Chapter Twelve
About three miles outside of Kanton, Noah turns onto a snow-packed gravel road. The county road crews have done an admirable job clearing a path, but Noah is careful to take it slow.
He points at a large Cape Cod style house. “That’s where I live. There’s a set of stairs just inside the garage that lead up to my apartment, so I can come and go as I please without bothering anyone.”
Is he taking me to his—?
“Noah, I don’t think we—” My words cut off when he doesn’t turn into the driveway.
“What’s wrong?”
“Never mind. Sorry. I thought you were going to take me to your apartment.”
“Uh, no.” He shakes his head. “That would be a really bad idea. Besides, this is much better. And we’re almost there.” Noah makes a slow, sharp right into what looks like a field entrance, but wide tire tracks and piles of snow to either side show it’s been recently plowed.
“There’s a stocked pond just down this lane.
It’s frozen now, of course, but since Mac likes to go ice fishing, he keeps the path cleared.
There aren’t any lights around, and the trees are still small, but the dock—that’s what I helped build—is a great place to stargaze.
” The car hits a bump. “Sorry. It’s not really a road. ”
“I’m a farm girl.” I grin. “I can take it.”
“A farm girl?” Noah laughs. “You are so not a farm girl. You live in Parre Hills, the only gated community within a ninety-mile radius.”
“Okay, but it’s kind of in the country, and my mom has a big garden, so it’s almost the same thing.”
“I’m not sure the thousand-acre, combine-driving FFA members would agree, but . . . whatever you say, Farm Girl.” Noah chuckles and shifts the car into park. He pushes the overhead light on. “I’m glad you wore boots. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
I turn sideways in my seat, press my feet against the door, and pull the door handle. The door wrenches open, almost hitting Noah as he comes around to my side of the car.
“Oh! Sorry!” I step onto the pathway’s well-packed snow.
“You’re stealing my chivalry.”
I grasp his offered hand. “I can stage a do-over if it makes you feel better.” Placing the back of my hand across my forehead, I adopt a breathy southern accent. “Oh, de-ah me, Mista Spensa. I do believe I feel a bit of a swoon comin’ on.”
I tip to the right and let myself fall. Noah will catch me.
He does. But then, with a grin, he lets go.
I gasp, drop a few more inches, and . . .
“Gotcha.” Noah catches me again, this time in a ballroom-style dip.
His face is less than two inches away from mine, the position of our bodies straight out of the moment in an old movie when the hero is about to kiss the girl.
Please, please, let him kiss the girl!
The warmth of Noah’s cinnamon-scented breath draws nearer, and then . . . he pulls me upright, clears his throat, and takes hold of my hand. “Let’s go down to the pond.”
I nod, but insecurity trills through my shallow breaths. “Okay.”
It’s good, what we have. I need to accept that our version of the friendzone is all Noah wants from me. It should be enough.
I want more.
But if he doesn’t . . . I can accept that.
Eventually.
A thin top layer of snow has melted into ice. Our boots crunch through it. Above, the secretive stars whisper in winks of glitter over the white-covered ground. My breath fogs the air. My nose and cheeks are already cold, but warmth pulses through my gloved fingers, laced with his.
“Careful, now.”
Noah leads me a few steps out onto the wide dock. A darker path—sand, I think—is sprinkled on the snow-covered dock, providing a less-slippery surface. A little further down, a bench awaits, closer to the edge.
“Our friendship has grown a lot over the past few weeks, don’t you think?” In the clear night air, Noah’s voice seems shockingly loud, even though he’s speaking quietly.
I nod. “Mm-hmm.”
“And tonight I . . . Well, I . . .” Noah places his hand on the small of my back and says, “Would you like to sit down?” He leads me to the bench.
I bend to sit, but when he says, “Wait.” I straighten my legs.
Noah moves directly in front of me. “At practice tonight, I . . .” He turns his gaze up toward the stars, down to the snow, back toward the car—everywhere but at me. “What I mean is . . . the kiss. On stage.”
My gut clenches. Here it comes. This is when he makes sure I understand we’re only ever going to be friends and that our stage kiss was just acting. “What about it?”
“I can do better.”
I blink. What?
“I thought the scene went pretty well by the end of practice,” I say, feeling my forehead bunch in a frown beneath my stocking hat. “You looked surprised, every time. But . . . you’re supposed to. Did you think Liesl came on too strong?”
“No, it’s not that.” Noah shakes his head. “You were perfect. Liesl’s supposed to come on strong. The scene was great. Really. But . . . I just don’t want you to think that’s how I would kiss you, if I kissed you. Me, I mean. Not Rolf.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“That’s not how I wanted our first kiss to go.
