14. Noah
Chapter fourteen
Noah
T he glass in my hand sweats against my palm, the cheap whiskey inside warming my throat but doing nothing to dull my guilt.
I’ve been nursing the same drink since the party began, while I should be making rounds, greeting the townsfolk, and thanking donors personally for their support as the fire station chief.
I should be drifting around the room, mingling with both the locals and the off-duty firefighters, making introductions, and ensuring the event stays warm and community-centered.
But after getting the short welcome speech out of the way, I remained perched at the back of Harbor Hall like some washed-up shadow, away from the laughter and small-town chatter rolling through the room.
The place looks similar to every fundraiser Porthaven’s ever thrown.
Strings of bulbs overhead cast a soft golden light over polished wood and weathered beams, the scent of salt air sneaking through the open windows, mingling with barbecue smoke and the sweetness of someone’s homemade pie on the long buffet table.
Mason jars filled with wildflowers line every table, some already knocked off-center by elbows and conversations that lasted longer than they were meant to.
But I’m not really here.
Not in the way that I ought to be.
I haven’t been in the right headspace, not for five goddamn days. Not since I laid my hands on her again. Not since I let my guard down and gave in to the one thing I swore I couldn’t afford. Kate.
Her name has lived under my skin ever since. Quiet but niggling; like a splinter too deep to dig out. Every night, it’s the same. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, her voice tangled in my head, her touch still clinging to my skin.
Every day for the past five days, I woke up thinking I’d go find her. That I’ll say the words I owe her. I’ll give her the apology she deserves.
But I don’t.
Because I’m a goddamn coward.
I lift the glass again, not because I need another sip but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. The whiskey burns all the way down my throat to my stomach; the only thing tonight that’s honest.
“Hell of a crowd.”
The voice breaks through the static in my head, gruff and familiar. Frank Darden. He has the kind of voice that’s lived long enough to hold both humor and hard truths.
If it’d been anyone else, I would’ve let the silence hang, kept nursing my drink, and stared a hole through the glass. But Frank isn’t just anyone to me. He’s the retired fire chief, the man who shaped half the firefighters in this town, me most of all.
My mentor, my sounding board, the guy who’s had my back even when I didn’t deserve it. Respect doesn’t even cover it. If Frank wants to talk, I damn well listen.
I glance sideways to find him standing there, dressed sharply in his navy blazer and a crisp white shirt. His hands are tucked into his pockets, the lines of his face deeper tonight, but his eyes are sharp as ever.
“You been hiding back here long enough, son?” he says, rocking back on his heels.
I let out a slow breath, the corner of my mouth twitching with something that might pass for a smile. “Long enough.”
Frank studies me for a beat, then jerks his chin toward the crowd. “You pulled this off again, you know. The department’s lucky. The town looks good tonight, and people are supporting.”
I nod, but my neck feels stiff like it’s made of stone. “Doesn’t feel like I’ve done much worth celebrating.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just shifts his stance to look at me. When he does speak, his voice is quieter, laced with something more serious.
“You’re not just nursing that drink, Noah,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re sulking.”
I let out a humorless laugh, low and dry. “Maybe.”
He tips his head, waiting, the way he always does when he knows I’m holding something back. The silence stretches between us until the words scrape out of me, rough and low.
“I fucked up, Frank.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and it’s as if the confession takes the air with it.
Frank doesn’t seem surprised; he doesn’t even bat an eye. Just shifts his weight, leaning one shoulder against the post beside me.
“Isn’t the first time you’ve said that in your life,” he replies, casual as ever. “Won’t be the last, either. The question is: did you fuck up so bad you can’t fix it?”
I don’t answer because I don’t know. Or maybe I do. Maybe the answer’s written all over the last five days.
“I feel like I’m letting something good slip away, and I can’t do anything to help it,” I say finally, my voice rough with self loathing. “And I’m not sure I deserve something so good.”
Frank is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere out over the crowd.
“You know, back when I met my wife,” he starts, his tone dipping into that old storyteller rhythm of his.
“I thought I’d blown it before I ever stood a chance.
