Chapter Three Goldie
Chapter Three
Goldie
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I almost laugh to myself over the unpredictability of tonight. But instead, I shift my head to the side, resting it on the broadness of Noah’s shoulder as I tighten my arms around his waist and watch the world whip by.
I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle, let alone had a spontaneous first date like this, but I swear there’s just something about this night that screams Do it for the plot.
Although, I did manage to keep some of my marbles and introduced Noah to Evie before we left. That way, if I go missing, she can give an accurate sketch to the police. Especially since I’m positive she paid attention when they met.
“So, you’re the aisle nine hottie. Nice.”
My eyes grow wide as I glare at her. She doesn’t care, mouthing “He’s hot” as she stands like a cartoon villain, stroking Uncle Fester’s head.
“Noah,” he offers coolly.
“Evie,” she replies just as the light bulb flickers from Fester’s mouth.
“And it was aisle twelve . . .” Noah shoots back playfully, but then he furrows his brow. “Don’t do me dirty, Wednesday. Should I be worried? Does she do this often?”
“Yes, she does. Tons,” Evie dramatizes. “A real convenience store black widow, that one. Be careful, you might not wake up in the morning. Before you, there was an elderly couple she tried to scare to death.”
I gently tug his arm, desperate to end my embarrassment, but he stays in place and looks down at me with a shrug and a wink.
“Eh, I’ll take my chances.”
I sigh and finally interrupt.
“Okay, bye. That’s all you get. We’re leaving now.”
Evie kisses my cheek before Noah pats Fester’s head and chuckles again. “Really great work” is all he gets out before I drag him away.
The feel of Noah’s hand covering mine pulls me from the fresh memory, making me smile again for the thousandth time. He’s been doing that the whole ride—all ten minutes of it—checking in to make sure I’m okay.
And as much as it’s reassuring and thoughtful, it also makes me feel like the blush on my cheeks may stay crimson even after we stop the ride.
The moment we made it out of the party, it was like we were both infused and bubbling with flirtatious, excited energy.
We tripped over our words as we tried to figure out what to do and where to go, then orbited each other, so close we even almost stumbled as he tried to pull out his spare helmet for me to wear.
It was cute. He was cute. He is cute.
Jesus, I just met this guy a few hours ago, and all I want to do is hang out with him all night. Which is so weird and extremely unlike me. I’m not a risk taker—that’s my sister, which means nothing, considering I’m adopted, so it’s not like the trait skipped a generation.
If anything, I guess maybe a little bit of her bravery’s been nurtured into me because the moment he started walking away in that store, I felt compelled to .
. . I don’t know . . . I guess I just totally get those nineties movies like Before Sunrise, where two strangers meet and connect in some kind of bizarre chemical way and have to hang out.
He feels like someone I shouldn’t miss out on.
So now, I’m on the back of his bike, rolling into somewhere unknown with goofy enthusiasm plastered on my face, secretly wishing I could explore his abs by accident and definitely on purpose without getting caught because holding on to him, forced to take in his delicious cologne, is the sweetest torture.
The man smells like cedarwood and vanilla, mixed with sleepy, lustful thoughts and a dash of unregretted bad decisions. I’ll take it in bulk, please and thank you.
Noah slows to a stop at a light, so I begrudgingly separate my body from his, leaving my hands politely on his waist, just over his jacket. Because while my thoughts may be in the gutter, that doesn’t mean I have to act like it.
His shiny black helmet turns in profile.
“Scary or fun?” he calls out.
“Fun,” I say back, a little breathless.
His gloved hand lands over mine. “Wanna go fast? There’s no sign of life down this road.”
My heart ticks up a notch, but I nod quickly.
He reaches back, taking my other hand, and slides them both back under his jacket across his stomach to secure me in place. My chest presses to his back.
Thank god my sister had a hoodie in her car because I’m pretty sure he’d know just how much I liked what he was doing if he could see all the goose bumps up my arms right now.
“Hold on tight, killer,” he yells.
I do, wrapped heavenly around his sturdy frame as he takes off. The squeal that bursts from my chest is drowned out by the growling engine and suffocated by his back because I immediately hide my face. I can feel him laughing as the revving grows even louder.
The wind licks my cheeks, even as they stay hidden, making me mold to him even harder as my thighs tense. Oh my god, this is wild and recklessly fast. Holy shit.
