Chapter Five Noah
Chapter Five
Noah
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
It’s the only thing going through my mind as Odette’s little white BMW bumps along the gravel road to my place.
Another perk of buying this property was the house. I needed a place and wanted something secluded yet still close to town. Fortune favored me again with finding this place.
It did not, however, favor me when I opened Odette’s car door to find her panties sitting in the front seat.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid myself of the image, but it’s impossible.
They were so small, so delicate. So fucking sexy.
No, Noah. Not sexy. This is Odette we’re talking about here. She’s not sexy. She can’t be.
I inhale deeply and exhale, peeling my eyes open slowly as my heart rate slows. I blink once, then twice, trying to get my bearings.
I’m good. I’m good. Totally good, I tell myself.
Then my traitorous eyes dart right to the purse sitting between us. Right to the material I can still see poking out.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
Fucking hell!
I snap my attention back to the road as Odette pulls up to my two-story traditional farmhouse. She doesn’t even have the chance to shut the engine off before I push open the door and stumble out of the too-small car.
I don’t bother waiting for Odette. I can’t. I need to put as much distance between us as possible.
She’s just closing her door as I pound up the steps to my house, which have certainly seen better days.
Between running the farm and the cidery, I haven’t had as much time as I’d hoped to fix this place up.
I could easily pay someone to get it up to date, but I decided when I bought it that I wouldn’t do that.
I wanted it to be something I built, not someone else. I’ll get to it one day.
The old screen door creaks as I pull it open and push inside.
Since it’s just me out here, I don’t bother locking it up much, especially not when I’m still going to be on the property.
I’ve never been more thankful for that as I barrel through the door, rush through the living room, and go straight to the kitchen.
I pull a glass from the cabinet and press it against the water dispenser on the fridge.
Once the glass is full, I chug the entire thing in three swallows before filling it again.
I don’t know why I’m so desperate for water, but I am.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
Oh, right. That’s why.
I close my eyes as I take another drink, slower this time, as Odette strolls into the kitchen. I should feel like a bad host for leaving her to fend for herself, but she’s been here before with Izzy. She knows her way around plenty.
She proves it by setting her purse on the scratched-up kitchen table that came with the house. Then she makes her way to the pantry, pulling out the bread and chips. She sets them on the counter and moves to the fridge. I step out of her way, my eyes darting to her purse again.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
On the counter she sets the fixings for sandwiches—mustard, mayo, turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese—then shoos me out of her way as she rolls up her sleeves and moves to the sink.
Given my history in the kitchen, I don’t argue.
I know my strengths and weaknesses, and doing anything in the kitchen definitely falls into the latter category.
I tried cooking for Chelsea a few times over our six-year marriage, but it always ended poorly.
I eventually gave up trying and never really got into it post-divorce either.
I survive just fine on the few things I can make, so who cares?
I go around the other side of the island and stop at the fridge to refill my water. After setting it on the small two-person dining table, I grab another from the cabinet and shake it toward Odette in a silent question.
“Do you have any lemonade?”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything, and fill her glass with lemonade before returning it to the fridge. I make sure to grab the pickles from the top shelf because I love them with my lunch.
Odette finishes our sandwiches just as I pull a bag of Doritos from the pantry, and we settle at the table together.
“Thanks,” I say, focusing solely on the delicious-looking meal before me. I can’t bring myself to look at her yet.
“No problem.” She pops a chip into her mouth, her crunching filling the otherwise quiet room.
It’s awkward between us now, and we both know exactly why.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
I close my eyes against the image that won’t leave my mind.
I don’t get why I’m reacting like this. I’ve seen plenty of women’s underwear before. It’s not my first time by a long shot.
Yet, here I am, unable to shake that damn adorable pink thong from my thoughts. Unable to stop thinking about how soft it might be. How good Odette’s ass would look in it.
My pants tighten—not for the first time—and I shuffle, trying to adjust myself inconspicuously.
Odette’s so wrapped up in her lunch that she doesn’t even notice, and thank fuck for that. The last thing I need is to be caught popping a boner.
Stop thinking about the damn underwear, Noah.
Think about something else. Literally anything else.