Young and stupid, like most men are when they first meet someone who could change everything.
I spent weeks avoiding her. Thought I was doing her a favor, keeping my mess away from her.
Turns out, I was just scared. And scared men.
.. they don’t make for good decision-makers. ”
I glance over, catching the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, I wonder how he figured out it was about a woman.
“You’re not scared of another chance, Noah. You’re scared to let her see you.”
His words burn harder than the whiskey, knocking through the walls I’ve spent years stacking.
“She deserves better than what I can ever give her,” I say, the words more for myself than him.
“Maybe,” Frank shrugs. “But better’s not always about being perfect. Sometimes it’s about being honest. Showing up, even when you feel like hell. That’s the part most men get wrong.”
I’m about to respond, to say something, anything…..when I feel the air shift around us.
It’s subtle at first. The hum of voices softens, and the clink of glass fades like the room’s taken a collective breath. My head turns without thinking, drawn by the same invisible thread that’s pulled the entire crowd.
And then I see her.
Kate.
Wait, Kate ?
What is she doing here?
She is standing in the glow of string lights, soft jazz humming through the speakers, and for a second, the whole damn room seems to go quiet.
She’s wearing this pale beige dress; it seems simple enough, but on her, it’s not that simple at all. The fabric looks light, like silk or satin, catching the low light as she moves, draping over her body in a way that makes it impossible not to look.
Thin straps rest against her shoulders, her skin kissed by the glow of the lights, and the neckline dips into this soft, subtle curve that pulls every last thought right out of my head.
The dress hugs her waist and flares gently at the hips, the hem floating above her knees, enough to stir memory and regret in equal measure.
Her hair’s down, loose, and little wild, soft waves framing her face like the night air had a hand in styling it. And when she tilts her head, scanning the crowd, the overhead lights slide along her skin like water. She isn’t trying to own the room. She just does.
I’m rooted to the damn floor, the glass sweating in my hand, my pulse kicking up as though it’s trying to tear through my chest.
Five days without her, and still, my body remembers every detail; the feel of her, the sound of her voice in the dark, the way her mouth tasted like honey when I kissed her.
I miss her. The thought hits so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of me, striking a place where logic doesn’t reach.
The breath leaves my lungs before I even realize I’ve stopped holding it. My pulse jumps, heat tightening between my legs. And I know, just from the way my body responds to her presence, that I’ve never wanted anything so badly or been so afraid of it.
Beside me, Frank follows my gaze. His chuckle is low, roughened by years of smoke and coffee.
“Ah,” he says, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “There she is.”
I glance at him, throat dry, trying to school my face into something resembling control. But Frank’s already shaking his head.
“Don’t bother, kid. You’ve got that look,” he says, grinning. “Same one I had when my wife walked into the VFW hall all those years ago. Like you’ve just seen the one thing you’d spend the rest of your life chasing, and you already know you screwed it up.”
My jaw tightens , the truth of it sharp and unmovable.
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes still locked on her. “I know.”
Frank’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder, the solid, no-bullshit pat only he can give. He doesn’t say much, but his expression speaks volumes.
“I’ll leave you to it, kid.” He sounds almost amused. “You can stand here and let the night pass you by... or you can stop being a stubborn ass and go after what you want.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into the crowd the way only Frank can, like a man who’s already lived through this exact moment and knows the ending but won’t spoil it for me.
I stay rooted to the same damn spot.
I should move. God knows I should. But I can’t.
My eyes stay locked on her, like breaking that line of sight would tear something open, I’m not sure I could patch it back together.
Kate .
She’s standing across the room with Emily and Rachel, their heads tipped together, laughter soft and easy rolling off her lips as if she hadn’t been haunting my every waking thought. Like the past five days didn’t affect her at all. Like I didn’t wreck something that night, I let her walk away.
And Christ, the way she looks tonight...
Beige. That dress- simple and soft- the color does nothing to shout for attention, but it doesn’t have to. It’s unfair, the way she can knock the wind out of me without even trying.
A sharp nudge snaps me out of it, shoulder to shoulder, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and cheap aftershave cutting through the stale air.
Liam.