18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Now
B eads of sweat gather on my cold glass of water. I catch one with the tip of my finger and bring it to my mouth. “You know, you could just lift the glass to drink the water?” He says with a small smile. I stare at the man sitting across from me and question my mental stability. I actually agreed to have lunch with Noah, for no other reason than temporary insanity.
“Oh, wow! Thanks.” I don’t break eye contact as I lift the glass to my mouth and take a sip of the ice-cold water.
“There you go, Robins. Good job.” He winks at me and returns his attention to the giant burger and fries piled onto his plate.
I look at my salad but quickly turn away. My stomach is all topsy-turvy. I have so many questions running through my mind. Why am I here? What made me think that coming to lunch with him was a good idea? Suddenly, snapshots of the snorkeling trip flip through my mind. Noah's strong body floating in the water, the playful way he splashed my face, his big, bright smile as he laughed with Evelyn while helping her off the boat.
“Where did you go, Robins?” I look up from my plate and see Noah staring at me intently with his rich, brown eyes.
“What?”
“Where did you go? You were just looking at your food, and then you started smiling at it. Like this.” He opens his eyes wide and stares at his food with a giant grin on his face.
“No, I wasn’t. I did not look like that!” I throw my napkin at him, trying not to laugh.
“You went somewhere in your thoughts, I can tell.” He dips his fries in some ketchup. “So, where’d you go?”
“No. Nowhere. I was just thinking about this salad. It’s really delicious.” I load up my fork and shove it in my mouth. I try to smile through my awkward chewing.
“There’s no salad on Earth that is good enough to smile the way you were smiling. Come on, Robins. Spill.”
Why does he care what I’m thinking about? Why does he care why I’m smiling? For all he knows, I was picturing having sex with a seven-foot tall basketball player. Or brownies. Or puppies. But, I wasn’t….I was smiling because I was picturing him .
My face flushes. Shit . I have to change the subject, or this could get worse. “Question for you, Noah.” He brings the burger down from his mouth, his brows knitted together. “Do you like doing dishes or doing laundry more?”
He chokes on his food as a laugh tries to escape. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Dishes or laundry?”
“Oh, I heard you, I just don’t understand what this has to do with you having a love affair with your salad.”
I laugh despite myself. “Just answer the damn question.”
“Dishes. I would do dishes all day, every day if it meant I never had to do another load of laundry again in my life.”
“Woah, there, buddy. You feel deeply about this topic then?” I say, this time taking a smaller bite.
“I do. I despise laundry.”
His tone is so matter-of-fact, that I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at his surprising intensity. “Okay, wow. I didn’t know I was opening up such a can of worms.”
He brings his glass to his mouth, and I watch as he takes a sip. I stare intently as the column of his throat moves up and down as he swallows. I look back down at my plate, trying to distract myself. Stabbing a piece of lettuce with my fork, I point it at him. “However, you’re completely wrong.”
He sets his glass back down on the table slowly. “Oh, don’t go there with me, Robins. You will not win. I have years of real-world experience, plenty of case studies, and I’m sure I could line up some expert witnesses who would be willing to back me up on this.”
I’m completely aware of the fact that this is a silly topic. One that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things at all, but nevertheless, the thrill of debating with him has me in a chokehold.
“You could arrange all that, sure. But that won’t help you win. Laundry is far superior to dishes in every way.” I straighten up, ready to plead my case. “I acknowledge that both must be completed in order for a household to function properly, but if we’re looking at what chore is quantifiably worse to achieve, dishes win that argument every time. For example, when you do dishes, you have to touch the cold, soggy food bits that are on each dish.” I gaze at him, a disgusted look on my face. “That’s just gross. Also, I’m sure that there are actual case studies about how bending over and doing dishes for too long can give you neck and back problems. Furthermore, no one likes pruney fingers or that stupid wet line you get on the bottom of your shirt. Laundry is easy. It’s calming and smells nice. Don’t even get me started on the beauty of folding it and organizing it away into nice little predetermined spots.” I pretend to swoon.
He looks up at me over the rim of his glass. “Get a dishwasher, Robins.”
I purse my lips, trying to come up with a rebuttal, but all I can think about is the way the sheen of sweat is glistening off his Adam’s apple. I follow the muscles down his throat and see the tick of his heartbeat in that soft spot above his collarbone.
“Jane?”
I come back to the present. “True, a dishwasher would help eliminate all these things, but…I stand by my earlier argument. Dishes suck, laundry is better.”
He smiles and shakes his head in dismay. “Agree to disagree then?” He holds his hand out in a truce.
“Deal.” I reach across the table, and we give a simple shake. The way his strong hand engulfs mine is suddenly all I can think about. It makes me feel protected and safe. It makes me feel small, but not inferior.
I quickly remove my hand from his and pick up my fork, hoping to get rid of the electric current surging through me right now. “Have we ever just ‘agreed to disagree’ before?”
“Nope. I think we just made history with that one.” I see him drum his fingers on the table, like he’s trying to expel something too.
“I’m surprised, I mean we’re both attorneys, and we just ended a debate in a calm and pleasant manner. That never happens,” I scoff. “How long have you been an attorney anyway?” I ask, taking a bite of my salad.
“For quite a few years now. I was at a smaller firm up until about eight months ago when I was hired at Schwartz I can even see Noah and not give into his stupid charms.
I will take my book, some headphones, and will thoroughly enjoy my time, even if he’s sitting right next to me. It’s not like we have to interact.
I finish my mini tequila and load my bag with all the things I want at the beach. I’m just about to walk out the door when I stop in my tracks because my heart does this weird little flip.
I turn around, drop my things, and go straight to my suitcase. It’s just waiting for me with an open lid, beckoning me to rummage through it. Ah, found it. I slip into my old, red bikini. You know, just in case.