Chapter 4
Four
The next morning, there’s a text on my phone from Olivia, apologizing for the ordeal of my arrival.
She also apologizes three different times for forgetting to let me know that Noah would also be staying at the farmhouse.
She swears she meant to tell me and simply forgot, then she promised I absolutely do not need to worry because Noah wouldn’t hurt a housecat.
There is enough humility in her tone that I’m guessing she received a pointed text from Noah, which I appreciate.
I really would have been freaked out had I shown up at the house and found Noah here without any warning.
But Olivia has given me nothing but good vibes, so I take her words at face value and accept her apology.
I have to trust that her intentions weren’t malicious, even if she was trying to play matchmaker.
And I have to believe that she never would have set this up if Noah wasn’t a good guy.
He may not want to hang out with me, but it’s nice knowing I can sleep easily, trusting he doesn’t want to harm me either.
I make fast work of showering, but I spend a few extra minutes taming my wavy brown hair into submission and putting on a little makeup.
I’ve learned how to make my brown eyes pop over the years, and for reasons that have everything to do with my new housemate, I put those skills to good use.
It’s only nine thirty when I make it downstairs, but my car is already parked in the employee lot behind the farmhouse, and there’s a fire crackling in the hearth.
Noah clearly had a busy morning.
I glance up at the sky, still laden with heavy, snow-filled clouds, and tug my oversized cardigan around my shoulders.
It’s not like it doesn’t get cold in New York. New York winters are nothing short of horrible. But something about the remoteness of my location makes the cold feel more threatening. Like there’s more danger of it sneaking its way inside the house and icing me over while I sleep.
I go in search of the kitchen, expecting a commercial space, but what I find feels more like a gourmet home kitchen than something equipped to feed a dining room full of people.
Olivia did mention catering though, so there must be a second kitchen somewhere else.
Maybe all the catering prep happens at the restaurant.
Next to the fridge on a small counter, I locate a fancy espresso machine and a regular coffee pot that’s half-full of cold coffee.
I open the fully stocked fridge, then turn and run my eyes over the rest of the kitchen. If Noah made himself breakfast, he put everything away and washed every dish he touched.
He could be a fastidious type, but it’s more likely he just hasn’t eaten yet. Or so I tell myself when I decide to make breakfast for two.
Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Or just an utter and complete idiot.
But I like people too much not to at least try to be nice to Noah.
I’m going to be here for a week. I was prepared for solitude, but since he’s here and I’m here, it would be stupid for us not to be friends.
If not friends, then at least coexisting peacefully and with some degree of kindness.
I’m decent in the kitchen overall, but I’m a pro when it comes to bacon and eggs.
And since Evie and I went on a baking spree right before I left Harvest Hollow, I have three loaves of homemade bread in my backpack.
They are surprisingly not squished after the journey, so I retrieve one and cut it into hearty, thick slices.
I’m just about to drop them into the toaster when Noah appears in the doorway.
“Hi,” I say brightly. “Are you hungry?”
He frowns, which, hello, that’s rude because this breakfast smells amazing. His eyes drift across the two plates sitting on the counter, already loaded with food. “You didn’t have to cook for me.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. But I did have to cook for me, and since you already retrieved my car from the side of the mountain, I thought breakfast might be a reasonable way to say thank you.
” When he doesn’t respond, I push my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.
“We don’t have to eat it together,” I add.
“It’s just food. Eat it wherever you want.
” I walk back to the toaster and lower in the two slices of homemade bread, then unwrap the butter I left out on the counter to soften, trying my best to seem completely unbothered by the man lurking at the edge of the kitchen.
I should be dismissive. Content to ignore him like he asked me to. But I’ve never been able to leave riddles alone, and Noah Hawthorne is definitely a riddle.
Why isn’t he in Italy with the rest of his family?
Why doesn’t he care about being alone at Christmas?
Why is his family so worried about him that they would literally buy him company? If that’s actually what they did. If it isn’t, why does he think they’re worried about him enough to do it?
“I could eat,” Noah finally says, and I glance over my shoulder to see him shrugging out of his coat.
Underneath, he’s wearing a dark brown henley on top of a white thermal undershirt.
He rolls the sleeves up, a white cuff at the edge of the brown, and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his forearm.
It’s hard not to stare as he moves to the barstool on the opposite side of the enormous island and sits down.
He’s just so…present. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so aware of his presence.
Like my body is tuned to one specific frequency, and he’s the only thing I’m picking up.
Noah lifts his gaze to meet mine, and it catches and holds, making my heart climb into my throat.
After less than twenty-four hours and an admittedly less-than-friendly welcome, I can name exactly zero reasons I should be romanticizing this man. Excepting his looks, which are notably extraordinary. But I’m not shallow enough to hang my hopes on a guy just for his looks.
So why can’t I look away?
And why do I feel like he doesn’t really want me to?
I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but something in his blue eyes shifts, then softens.
The toast pops and I startle, one hand flying to my chest as whatever was happening between Noah and me fizzles and dissipates into the air.
Noah clears his throat and I pull out the toast, buttering them one by one before adding them to our plates, then sliding his across the counter.
I don’t look up, but I can feel Noah watching me. I wonder if he can sense my nerves, if he’s noticing the way my hands are trembling.
Which, why are they trembling in the first place? What is even happening to me?
“Thank you,” Noah says as he takes the plate. He keeps focused just over my shoulder, like he’s intentionally avoiding eye contact. “It looks good.”
“Breakfast is easy,” I say. “I got good at it during my last rotation of clinicals.”
“Yeah? Why is that?” Noah pulls a couple of forks from a drawer at the end of the bar. He motions toward the barstool beside him with a tilt of his head, and I carry my plate around the island so I can sit beside him.
