CHAPTER 9. Noah #2
And as soon as I say it, I realize it’s true.
Rick’s engagement announcement hurt. Hearing him and Cassidy have sex this morning was awful. Having him act like we’re just friends who can move on like nothing ever happened made me sad and angry in a way I didn’t know what to do with.
But the pain feels different now. Duller. Further away.
Mostly, I’m angry. Angry that I let him take up so much space in my head for so long. Angry that part of me still expected him to be careful with me, even after everything.
It doesn’t feel like the raw, open wound it was a few days ago.
And I have a terrible suspicion that has a lot to do with Connor lying here beside me.
“I think I’m getting over him,” I say quietly, almost to myself.
Then I force a small smile, the admission feeling a little too revealing while I’m in bed with Connor. “Because, you know, I do have some pride,” I add quickly. “I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me.”
Okay. Very smooth.
“That’s right,” Connor says, and his eyes soften. “You deserve better than that.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t say it like some polite thing meant to make me feel better. He says it like he means it. Like he’s angry on my behalf. Like the idea of anyone treating me like I’m disposable genuinely bothers him.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it—what it would be like if this were real.
If Connor actually felt something for me beyond neighborly obligation.
If he were gay, or bi. If he wasn’t just doing this because he’s a nice guy who couldn’t say no to a sad drunk neighbor knocking on his door at 2 a.m. If we could keep kissing the way we had today, keep stealing quiet moments like this one long after the weekend ended.
But even letting myself think it feels dangerous. Like reaching for something I know will burn.
I clear my throat.
“So,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice that I absolutely don’t feel. “We have the whole day tomorrow. You’re already doing me this massive favor—you should actually get something out of it too. What do you want to do?”
Connor shifts against the pillows. “It’s your dad’s birthday weekend,” he says. “We should probably spend the day with him. With your family.”
“My parents won’t mind,” I say. “We already gave them yesterday and today, and they’ll have Brad and Maria to keep them company.” I pause, then add, voice low, “And honestly? I could really use a break from Rick. This morning was already too much—and the hot tub didn’t exactly help.”
Connor nods, quiet for a moment, turning it over. “Alright. How about breakfast with everyone, and then we slip away? Grab some snacks, a bottle of wine, find somewhere quiet for a picnic.”
It’s so perfect—exactly what I need—that I’m smiling before I can stop myself.
“That sounds really good,” I say softly. “I’d like that.”
His answering smile is warm, easy. And it still manages to send a shiver straight down my spine.
“It’s a plan, then.”
I should get up. Start getting ready for dinner. Do literally anything other than lie here staring at him.
But I don’t move.
Finally, Connor sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. “We should probably get ready,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “Your mom said she’ll kill us if we’re late.”
“Good call.” I force myself upright. “She absolutely would.”
Connor stands and flicks on the light, and that’s when I notice he’s still in just his boxers. Apparently, this has already become a habit. I watch the muscles shift across his back and feel an embarrassing pull low in my belly.
I tell myself to stop.
“Oh, by the way,” he says, crossing to his bag in the corner. “I didn’t know what to get your dad, but I brought this.”
He pulls out a bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.
“Midleton Very Rare,” he says. “It’s a good Irish whiskey.”
I stare at the bottle—the elegant packaging, the whiskey that looks like liquid gold. “Connor, you really didn’t have to. That looks insanely expensive.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t actually buy it,” he says, almost sheepish. “My sister brought it back from Dublin last time she visited. It’s my favorite.” He pauses. “I just didn’t know what else to get him. I don’t know anything about your father, and there’s not much you can give a man like him.”
He leaves it there, and I understand exactly what he means. Someone as wealthy as my dad isn’t easy to shop for. I nod.
“It’s still really thoughtful,” I say, getting up from the bed. “I just got him a T-shirt. I’d show you, but it’s already wrapped. It says Dad Jokes Are How EYE Roll.” I point to my eye. “Eye. Like an actual eye. Get it?”
Connor laughs. “That’s a terrible dad joke.”
“Yes,” I say. “That was the point. Anyway—thank you. For the whiskey. Really.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, setting the bottle on the dresser.
But something warm rises in my chest, too much all at once. The urge to kiss him is so strong it feels almost physical, and I have to actually hold myself back as the reality of our situation crashes in.
