Chapter 20
I’m not sure why I asked, especially given my own reluctance to discuss exes, and the surprise on Noah’s face makes me want to take it back.
Somehow, despite already discussing family dramas, this is more personal—like crossing another sort of boundary.
But before I can backtrack, or explain, his recognition flickers.
“Ah, yes your Google search. Well. I suppose I opened this can. No. Megan is not one of the people I miss. But, she was a big part of my life before I moved.”
“You dated.”
“Something like it.”
I frown at his half answer and he takes a deep breath.
“We dated. But it was . . . hollow. She wanted the social connections I could offer. And I . . .”
“Have a thing for blondes?”
He smirks and tosses some of my hair over my shoulder, the action stealing the breath from my lungs. “No. I’ve always preferred brunettes.”
Unwilling to let the tension build here, I scoff. “Don’t tell me she was too kinky for you. Because if that’s the case, I think I’d like to meet her.”
Noah’s head falls back, a deep laugh cracking out of his chest. His joy pulls a chuckle from me too, and for one or two blissful moments, there is nothing but rounds of giggles filling the air around us.
The bartender eyes us warily from where she’s perched and shakes her head.
When we fall back into silence, I figure we are past the question, and wait for his next volley.
“I expected too much from her.”
My breath catches again, almost like a hiccup, and I hold it, wondering if he’ll continue.
“I suppose, I expect too much from everyone. My little tic about only finding the best extends to more than just pizza, you know.” There’s a forced lightness in his words as he continues.
“It got to the point where we were on two fundamentally different paths. She was constantly begging me to enjoy my money and the status it brings, and I was always nagging her about her future, asking what was next. The simple fact is that she felt like she had already made it and didn’t want anything more. But I . . .” he trails off.
“You wanted Italy while she was happy with Dominos.”
Noah huffs. “Yeah, I suppose that’s about it.”
The ease in which Noah’s explained these pieces of himself, the parts that hurt and built him turns my insides over.
After growing up with the specific brand of uncertainty I did, I learned to keep those pieces hidden where no one can use them against me.
I slipped up when I met Axel, foolishly tried to prove that not everyone is capable of that kind of damage. I was wrong.
There’s a precarious awareness between us, a warm bubble of vulnerability wrapped around our shoulders and blurring the outside world.
There is no music, or smelly, dingy carpet; there is only Noah and I, held together with the frailties of our past now bobbing between us.
Blooming from that shared connection is the craving for more.
Here in this moment, two beers deep on a barstool in god knows where, is a moment I want to live in for the rest of my life.
The door behind us bursts open, letting in a gust of warm air and a group of cackling women sporting ‘divorce force’ t-shirts, all of it reminding me of who and where I am.
We are not Lottie and Noah in some random bar.
We are Flourish CFO, Noah Graves, and Accounts Manager, Charlotte Wilde, and we have a job to do.
He seems to have the same realization and sits up, clearing his throat and finishing the last of his beer in a robotic string of movements.
Breaking the moment further, he excuses himself to the bathroom, and I wave at the bartender for another round.
It’s time to get a grip.
No matter how much I might want to stay in this moment or tease the potential for sharing more, all that waits for me on the other side of breaking my rules is the embarrassment of rejection, or worse the heartache of a temporary pass.
Assuming he’s even in the same place of being tempted, there is no future for someone like me with someone like Noah.
Issues with his father aside, he is a whole person—full of life and warmth and free from the weight of a broken past. His future is as bright and sunny as his last zip code, and his chase for the best certainly doesn’t end with someone like me.
By the time Noah returns from the bathroom, the group of middle aged women celebrating their friend’s divorce have made themselves comfortable at the bar just a few stools down. He notes the fresh beer at his place and quirks his lip up in a halfway grin.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk, Lottie Wilde.”
Ignoring the thrill this brings, and not missing how he’s slowly transitioned to using my nickname, I raise my glass with a wink. “Never claimed otherwise.”
Tipping it back, I take a large gulp and let the light carbonation wash away any thought of opening up further. “But,” I continue, “This might be my last one. Someone has to get us home in one piece, and as you witnessed, the odds are stacked against me with that car.”
When I look back at him, with a stupid grin plastered on my face, his is serious.
In the next breath—the one I nearly choke on catching—his hand is on my cheek, his thumb running along my top lip.
Heat pools in my belly, my inhibitions ready to slip away.
And then, his hand is gone and he holds his thumb up to show a smear of foam before wiping it on one of the cocktail napkins.
Sweet mother of god.
“I already called Lance,” he says, breaking the spell. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
Thank the good Lord Himself. Drinking while turned on and still fantasizing about Noah’s fingers tracing my lip might not be the best idea, but it sure beats sitting here and fighting it sober. Still, we’ll need another kind of distraction. I jerk my head towards the pool tables in the back.
“Perfect. That’s just enough time for me to kick your ass through a few games.”
“I think you’re underestimating my skills.”
“And I think you're overestimating my willingness to go easy on you. Your family earned you a beer or two, but when it comes to this you’re on your own.”
We add a few dollars worth of quarters to the tab, and make our way to the table furthest from the front door. The lights are dimmer back here, the music louder. Noah racks the balls while I pick out a cue and chalk the tip.
“Stripes or solids?”
“Stripes.”
He nods and waves his hand towards the neat triangle on his end of the table. “Ladies first.”
I sway past, acutely aware of how he does not step back and lets my hip brush against him, before leaning over and setting up my strike.
I break the group and sink the first ball, shooting Noah a playful grin.
He shrugs and I scope out my next target.