I mean, on stage, with an audience . . .
critiqued by a director?” He massages his temples with gloved fingers.
“I knew it was coming, but I didn’t think he’d actually make us kiss at rehearsal tonight.
I wanted our first kiss to be . . . special.
And . . . I wanted to be the one to initiate it. I’m sorry.”
Our first kiss. I cannot contain my smile. This is not some “Let’s keep it in the friendzone” speech.
It is exactly the opposite.
My heart soars, but when I note the insecurity in his expression, it turns over and melts like warm caramel.
“Noah.” I place my mitten-encased hands on either side of his face and angle my gaze upward, meeting his eyes. “Liesl kissed Rolf, and Rolf responded exactly as he should have. But I’ve never kissed you. And you’ve never kissed me.”
A smile quirks Noah’s lips and chases the nervousness from his eyes. “So that’s the way you want to play it, huh?”
“That’s the way it is.”
Noah covers my hands and curls his fingers around mine, pulling them down until my hands are wrapped within his, between us.
“I know we’ve only known each other a couple of months, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
What’s going on between you and me is bigger than friendship.
This sounds incredibly cheesy, and I don’t mean for it to be coming out that way, but .
. . I think about you all the time. I really like you, Faith.
I like you as . . . as more than a friend. I want us to be more than friends.”
My throat is tight. Pressure builds behind my eyes, causing them to burn and fill. A whisper is all I can manage. “Me, too.”
Noah lets go of my hands. His left hand rests at my waist. His right lifts, caresses the side of my face, and then trails softly to my chin. “Madeleine Faith Prescott,” he says, using his thumb and forefinger to tilt my face upward, “may I kiss you?”
My eyes are already closed when I take a tiny step forward. “Yes.”
Noah’s left hand moves from the side of my waist to the small of my back, soon joined by his right. My hands circle his lower back, and . . .
Our lips touch. Our only audience, the stars.
His nose nestles next to mine. My eyelashes touch his cheeks. Soft and undemanding, our first true kiss is sweet and full of promise. It’s romantic. So romantic. Perfection.
Ever so gently, he pulls away.
Noah rests his forehead against mine. The fog of our breaths mingles. I tilt my face and meet his lips again.
He pulls me closer—this kiss surer, deeper, and no less perfect than our first.
We are starlight on snow. The reflection of something already beautiful—absorbed, reflected, and remade into something . . . more.
And this kiss . . .
This kiss is everything I’ve needed to say . . . and longed to hear.
My mouth recognizes his smile just before his lips move to my forehead, leaving a soft kiss there, as well.
“My Madeleine Faith,” he whispers. Touching my lips with his once more, he lifts his head and pulls me close until my head rests at the hollow of his shoulder, tucked in as if it was specifically engineered to fill that space.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispers.
“I feel like I could stand here and kiss you for hours, but I don’t want us to become one of those couples whose relationship turns into a series of make-out sessions.
This thing, this connection between us .
. . the friendship aspect of our relationship alone is too valuable to let anything ruin it. ”
“I know.” Comfort melts through my veins. A peaceful sweetness fills me with a sense of being desired . . . but also, strangely, protected from desire.
“The community theatre performance is less than a month away. Before you know it, we’ll be all done with Rolf and Liesl and back to being Noah and Faith full time. We’ll have time to go out on a real date. I’ll come to your house, pick you up, take you out to dinner, a movie, maybe—”
“And you’ll have to meet my parents.”
“Of course.”
“And suffer through them giving you the third degree.”
“As they should.”
“Oh, sure. You say that now. But that’s only because you haven’t met them yet.”
Noah is a great, moral, upstanding sort of guy. But my parents are snobs. Do they even have the ability to see beyond their prejudice toward “artsy” people, to see that Noah is a good, solid guy? That his determination to follow his theatre dreams is admirable?
And there’s his age to consider, of course . . .
“It’ll be fine.” Noah presses a kiss to my hair. “You’ll see.”
I hope he’s right. Maybe he is. After all, he’s a smart, talented, determined, and kind person. How could they not like him?
I swallow around a bitter thought that leaves the taste of premonition behind. Because they are who they are, and I am who I am. That reason alone is enough for them to justify disliking Noah Spencer.
A shiver runs across my shoulders.
“You’re getting cold. Come on, it shouldn’t take old Eliza too long to warm back up.”
And courteous. He’s so courteous. Surely, they’ll see that.
If they’ll just give him a chance.