“I worked nights,” I say. “Or, I guess worked is a relative term since I wasn’t getting paid.
Either way, my roommates were both nursing majors as well, same year as me, but they were on day shift.
We were never home at the same time, so we started planning meals, intentional times for us to be together since our schedules were opposite.
Whenever it was my turn to cook, I’d usually been sleeping all day, and I always wanted breakfast food.
So that’s what I’d make everyone. Eggs, bacon, waffles.
I made these killer crepes once. Breakfast always felt easiest.”
Noah waits until my fork is in my hand before he takes his first bite. It’s a small thing, but I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me. My mother would be impressed by his manners.
Thinking of Mom makes my heart squeeze. This is the first time in a long time I won’t be with my parents for Christmas.
Noah takes a bite of toast while I dig into my eggs, but I keep watch out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his reaction.
His eyes widen as he chews. “Where did this come from?” he says through a mouthful of bread.
I can’t keep myself from grinning. It’s exactly the reaction I expected. “I made that too.”
He looks around the kitchen. “This morning?”
“No, I brought it with me. That’s actually why I left late yesterday. I was at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Harvest Hollow, and we started baking. I didn’t want to leave until everything was finished.”
“Suddenly I don’t regret having to rescue you quite as much,” he says before taking another bite. “It’s really good.”
I don’t know why his praise warms me so much.
I’ve been making bread with my mom for years—she always taught me it was the best kind of therapy—and I’m well aware of how good it is.
Noah thinking so shouldn’t matter. But a little bit of the tension that’s been gripping my chest since I got here yesterday loosens the slightest bit.
Mom always says good food can turn strangers into friends. Maybe it’ll work for Noah and me.
“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
He takes another bite. “You’re from Harvest Hollow?”
“Oh, no—that’s just where my brother lives. We’re from New York, originally. Which is where I was in nursing school. But my brother played for the Appies, and now he works for the team, so he still lives there.”
Noah freezes, a forkful of eggs hovering over his plate. “Your brother played hockey?”
Pride swells behind my ribs. “Yeah. Just retired a couple of years ago.” I slide my phone out of my back jeans pocket and pull up a recent picture of Alec holding Juno, her chubby toddler hands lifting up to squeeze his cheeks, then hand it over to Noah.
“That’s him and his daughter. Well, technically stepdaughter.
But she’s totally his. He’s the only dad she’s ever known. ”
I have no idea why I’m talking so much. Why I’m telling Noah such personal details of my life. Maybe it’s the nerves. Or a weird attempt to make him want to be friends with me?
I bite my lip as Noah studies the picture, then looks up, eyebrows lifted. “That’s Alec Sheridan.”
“Yeah, it is. Are you a fan?”
“A bit,” he says. “I actually met him once. Five, six years ago?”
“Really? Where?”
He frowns, then shovels in a few more bites of food. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed to have been a fan or if something else is going on, but he definitely doesn’t want to tell me about meeting my brother.
“Let me guess,” I say, trying to ease the tension. “You wore his jersey to a game and waited outside the stadium so he could sign it for you?”
Noah’s mouth quirks up to the side. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “Not quite,” he says simply.
I take a bite of my toast, which really is delicious. “You followed his team’s travel bus and accosted him in a hotel parking lot?”
Noah huffs out a laugh. “Definitely not.”
“Don’t laugh. It’s happened more than once.”
Noah gives me a sideways glance. “I don’t envy him that. I would hate being famous.”
“Do people sometimes think you are famous?” I ask, and he lifts his eyebrows, like he doesn’t quite understand my question.
“You look a lot like Flint Hawthorne,” I say. “And with the same last name…? I don’t know, just wondering how often people make the connection.”
He shrugs. “More when I’m clean-shaven.”
“Ah,” I say around another bite of toast. “Which is why you wear a beard.”
He gives me another almost smile. “You’re figuring me out.”
Hah. Not hardly. But that tiny quirk of his lips does feel like a small victory.
“Okay, so you weren’t an overzealous fan. How did you meet Alec, then? Would he remember you?”
“It was nothing,” Noah says. “A work thing. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me.” He stands from his barstool and carries his empty plate around the island to the sink. “Thank you for this,” he says. “It wasn’t necessary, but it was delicious.”
“What kind of work thing?” I ask, my curiosity officially piqued. “You haven’t always worked at the farm?”
Noah’s expression immediately shutters closed. “Only been here a few weeks,” he says as he reaches for his coat. “Thanks again for breakfast. Leave the dishes, and I’ll do them after I get back. Right now, I need to check on the goats.”
Okay, so Noah doesn’t like to talk about his work.
Halfway out the door, he pauses and looks at me over his shoulder. “We’re supposed to get more snow tomorrow.”
I wait for him to add something else, but he just stands there, letting cold air blast into the kitchen.
I fold my arms across my chest, rubbing my hands over my biceps to chase away the chill. “Why does that sound like a warning?”
His eyebrows lift playfully, his gaze sparkling as he shrugs. “Just telling you so you don’t try to drive anywhere. I wouldn’t want to have to rescue you again.”
Something flutters behind my ribcage as he finally dips through the door and shuts it behind him. That almost felt like flirting. Almost.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking?
The truth is, I would very much like for Noah to rescue me again. I would like anything that would give him a reason to spend a little more time with me.
Despite my annoyance at Olivia’s supposed matchmaking.
Despite Noah’s curmudgeonly insistence that we avoid each other.
Despite my pressing need to focus on studying for my exam and not get caught up in Christmas romance fantasies.
It’s probably time to admit, if only to myself, that I’m developing a tiny crush on Noah Hawthorne.