Chapter Seven Noah #2
“Leave your brother alone, Izzy,” I faintly hear my mother say as she resumes her spot at the table.
But I’m not paying them any attention. I’m looking at Odette, who is staring at me with the same amount of remorse she had in her gaze earlier.
I ignore it, sliding the glasses back into place.
Remarkably, we finish dinner without another incident, and as always, the kids clear the table while our parents chill on the patio.
“You got this, right?” Izzy says once we’re inside the kitchen. “Come on, Odette.”
“Wait, what?” Izzy pulls her toward the living room. “Where are we going? We have dishes to do.”
“We do not. Noah’s doing dishes tonight.”
“He is?” She looks at me. “You are?”
I nod. “Yep. That was our deal. I got to borrow the sunglasses if I took over dish duty.”
Her mouth drops open, taking in the mess before us. “Are you sure?”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
She looks like she wants to stay and argue, but Izzy is dragging her from the kitchen before she can.
“Come on. Let’s go talk wedding details,” my sister says, having no problem leaving me behind to clean this mess up.
I sigh, then get to work, listening to them giggle in the other room. Guess Odette’s shaken off whatever nerves she had earlier.
I push up the sleeves of my old hoodie and fill the sink with soapy water to wash the things that can’t go in the dishwasher. After setting out the drying pad, I toss the dishes into the sink and start scrubbing.
My mind wanders to all the things I still need to do and all the time that is passing way too fast.
I need to finish tearing out the old wood in the barn and replace the roof, build a new chicken coop so Tootsie can finally stay put, and get that pasture mowed in the back so it doesn’t look like we half-assed things.
And, of course, run the bar. Ezra’s been holding down the fort for the last few days while I recover, but I can’t expect him to do it alone.
We might have a robust staff, but we’re partners for a reason.
We live and breathe that cidery, and not a day goes by that at least one of us isn’t there.
Thank fuck I got the tractor moved to the side of the barn already, knocking at least something off my to-do list. Ezra told me last night that kids were already playing on it and wanting pictures all day yesterday. I guess Odette was right about keeping it.
That’s not all she was right about either.
As much as I don’t want to use the cidery as a wedding venue, she may be onto something. Word is already spreading around town. Three people stopped me on my way to my parents’ to ask about it. That tells me this thing will be much bigger than I anticipated.
“Want some help?”
The wooden spatula slips right out of my hand into the water, splashing it up onto my hoodie.
Odette smiles slyly, knowing full well that was her fault, then shrugs and settles beside me. She grabs a towel from the top drawer and begins drying the dishes already on the pad.
“What happened to Izzy?” I ask after several quiet moments.
“She went home to be with Craig. I swear she’s lovesick over him.” She rolls her eyes, and I agree with her sentiments. “I’m sorry again about the glasses. I didn’t realize Izzy made the deal that you’d have to wash all these dishes by yourself. That’s . . . that’s . . .”
“Little sister behavior at its finest?”
Odette laughs. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. I kind of like washing dishes. I know it’s not really good for the environment and whatnot—wasting all that water—but I find it soothing.”
She tips her head at me. “That is . . . not something I expected from you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re a big tough hockey player. I didn’t think you’d find something so gentle, so soothing.”
“Would you believe it if I also said I like to crochet?”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. “No way.”
I laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. I don’t even know what crocheting really is.”
“Fair enough. I’m not sure I could tell you the difference between knitting and crocheting, but my nonna could. She makes me a scarf every year for Christmas. They’re always hideous, but I wear them anyway.”
I know exactly the scarves she’s referring to, and they are ugly.
Still, I like that she wears them for her grandmother. It’s like what I used to do for my mother, who would buy me the most atrocious-looking tie every December. It didn’t matter, though. I would still wear it to the game, even knowing I’d be photographed, because it made her smile.
“So,” she says, wiping the towel inside my mom’s favorite wooden bowl, “are you going to avoid me forever, or do I get to come back to the farm to help with the barn?”
I lift a brow. “You want to come back after what happened last time?”
She shrugs. “Sure, I do. It wasn’t me who ran into the door.”
“No, it was just your fault that I did.”
She huffs like I’m the one who is wrong. “I don’t want to get into it again. Can’t we just say that we’re both at fault and call it good so I can come back?”
I want to tell her no. I want to push the issue and tell her I don’t need her. To piss her off so badly, she doesn’t want to come back, because I can’t afford the distraction.
But that’s not what I say at all.
“You can come back.”
“Really?!” She claps, far too excited about the idea of manual labor.
“Yes, but—and this is a big but—if you get in my way or injure me again, even accidentally, then you’re out. We’re on a tight schedule. I can’t afford to lose any more days.”
“I still think it wasn’t my fault at all”—her lips twitch because of course she’s arguing—“but all right. That sounds fair.” She holds her hand out between us. “Shake on it?”
I pluck my hand from the water, sliding it against hers, not bothering to dry it.
We shake once, then twice, and I try not to pay attention to how soft her touch is beneath mine.
She’s the first to pull away, flexing her hand at her side, like she can still feel my touch and is trying to shake it away.
Or maybe it’s just the water still clinging to my hands, and I’m overthinking things.
You’re the one with the problem, Noah. Not Odette.
“FYI, I won’t be in tomorrow, boss,” she says.
What the . . .
“But you just said you wanted to come help.”