This isn’t real.
We’re pretending.
A couple of staged kisses and one accidental erection don’t change that.
We get ready in silence, taking turns in the bathroom. I pull on dark jeans and a deep green button-down Mom always says brings out my eyes.
When Connor disappears into the bathroom and emerges a few minutes later, I nearly choke on my tongue.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and a well-fitted gray suit jacket that sits perfectly across his broad shoulders. Simple, but devastating.
I stare. I can’t help it. He looks incredible—like he has no business standing in a cottage bedroom looking like that.
Connor catches me staring and shifts uncomfortably, his hand going to the lapel. “Is it too much?” he asks, already moving to take it off. “I can just wear the shirt—”
“No,” I say, too quickly. “Absolutely not. Keep it on. You look—” I swallow, searching for a word that won’t give me away completely. “Really hot,” is what comes out.
Connor’s eyebrows shoot up.
“It’ll piss Rick off,” I add quickly, like that was the reason all along. “Seeing you dressed up like that.”
It’s a weak save, and we both know it, but Connor lets his hand fall from the lapel and nods slowly. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I say, and look away before I say something worse.
The truth is, I barely care about Rick’s reaction anymore. What I care about is the way my heart kicks up when Connor looks at me, the way my skin still tingles where he’s touched me, the way I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss in the hot tub.
About how he kissed me back.
About the fact that when my hand slipped up his thigh in the water, he was hard.
That’s what I can’t stop thinking about.
But I can’t say any of that. Not ever.
“Ready?” Connor asks, picking up the whiskey bottle.
I grab the badly wrapped package from my bag and smooth down my shirt. “Ready.”
***
I shoot a glance at Connor as we walk up the path, his hand resting on the small of my back. It’s a casual boyfriend gesture, purely for show. But my skin burns beneath my shirt where his palm rests, and I have to stop myself from leaning into it like some touch-starved idiot.
God, I’m pathetic. Barely two days of fake dating, and I’m already in so deep I can barely remember what it felt like not to want his hands on me.
“We’re early,” Connor says, checking his watch. “Almost half an hour.”
“Mom will be happy either way,” I say, trying not to stare at how good he looks in that jacket. “Though she’ll probably put us to work setting the table.”
Connor smiles, and I have to look away. That smile does things to my insides that I’m not equipped to handle right now—especially when we’re about to spend the whole evening pretending to be in love in front of my family. My stupid heart can’t seem to remember this is all fake.
We step inside without knocking and find Mom in the dining room, hovering over two women in black dresses as they arrange the silverware. The table is pure Caroline Caldwell: crisp white tablecloth, gleaming china, crystal glasses catching the light from the chandelier.
“Noah! Connor!” She beams when she spots us. “Come in, come in!”
Connor’s hand slips from my back as we step fully into the room, and I miss the warmth of it immediately, which is ridiculous. It’s not like I could’ve developed some kind of Pavlovian response to his touch in two days.
Except maybe I have.
“Noah, honey, you look so handsome,” Mom says, pausing her fussing to look at me. Then her eyes slide to Connor and widen. “And Connor—you look stunning.”
I smile and pray I don’t combust.
My mother has always been generous with compliments, but hearing her call Connor stunning while he’s standing right next to me in a jacket that makes his shoulders look like they were carved by a Renaissance sculptor nearly does me in.
Not that she’s wrong. She’s absolutely not wrong.
But could she be any more obvious about how thrilled she is that I’ve finally brought someone home?
“Thanks, Caroline,” Connor says, and I swear there’s a real blush on his cheeks.
That’s when Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, still fiddling with his cuffs, and Connor straightens beside me—that subtle shift in posture I’ve noticed on him before, like a reflex kicking in right before he makes an impression on someone.
It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.
“Looking sharp, Dad,” I say.
He waves me off with a grin. A second later, he’s already crossing toward Connor. “Connor! Very elegant.”
“Thank you, Daniel,” Connor says, then takes the whiskey bottle from where he’s been holding it behind his back.
“Happy birthday,” he says, holding it out. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, but you can’t go wrong with a good Irish whiskey.”
Dad takes the bottle, and I watch his face change. A slight widening of his eyes, that particular stillness he gets when something genuinely surprises him. He reads the label twice.