Chapter 13 Tiptoe Through Trouble
The rest of lunch passes with plenty of conversation and soon Cheryl and Tom have disappeared for more wine, leaving Noah and I alone to soak in the view. Double checking that our hosts are out of earshot, I round on him.
“I can’t believe you threw me under the bus like that with ‘I’m not a regular mom,’ Cheryl.”
Noah chuckles and leans his elbows against the balcony, his wine glass balancing precariously between his fingertips. “I think it would be good for you. You should be pampered while you’re here.”
I scoff. Noah’s push for this frankly bullshit narrative runs acidic in my veins and the urge to assert my value pulls my reproach forward before I have a chance to remember with whom I am speaking.
“I’m here to close a business deal. As are you.”
His eyebrows shoot up and I turn back towards the view, letting my sentiment stand bitter between us.
“Of course we are.”
The quiet affirmation and his use of “we” curls with something I can’t place and I hold my empty glass tighter as he continues.
“I didn’t mean to imply you’d be doing anything less than that by joining her. My gut says she makes more of the decisions than even Tom realizes, and by strengthening that tie, you’ll be making a world of difference in securing this contract.”
His explanation, and the way it matches my own conclusions, tempers my irritation. Even in the passing conversation with Cheryl, it is clear her blessing is needed for a future of working together. And, after faking a relationship, shopping and manicures isn’t the most outrageous use of my time.
Irritated at our tandem thinking and what it means for me, I nod once.
“What, may I ask, are the two of you going to be doing while I’m being preened like a god damn pretty bird?”
“Tom has an early tee time for us. We’re planning on playing a round or two before meeting you two for dinner at the club.” His voice is light, like he already knows how I’m going to respond.
“Of course you are,” I say, rolling my eyes and hoping the sarcasm helps ease the sting of my accusation.
“And I’m going to be stuck making excuses for why I can’t buy Cheryl’s overpriced suggestions.
God forbid I be honest and tell her I’d rather choke on my own vomit than spend more than $100 for a dress. ”
While my savings for buying Nan’s Place is robust, my other accounts are on the small side of pitiful.
It’s not bothered me much until being thrown into these professional circles, and while I could potentially dip into savings to keep up appearances, I have no interest in buying outfits I’ll never wear again. Noah shrugs.
“Well, that’s an easy enough fix. I have a card you can take.”
“I don’t need your pity money, Graves. I’m a tough girl. I can stand up for myself.”
“True, but it’s for a business dinner so I can write it off. Think of it as a clothing stipend. Spend whatever you need to, whatever you feel comfortable spending, and I’ll make it happen.”
I snap my fingers. “So that’s how the rich stay rich. You don’t actually pay for anything yourselves.”
He waggles his brows and brings a finger to his lips. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
Cheryl’s voice cuts in as she and Tom come bearing more bottles of wine. “Look at the two of them, Tom. Aren’t they sweet?”
“Here we go,” I whisper to Noah as I turn with a broad smile. “We started to think we scared you off.”
Tom laughs and stabs the top of one of the bottles with his corkscrew. “You’d have to try harder than that to get rid of us, Miss Charlotte.”
“I think we’re both glad to hear that, Mr. Barker.”
“Please, you’re drinking my wine and sleeping in my guest house. Call me Tom.”
Cheryl reaches for my glass, taking the newly opened bottle from her husband. “You’re going to adore this one, Charlotte. It’s a favorite of mine. I made Tom order a whole case after we tasted it on our trip to Tuscany last summer.”
“Can’t wait to hear about it,” I say, shooting Noah a discrete look and touching his arm lightly as I pass.
Three hours later, we’re spread across the patio furniture listening to Tom and Cheryl regale us with stories of their travels as well as endless anecdotes of their life together.
Noah and I are, ironically, on a loveseat, his arm propped up behind me.
At first it was odd having him so close but either the California sun is getting to me, or the four bottles of wine we’ve split has subdued me into a state of ease.
Most likely the latter. Even the thought of shopping with Cheryl tomorrow has a rosé tinted hue and sounds less like torture than it did before.