Your to-do list for the wedding. Your to-do list for your house.
Your to-do list to get the business where you want it so you can use the profits for the iceplex.
Count the damn scratches on the table—anything but Odette’s pink panties.
“Something wrong?”
I snap my head up to find her indigo eyes on me. “What?”
She gestures toward my untouched lunch. “You’re not eating. Did I make it wrong?”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Uh, no. Sorry, I just needed a minute to chill after all that work.”
She nods, then takes another bite of her sandwich. A bit of mayo clings to the corner of her mouth.
My fingers twitch with the urge to lean over the table and wipe it off.
I repress the urge and pick up my sandwich, shoving half of it into my mouth. It’s ridiculous, but I’ll do whatever I can to avoid making a fool of myself. Again.
What kind of grown man reacts to underwear the way I did? It wasn’t a big deal. Odette laughed it off. Why couldn’t I? Instead, I acted like a teenager and ran away from her—literally.
That’s why she’s staring at me like she is—like I’ve lost my mind.
“Guess you were hungry, huh?”
“Hmm?” I ask, sandwich back in my mouth, my bite smaller this time. Not that there’s much of the sandwich even left at this point. I’ve demolished nearly all of it in just two bites.
Maybe that’s why she’s looking at me like she is. Not because I’m visibly bothered by seeing a pair of panties, but because I’m eating this sandwich like I haven’t had any sustenance in years.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
I chew and swallow, then wipe my mouth with my napkin like I have some class and am not a total caveman. “Hungrier than I thought, apparently.”
She nods. “Me too. Who knew all that work would make me so hungry? And that’s even after two breakfasts.”
“Two?”
“I had a bagel on the drive here.” She takes a sip of her lemonade. “Kai always toasts it perfectly.”
Kai.
She means that jackass who works at the coffee shop who is always flirting with any woman who walks through the doors.
Okay, fine. So maybe not every woman. He flirts with everyone. And he’s not a jackass. He’s actually really nice.
I’m just being irrational, and I don’t know why. I’m flustered from the underwear still.
Yeah, that’s it.
I take a big swig from my water glass, then another bite of my sandwich, this one smaller. I really should have savored it more because this thing is damn good. It’s just a basic lunch, but everyone knows sandwiches are better when someone else makes them.
Just like they’re always better with pickles.
I trade my sandwich for the jar of pickles, twist off the top, and pull out a spear. I hold the jar toward Odette, who crinkles her nose.
“Ew. No, thank you.”
“You don’t like pickles?”
“Unless they are battered and fried, no.”
I shake my head, grabbing another from the jar before recapping it and setting it aside. “I knew something was wrong when Izzy brought you home.”
“Hey! Rude!” She throws a chip at me, and I catch it effortlessly, popping it into my mouth along with the pickle. It’s not the worst combination, but it’s not a good one either.
Still, I eat it anyway, enjoying the shocked look on her face entirely too much.
“That was disgusting.”
“Hush up and eat your lunch. We have more work to do, and we’re losing daylight by the minute.”
“Losing daylight? How late are you planning to work tonight, Farmer John?”
I ignore her jab. “Need to get it stripped down more. Need to see what I’m working with still.”
“But it’s already stripped pretty far down. We need to go deeper?”
Go deeper.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
I take another swig of water. She didn’t mean a damn thing by those words, but my head is still so twisted up that it doesn’t matter.
I nod. “Yep. Redoing the roof completely. Don’t want it coming down while everyone’s doing the Electric Slide, do we?”
“Okay, first of all, we will not be doing the Electric Slide at all, because ew. There will be no group dances.”
“I did group dances at my wedding.”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” she says, referring to my divorce.
I try not to laugh. There’s no love lost between me and Chelsea, and if I were allowed to have been involved in the wedding planning, I wouldn’t have had group dances either. “Fair enough.”
“Secondly,” she continues, “it didn’t look that bad to me. Are you sure we need to strip it naked?”
Strip it naked.
Naked.
I take another drink, hoping she doesn’t notice the shake of my hands. “Yep. I’m sure.”
She shrugs. “All right. Then let’s finish this up. Apparently we have work to do.”