“I know, but tomorrow’s Sunday.” She shrugs like that explains everything and doesn’t elaborate any further.
I don’t bother asking questions either.
We work together silently to finish the rest of the dishes and clean up the kitchen, and I can’t help but notice the space Odette keeps putting between us, like she’s afraid to get close to me. I both hate it and love it.
Love it because I really shouldn’t want to be so close to her. There’s no reason to be.
But I hate it because, well . . . I do want to be close to her.
I try to push it out of my head while I put the last of the dishes away, then give the counters a good wipe down. It’s overkill, but my parents have taken care of me my whole life. This is the least I can do to repay them.
By the time we’re done, it’s pushing eight, and I’m beat.
Apparently, so is Odette. She lets out a big yawn, which only makes me yawn.
“Knock it off,” I tell her.
“Sorry,” she says through a second one. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Beans thought it would be a good idea to dig her paws into my stomach at three in the morning. Then again at four. She’s lucky she’s cute.”
“I hear you. Tootsie starts waking me up every morning around five to get her feed. She is not so cute. Just lucky I don’t put chicken on the menu at the cidery.”
“Noah! Stop threatening to eat your pets!”
“She’s not a pet.”
“She has a name. She’s a pet.”
I don’t continue arguing with her, because it’s no use.
I hitch my thumb toward the back door. “I’m telling the parents bye, then heading out. You staying?”
“No. I have to get up early tomorrow for breakfast, so I’ll go with you. Just let me grab my”—she swallows thickly—“purse.”
I almost forgot about her underwear. Almost completely let the whole incident from the other day slip from my mind.
But now . . . now it’s back, right in the forefront.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
Fuck. When am I going to stop thinking about that? When am I going to move on? It’s been days at this point. There’s no reason for me to still be hung up on them. To be hung up on her.
Odette comes back into the kitchen, purse tucked tightly under her arm, avoiding all eye contact with me.
Guess I’m not the only one still thinking about it.
“Let me guess,” my mother says, pushing to her feet as we walk out onto the patio, “you’re heading out?”
“Sorry, Mom. I have an early morning. The farm doesn’t take care of itself.”
“My baby boy, the farmer.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Never thought I’d see it.”
“Me either.” I wrap my arms around her, giving her a quick hug, then kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you next weekend.”
“Boy, you’d better see me before that.”
I chuckle at the warning in her tone. “Yes, ma’am.”
I move on to Elaine, then my dad.
“Let me know if you want me to take a look at that nose,” he says in my ear. “Be our little secret.”
I nod. “Thanks, Pops.”
“See you tomorrow, kiddo!” Elaine calls to Odette as we’re walking out to our cars.
She sends her mother a wave as I push open the gate for her. She gives me an extra-wide berth, making sure not to brush against me.
Really? That’s how it’s going to be now?
Annoyed, I make sure to walk extra close to her between the houses, and she notices and steps to the side.
I follow.
She moves.
I chase.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks after the third time.
“What am I doing? You’re the one being weird.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.”
“Are not!” She groans. “Ugh, you’re making me sound like a child.”
“Then stop acting like one. You keep moving away from me every chance you get.”
“Because you’re . . . you’re . . . you’re being a butthead!”
I roll my lips together. “A butthead?”
“Yes!”
She huffs, then speeds up, which only makes me laugh. I have at least seven inches on her. Catching up to her is a breeze.
She rolls her eyes when I do. “You’re so annoying.”
“So annoying, yet you still want to come work with me on the barn.”
“I don’t want to. I have to. Someone needs to supervise you.”
I know she’s just being stubborn, and she doesn’t mean in the same way Chelsea used to think I needed supervision because I couldn’t complete things to her liking, but it still sucks to hear.
“And you’ve volunteered for the job.”
“What can I say? I like giving my time to charity.” She shrugs. “I’m a Good Samaritan like that.”
“Sure you are.” I open the door to her BMW, which earns me another eye roll. “What? I’m being a Good Samaritan.”
“Are we done here?” she asks, lips thinned into a straight line.
“We’re done here.”
“Thank god,” she mutters, sliding into the driver’s seat.
She grabs the door, trying to pull it closed, but I stop her.
She huffs. “What is it now, Noah?”
“I just . . . I wanted to tell you something.”
Except I don’t have anything to share. Not really.
Truthfully, I’m delaying our good night because I don’t want to say good night.
I’m tired as hell and need to sleep before my early morning tomorrow, but I also want to banter with Odette more.
I want to push her buttons. I want to see what makes her tick.
Get her to sigh and roll her eyes and admit the reason she’s acting weird is because she wanted me to kiss her.
But she won’t do that. I know she won’t.
“Well?” she prompts when I don’t say anything. “Spit it out. I don’t have all night, you know. I have things to do and weddings to plan. You to get away from.”
I decide to go with the first part—pushing her buttons.
“Nice panties, Odie.”
One. Two. Three.
That’s how many seconds it takes for her cheeks to turn a deep red. For her eyes to widen. For her entire body to freeze as she stares up at me in complete shock.
“See you Monday,” I say simply, like I didn’t just knock her entire world off its axis.
I toss her a wink, close her car door, and head to my truck.
By the time I’m backing out of my driveway, Odette still hasn’t moved.
I can’t help but be satisfied that it’s all because of me. It’s her turn to stew.
I’m done thinking about Odette Chambers . . . and her pink panties.