“We have a timeshare in Mexico so you just let us know if you want to use it and we can set a week aside for the two of you,” Tom says, with a wink.
Noah chuckles nervously and takes a sip of the pinkish wine Cheryl practically forced on him. His discomfort with Tom’s insinuation reminds me of who we are and yanks me out of the charade. Suddenly his arm slung across the cushion at my back is heavy with lies, and I feign a yawn.
“Oh,” I say, stretching towards the table at my knees. “I am so sorry. I must still be worn out from the flight.”
“No reason to be sorry, dear,” Cheryl says. “We’ve kept the two of you hostage for long enough.”
I smile, holding back a laugh at the double meaning of her words. She has no idea the binds we’ve been tied up in.
“It’s been a pleasure. But, if you want me to be anything more than a corpse tomorrow, I should probably get some sleep.”
Noah sets his glass next to mine and stands, offering a hand to help me up. He turns to Tom as I adjust my dress, pulling it down and focusing on smoothing the wrinkles instead of the tingles left by his palm against mine.
“I’d better get some rest too. I’m afraid I’ll need every advantage I can claim if I have any chance of keeping up with you on the course. My golf game is more than a bit rusty.”
Tom slaps his knee and stands. “Right. Well, have a good evening. Let Gayle know if you need anything, and we’ll see you tomorrow—say around eight?”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Noah says, his hand finding the small of my back as if it’s second nature already.
He guides me through the terrace doors, and though his hand drops once we’re inside, he remains close.
I curse myself for being put out and mentally review our rules.
When it’s just the two of us the act is off.
He’s following the rules I set. I should be grateful.
Instead, I’m desperate to gauge what he’s thinking.
There hasn’t been a chance to make sure he wasn’t bothered too much by our spiny spar about tomorrow, and while I have no intention of apologizing for making my own unease known, I don’t relish the flavor of bickering with him.
“I think that went well.”
“I agree,” he says, his eyes trained forward.
His body language is saying he’s less than comfortable, and I swallow another wave of frustration.
Of course this is uncomfortable. It should be.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about his hands burning through the fabric of my dress, practically branded into my skin, and how I’m wishing he hadn’t stopped.
Damn that wine.
The cottage is cool, the air conditioner working hard to drop the temperature a few degrees, even as the sun dips below the horizon.
Once we’re closed off to the world, Noah wordlessly migrates to the living room and I pad down the hallway and into the bedroom.
My duffle is still thrown open from when I changed before lunch and I rummage through it looking for more comfortable clothes.
Staring at the only thing I have to sleep in, a crimson blush works its way down from the top of my scalp and warms my belly.
Upon Kara’s insistence that I would want something more luxurious, and under the impression I’d have my own room in a hotel, I opted to leave my usual oversized t-shirt and bike shorts at home.
Instead, I packed a pair of thin, navy blue silk shorts and a matching tank top.
I bought them on a whim a few months ago when Kara and I were shopping at an overpriced boutique.
We were surprised to find anything in my size—the supple curve of my hips doesn’t bode well for boutique clothing lines—and she claimed they made my ass look “juicy as a peach in July.”
Luxurious or not, they are not what I would have packed had I known Noah and I would be sharing this house. I suppose they are better than going nude . . .
I run my finger along the stitched hem, my wine drunk brain forming a fantasy: Noah’s face, his eyes drinking me in as I strut past him with the slinky excuse for shorts. His hands finding that spot on my thigh again, or the curve of my hip, his fingers trailing the hem and slipping up.
A soft knock at the door sends my heart racing, and I shove the silk pjs back into my duffle.
“Charlotte?”
“Yeah?” My voice is high and squeaky, suffocated by the embarrassment of fantasizing.
Noah’s head appears in the crack between the door and the frame.
“I figure if Gayle stops in to do any housekeeping tomorrow, she might think it’s weird if my suitcase is in the living room.
Would you mind if I leave it in here? I left my toiletries in the bathroom and hung my clothes for tomorrow on the back of the door so I won’t bother you when it’s time to get dressed. ”
“No,” I say, my heart pounding against my chest. “I don’t mind.”
One glance and I’m cursing the wine drunk devil on my shoulder.
