Chapter 20 Noelle
TWENTY
NOELLE
Cloud nine? I’m on cloud ninety-nine.
Feeling desired. Complete. Satisfied. I sure hope heaven feels just like this. Waking up. Going to work and then spending the afternoon with Matt picking out a few items we missed last night.
“You bought too much cheese,” he says, staring into the cart like it’s a playbook.
“There is no such thing,” I inform him. “Cheese is the duct tape of food.” I eye the ingredients. “But I’m most excited about making a Cherry Surprise.”
He grunts, grumpy on principle, tossing another bag into the back. “I’m not eating anything with the word surprise in it.”
“Are you saying that you won’t eat my momma’s Cherry Surprise?” I ask, elbowing him in the side.
“Nope.”
Rising to my toes, I kiss his cheek. “Please.”
“Can’t eat sweets, remember?”
My lips press into a thin line, thinking about all the amazing foods he can’t eat.
I wonder if it would be easier if I had never tasted a chocolate chip cookie or a beignet or if he’s just that strong-minded that it doesn’t bother him.
It will take every ounce of my will plus some prayers not to have a brownie that’s sitting in front of me.
We get to Greyson and Sutton’s house with a dozen bags and a shared mission, ready to cook, decorate, and celebrate Witley Suzanne’s homecoming. He unlocks the door, dumps the bags while I inflate balloons until my veins almost pop out of my neck.
I hand Matt the “Welcome Home Baby” banner to tape across the mantel. “Higher. No—now it’s crooked.”
“Dictator,” he mutters, but he fixes it and then tilts his head. “Better?”
“Perfect.” I balance on the couch arm to tie a ribbon and nearly fall. Of course, Matt catches me by the waist with an annoyed sigh that is ninety percent dedication.
“Feet on solid ground,” he commands, setting me down like I’m a piece of Waterford crystal. “I don’t need you spraining an ankle two days before media day.”
“Careful,” I tell him. “The way you fuss is cute.”
He scowls on purpose. “I do not fuss.”
“You fuss.”
“I coach.”
“Same thing.” I jump onto his back because I never learn.
He groans like I weigh as much as a bull and reaches back to hook his hands under my knees without thinking, which makes something unreliable flutter in my throat.
I kiss his neck on impulse—just a brush, a thank-you—and he goes still like I unplugged him.
“Butterfly,” he says, a warning that doesn’t want to be one.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. Not here. I know.
In the kitchen, we attack meal prep like a competition show.
He chops; I stir. He seasons while I write out the food labels.
I write “Cherry Surprise” and “Cheese Mountain” and “Soup for Sleep-Deprived Humans.” He snorts at the last one and tries to swap my neat all-caps for his blocky coach scrawl, writing “Pasta” under Cheese Mountain and “Potato Soup” under Sleep-Deprived.
“Your handwriting looks like it got tackled,” I observe.
“Function over form,” he says, bumping my hip with his. We move around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times, like kitchens live in our bones.
When the casseroles cool, we slide them into the fridge and freezer, neat rows of future comfort. We stand there shoulder to shoulder, doors open, admiring our creations.
“This is a ridiculous amount of pasta,” he says.
“You know the whole team will visit and Sutton will insist on feeding them,” I say.
Greyson and Sutton are Austin’s version of a prince and princess. And the Armadillos love them.
He considers it. “Fair.”
The house is quiet, and unused labels are scattered across the counter.
I turn, leaning my hips against it. “Come here,” I say, and he does.
The kiss is easy and sweet and somehow still wrecks me.
His hand finds the small of my back; mine finds the side of his neck.
When we part, we’re both smiling like idiots.
I tape a grid to the fridge—meals with dates and notes and hearts—and step back, satisfied.
He watches me, something tight and fond pulling at his mouth. “You weaponized a spreadsheet,” he says. “On a refrigerator.”
“I’m multi-talented.”
He sobers a little. “I’m worried about you.”
The sentence lands like a stone in a pond, ripples widening. “I’m fine,” I say, too fast.
“You were sick in Oklahoma City last week,” he says, counting on his fingers like he’s reviewing game film. “You were queasy in New Orleans. Today you went gray on me. That’s a pattern. I think we should get you checked out.”
The blood roars in my ears. The box in my chest rattles its nailed lid. I step sideways into humor because it’s my safest hallway.
“Are you trying to get rid of me by dropping me off at urgent care for a day?” I deflect.
“Funny,” he says, not smiling. He reaches for my wrist, not to trap—just to anchor. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” I tug free gently and busy my hands with the marker caps, making sure the correct ones are on the markers. “We’ve got Sutton and the baby to worry about. Don’t worry about me.”
He studies me for a beat that feels longer than a beat. “Okay,” he says finally, though I hear the part where he wants to press. He takes the step I was hoping for and the step that disappoints me at the same time—he lets me have my no. “If you’re sick tomorrow…”
“Got it, Coach. I’ll review the play.” I echo, relief and guilt colliding in my ribs.
“Are you staying until they get home? I have an appointment, so I need to bounce.”
“I thought you didn’t have to work for a few weeks.”
“I have an eye appointment. Can’t coach if I can’t see.”
“Oh, you can coach. I could use a little more coaching so I can make you happy.”
Behind me, he sighs as he throws the nails, hammer, and tape into a box and clamps the lid closed. Then he says, “Noelle, the point of coaching you is to make yourself happy. So you know what you like and can tell your future…. Just quit worrying about everyone else.”
He holds up a ridiculous stuffed armadillo that Sutton bought Greyson. It wears a tiny helmet and a scowl matching his own.
Got it. He doesn’t want me snooping in his business even though he’s completely okay with making sure I find out why I’ve been nauseated.
We turn off the lights. We lock the door. We walk out into the muggy afternoon and the sound of hay being baled. His fingertips press against my back, helping me into the truck.
He seems as if he’s in another world.
I’m worried about why he’s driving if he can’t see. And my stomach turns at the thought of what might be happening inside my body.