Because I can’t not, I peek, seeing the trees reduced to a blur.
Whoa. The feeling is exhilarating, making my breath stutter before I gasp. Because the moment Noah slows down, my stomach does a little flip. I laugh, not even realizing how excited I am until I feel my chest heaving against his taut muscles.
“That was incredible,” I blurt out, loosening my grip on him as my head falls back, and I shout to the sky, “You’re crazy!”
He just squeezes my hands, securing them to his stomach and keeping them warm as I look over his shoulder, seeing twinkling lights ahead from the little square that makes up the center of one of my favorite neighborhoods in Boston, Beacon Hill.
“Is this where we’re going?” I say, but he doesn’t hear me.
Sometimes my sister and I just walk around admiring all the brownstones and history.
It always feels like a scene from St. Elmo’s Fire, like I should be wearing a cream crew neck sweater as fall leaves drift down around my feet, decorating the sidewalks in burnt orange.
Beacon Hill is November, the number twenty-four, and all things cinnamon. I love it.
Currently, however, there’s a large barricade prohibiting entry onto the street we’re riding toward, which makes sense because people are everywhere, walking every which way with kids dressed as superheroes and witches, laughing and enjoying the night.
This neighborhood is infamous for stuff like this.
“Are you trying to get to the park over by . . . or the bars off Cambridge?”
He doesn’t answer again.
Although we’re going slow, Noah doesn’t seem to be looking for parking.
Which is weird because the park is a far walk from here, and so are the bars.
Plus, we should’ve gone down . . . All the independent thoughts I’m having start to finally hang out and get acquainted as the realization hits me, accompanied by him pulling into a driveway.
Hold up. Did he bring me back to his house?
When he told me to trust him because he knew the perfect place, I thought we were going somewhere people go before they get down to business. Oh, this ruins him.
This is why I don’t do stuff like this. No way am I going inside. Inside is where the bed is. And there’s no way I’m sleeping with this dude. I barely know him. Why are guys like this—gross. Tonight just went from magical to murked.
See, this is why I need to go back to boycotting dating—because the men in this city are only for the streets. Sluttiest of sluts, all of them.
As soon as the bike shuts off, I let go of his overused abs and hike my leg over his sexy bait bike.
“Hey, so—” is all I get out because he speaks at the same time.
“I hope you don’t mind. My buddy Chase said I could use his driveway.
This is his house.” He hitches his finger over his shoulder before taking off his helmet and looking at me shyly.
“He’s barhopping, maybe, probably . . . Either way, I thought we could walk around the neighborhood.
I don’t know, it’s pretty cool here, and the decorations are top tier.
And that’s from someone who hates Halloween.
Plus, most of the neighbors give out spiked and nonspiked cider, since I’m thinking you don’t drink.
And the Alcott house, the Little Women writer, is around here somewhere .
. .” He bites his lip with a small headshake, suddenly looking unsure as I stare back in awe.
“Now that I’m saying it out loud, I guess it’s not really date material, but I just figured there’d be tons of people around because girls have that ‘stranger danger’ thing to worry about.
Although you did jump on the back of my bike pretty easily.
” I raise my brows, but he just smiles. “Anyway, we’d be able to hear each other, unlike a bar or something .
. . I mean, we can do something else if you hate it—”
He’s perfect. Literally perfect. I take it all back, which only further proves that there must be something horrifically wrong with him.
I narrow my eyes, now even more smitten and humbled.
“Are you a serial killer?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I know someone who knew a guy.”
A burst of unladylike laughter explodes outward, immediately snuffed out because I bite my bottom lip.
Noah walks around the bike, setting his own helmet on his seat before he brings both his hands to my borrowed one.
“So, what do you think . . . You wanna loiter with me?”
He unbuttons the strap and gives it a tug, freeing me, before bringing his hand back to brush the hoodie off my head. I must look a mess, but I don’t care because I have a crush.
A butterfly-inducing kind of crush that might make me write his name with little hearts in my journal as if I’m not thirty years old. Honestly, if I had a shirtless picture of him in poster size, I might be convinced to put it on my wall.
I giggle to myself over my silly girl thoughts before I sigh and answer him.
“I have conditions.”
He takes a step back, and my feet want to follow.
“Name ’em.”
How is he so cool with just two words?
“You have to promise to steal me the first bag of Skittles you see.”