He’s in a pair of dark sweatpants, hung low on his hips, and his thin white t-shirt sends a tingling sensation into my pelvis.
His arms flex under the weight of his suitcase as he swings it up onto the chair in the corner, and suddenly every thought I’ve ever had of asserting my independence is gone.
Fuck that wine indeed, though the wine is definitely not what I’m thinking about fucking.
Retreating back towards the door, he pulls it shut with a quiet, “Good night, Charlotte.”
Alone again, and overwhelmed, I flop back onto the bed and bring my hands up to cover my flushed face.
Fantasizing on my own, far away from all of this—and him—is one thing.
But here in this house with only a wall and far too sensual almost-lingerie between us?
It’s too much. I can’t be teasing the thought of a one night stand now.
Not when there is a fake relationship, and my dignity, to maintain.
I wake with a start, not remembering how or when I fell asleep.
The room is dark, and the house quiet. The only sound is the click of the air conditioner as it comes on, blasting cold air up from the floor vents.
My head throbs, reminding me of the wine and I try to wet my tongue, but everything is dry and shriveled.
Stumbling out of bed, I flick on the bedroom light and scan for a water bottle.
No luck. I’m going to have to venture out into the kitchen and past Noah if I want the drink I desperately need.
I glance down at the pjs I managed to slip into before passing out.
The fantasy he nearly caught me in is less than stimulating now that I’m fighting a hang-over.
No one feels sexy when they are as dehydrated as a raisin.
He’s probably asleep though, right? All I have to do is tiptoe to the cupboard and grab a glass and then get to the bathroom. Easy peasy.
The bedroom door opens smoothly and I step into the pitch dark.
A tiny blue light on the refrigerator water filter is the only thing illuminated, all the furniture looking like shapeless blobs.
The rush of my own heart beating loud in my ears camouflages any sound that may be coming from Noah, but I take my not being able to hear him as a sure sign that he’s asleep.
Keeping as far away from what I think is the couch, I pass into the kitchen. What I thought would be an easy feat leaves me cursing silently as I open cupboards and feel for glassware. On my third try, my fingers close around what has to be a tallboy glass and I celebrate with a silent fist bump.
My steps towards the bathroom are easier, and once my hand reaches the wall of the hallway, I practically dance onto the tiled floor. But the joy is short lived, lasting only until I’m in the light again where my head resumes her throbbing.
It takes a few glasses to quench my thirst. Three until my body doesn’t feel as much like a wrung out rag.
Filling it one last time, I flick the light off and open the door.
But when I step back into the bedroom, my eyes still adjusting to the dark, I collide with a solid form.
I scream and the full glass of water flies up out of my hand, drenching me before it lands on my foot.
“Ah! Ouch! Fuck! Please-don’t-hurt-me.”
“Charlotte!” Noah cries, his hands closing in around my arms. “Charlotte, it’s me. I’m sorry, I was just grabbing my charger from my bag.”
I stumble back and the light flicks on, illuminating Noah standing with wide eyes, his t-shirt drenched and a white charger clutched in his fist. The adrenaline pumping in my veins fades as he continues.
“I woke up as you left the kitchen, and then you were in the bathroom, so I was just trying to slip in to grab it. I meant to be gone before you came back to bed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My heart rate slows and I melt into a laugh at his nerves. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was about to be murdered.”
He matches my chuckle, and pulls at the wet t-shirt hugging the ripple of his abs. I swallow hard, remembering I’m braless. In wet silk pajamas. Noah’s eyes fall to my chest, and I shift, tugging at the hem of my tank.
“Sorry. I only packed these because I thought I’d be in my own room, and well, I mean, I am in my own room, but I didn’t expect to be sharing a space with you . . .” My voice trails off when I notice Noah’s brow folded in a crease as he traces my form again. Heat blooms across my skin.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He clears his throat, and straightens. “What I mean is, you were right to assume you’d have your own space. I’m sorry, again, for scaring you.”
I blink and he’s slipping out of the door, leaving me with the distinct feeling his quick exit and dismissal of my apology was a half-assed effort at disguising just how much he likes these pjs.