australian natives Cassidy’s bouquets are full of. This design always sells so well, I have no plans of changing them.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t want it,” Ella says with a short laugh when I face her. “No offence, but I could not stand around and make coffee all day. I want to sit at a desk and work on a computer and not have to deal with people.”
“You know you have to deal with people no matter what job you do?”
“Fine. But it would be less people, at least.” She turns to grab her laptop from the coffee table and brings the screen to life again. “There are loads of admin and data entry jobs. I just need to apply for enough of them and I’ll get one soon enough. And then I’ll be out of your hair. I promise.”
Finally, my social graces return. “It’s okay, I’m not trying to kick you out.”
“I know, but I feel bad that I’m in yours and Noah’s space. You two are cute together, I don’t want to ruin that.” Her fingers tap at the keyboard as she applies for another job.
With the cookies cooling and the royal icing ready to go, I find myself pottering around behind the bench. Putting appliances away, loading the dishwasher, wiping the bench. Eventually, I realise I’m just finding stuff to do so I can put a bit of distance between myself and my cousin. As though the further away I am, the less likely she will see how my cheeks are burning.
‘Cute’ is not exactly the word I would use to describe Noah and me. We constantly bicker, and I always catch myself scowling. Especially when he calls me Cupcake.
Ella must sense my silent confusion because the tapping stops and she turns to face me. “You don’t think so?”
“You do?” I’m now drying the sink, mentally rolling my eyes at myself. Defeated, I throw the cloth over the hook on the cupboard and emerge from behind the bench. As comfy as the couch looks, I choose to take a seat in my favourite dining chair. The old wooden style is uncomfortable, but it was the first piece of furniture I bought when I first moved out. It was cheap, and I needed that, but I painted it a vibrant red and now I love it. I always will because it’s a reminder of my independence. I stretch my legs under the table to prop my feet on one of the other chairs; a modern style with a purple upholstered base and a black round backrest.
“Of course,” Ella chimes, leaning around the arm of the couch. Her hands pull towards her chest and she tilts her head like a schoolgirl talking about the kid she has a crush on. “He’s always looking at you with such love. It’s kind of sickening but it’s super sweet. He literally has hearts in his eyes. And every time he calls you ‘Cupcake’ I think my heart melts a little.”
I force my expression flat, fighting against the way my brow wants to furrow at her observation. I want to ask if he really is always looking at me, but that would be a dead giveaway. I want to know if the looks are all part of the act, or if Noah is more into this whole fake relationship than I thought.
It would explain all the little things I’ve been brushing aside. How he carried me up the stairs after the wedding, the way his hands linger on my body. The kiss. This morning. I never stopped to think about why Noah was so open to helping me trick my family. It didn’t make sense that he would drop his life and move out of the house I’ve never been to but know he has down the peninsula, when he has seemingly nothing to gain. But I didn’t allow myself time to dwell on it. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I was too caught up in my own problems.
Still, if he did want more, why has he never made that clear?
“He calls me Cupcake as a joke,” I admit before I get too lost in the confusing thoughts now running amok in my mind.
“What do you mean?”
“He said he needed a nickname for me and started rattling off cutesy names. I hated them all, but I hated Cupcake the most, and he could tell. So, it stuck, and now I can’t get him to stop.”
Ella shifts on the couch, shimmying her shoulders with a smirk. “I bet you love it now though. Besides, it suits you.”
“How?” Folding my arms across my chest, I lean back against the hard wooden chair, rolling my spine against the hard slats.
“Because it’s sweet, like you. A little bite-sized dessert. Plus, all the baking you do for the café.”
“I am not bite-sized.”
“You are little though.”
I ignore that, even though it’s right. I’ve always been petite, a little on the shorter side. Never enough to be the short girl, but enough that I’ve always felt it. So maybe I am a little bite-sized, but I’ll never admit it out loud. My personality makes up for my lack of height.
“Anyway,” Ella continues, “I think you secretly like the nickname. And I think Noah knows. And I’m really glad you found your person after everything, Amira. I’m sorry our family is kinda shitty about it.”
“Thank you.” I stand from the chair and head back to the kitchen. Sensing movement in the room Kitch jumps from his sunny spot to loop around my legs. “These aren’t cool enough to ice, but do you want one?” I call over my shoulder.
When Ella nods, I throw one across the room before taking a bite out of one for myself. The sugary mixture is still a little warm and melts in my mouth. I let it wash away the words I nearly said. ‘Too bad it’s all for show.’ Because I’m starting to wonder if that’s true. And I don’t know what to think about it.