Pulling my arm back, I snap it forward and sink the next one too.
“You weren’t kidding,” Noah mumbles, bringing his beer up to take a consolation sip.
“Let me guess, every woman you’ve ever played has faked her way through a tutorial, pulled the ‘oh I’ve never done this before, please teach me.’”
He smirks. “Not every one.”
I snort a laugh. “I’m sure one of the ladies at the bar could be available to stroke your ego.”
The look on his face pulls an even more obnoxious giggle from me as he steps closer, leaning in to whisper.
“I’m fairly certain the one with the gnome leggings winked at me.”
“Oh, she most certainly did.”
He takes another step and leans against his cue, his face even with mine, delight dancing in his eyes as I continue.
“I hope it was okay I gave her your number. You should be expecting a call from Sheila. Probably late tonight after her recently divorced, man-hating friend is asleep. Solidarity and all.”
I’m not sure if it’s the beer making our movements soft and sloppy, or if it’s intentional, but our faces are close. Too close. Another half-inch and we’d be kissing.
I step back and narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to throw me off my game.”
“Is it working?”
In lieu of an answer, I lean down and sink the next ball. When I stand up to make a biting remark about his efforts, Noah’s face falls in playful disappointment.
“Damn, I better try a little harder.”
My next shot bounces off the corner and doesn’t land.
“Shit,” I mutter, swiping my beer off the table.
“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he quips, rounding the table for his first shot.
When he leans down and adjusts his cue, I’m keenly aware of the corded muscles in his forearms, and the delicate hold he has on the stick.
The image of him cradling my calf yesterday at the spa flashes as he strikes the white ball.
When he grins, my resolve crumbles further and I know without a shadow of a doubt: if this man gives me an inch of interest, I’m going to fall flat on my face into it.
Noah sinks another before scratching. He pulls the white ball out of the pocket and holds it out to me with a defeated expression. “I’m going to have to get you significantly more drunk to win this thing, aren’t I?”
“Unfortunately for you, the more I drink, the better I get. It’s a hidden talent of sorts.” I pluck the ball out of his hand and place it gently on the table.
“Mmmm,” he says. “What other sorts of talents are you hiding?”
“You’ll have to buy me more than beer to find those,” I say, leaning down and sinking two stripes in one go. “Which means you’re trading secrets for being demolished on the billiard top.”
“Come now, I thought we were getting to know each other.”
I laugh, staring at the table and he doubles down.
“If you share yours, I’ll share mine.”
“Shhh. Sheila will hear you. We don’t want her getting jealous.”
“That was never going to work anyway.”
“Why? You have something against gnomes?”
“Terrified of them.”
“Pity.”
“Not really.”
“Oh?”
We’ve stepped closer to each other as words fly between us, the tension growing impossibly tighter.
I’m not sure what I’m waiting for him to say, what combination of words will give me the okay to lean into whatever this moment is, but the longer he stands here—practically brushing my chest with his knuckles as he twists his cue stick into the carpet—the less that seems to matter.
His breath is warm on my face, smelling of beer and spearmint. “It would never work with someone like Sheila, because she doesn’t respect me enough to let me lose. I crave the challenge too much.”
The word ‘crave’ curls out of his mouth and warms me through to my core. I drop my eyes to his lips and then trace my way back up to his eyes, the desire to close the distance palpable. A shaky inhale and the panic grips my chest.
“I have to pee.”
Whatever Noah was expecting to hear as my response, this was certainly not it.
He clears his throat and straightens as I spin and walk towards the bathroom, my cue still gripped tight in my fist. Cursing myself and what could be one of the least sexy interruptions in the history of stalling, I push into the bathroom.
I pace the floor, back and forth, trying to reason my way through whatever is waiting for me back there.
Thirty minutes ago I had convinced myself of the importance of keeping things professional, and while it might be the beer, Noah doesn’t seem so keen on keeping the same boundaries.
Whether he’s mourning a family drama that’s still playing itself out, or checked out of our real life roles is unclear.
But he’s teasing the line I had drawn between us, and out of nowhere I’m scared of what it means if I let him over it.
Before this afternoon I could have argued a fling, but sharing a taste of our vulnerabilities brings the risk too close.
Despite my best efforts, the whisper of wanting more is calling and a one night stand will make it worse.
I lean the cue stick against the paper towel dispenser and flick the tap on, letting cold water run over my hands. Splashing some of it on the back of my neck, in an effort to chill the growing want, I remind myself of the unfortunate reality.
Pursuing Noah can only lead to trouble—particularly for me. I can’t lose this job and sleeping with my boss on a business trip seems like a really good way to do that. And even if I didn’t lose my job, starting something with Noah is too big and too real for my life.
Swiping the cue stick and stuffing my paper towel into the trash, I take a deep breath and push back out into the bar. Noah is standing with my purse and reaches for the stick in my hand as I approach.
“Sadly, this massacre you’re delivering will have to wait for another day. Lance is here,” he says, placing the stick in the holder on the wall.
“Lucky for you,” I say, taking my purse.
“Lucky indeed. I was starting to think I’d be licking my wounds for days after the annihilation.”
Ignoring the ale-soaked desire to respond with other things I’d lick for him, we stop at the bar so I can close my tab. Noah leans on the counter.
“Thank you,” he says as I stick the receipt into my bag. “I needed this.”
“You’re welcome.”
As his hand finds the small of my back again, not even the pep talk in the bathroom or the cooling evening air can bring logic into my brain. His touch erases all sense of the real world and somehow assures me everything is going to be fine.