4. Noelle
FOUR
NOELLE
I tell myself I’m only looking at him because I need to commit the details to memory—for the book of course. Emmett, my hot barista, deserves a little physical upgrade in the next draft, and Dash Sterling is walking inspiration.
Away from Koa—who is six foot seven—it’s even more obvious that Dash is tall in a way that makes you rethink how doorways are sized—all broad shoulders and athletic lines under a black Henley that fits just a little too well.
His hair is dark and just messy enough to look like he spent five minutes pretending not to style it.
The kind of hair Emmett could push back when he leans into the crux of Sandra’s thighs and?—
No. Stop.
Dash Sterling has a type, and I’m not it.
To be so fair, he’s not mine, either. My type doesn’t take up this much space or wear a smile like it’s custom-fitted.
My type doesn’t have forearms that make you wonder how many espresso tampers they could crush without trying.
But in my budding author brain, those details?
The way he rests his weight onto one leg like he owns whatever sidewalk he’s standing on? Those could work wonders for Emmett.
Give me a sexy barista, a teacher, a tech nerd, a poet.
Of course, they need to be hot for the readers, which means I need to allow myself to lean into not only all my romantic notions, but the classic hot guy persona and appearance—the veiny forearms, the sexy hair, the smile that makes panties drop and hearts flutter.
Dash hasn’t changed one bit. No complaints; he’s never wronged me or anyone I’ve heard of, and right now he’s just the guy holding open the door, telling me to get into the SUV that smells faintly of money and leather. He’s not even driving; we’re in the back, a uniformed driver up front.
The driver pulls away, and I sink into the comfy seat.
I want to ask him why he’s doing all this, but I already know the answer.
A mix of pity, the fact that he’s friends and teammates with my friend Nalani’s husband, and we knew each other in college because he banged my college sorority sister/“bestie” …
at the time . It’s not like there’s anything in it for him. Not in the romantic sense, anyway.
He’s a player, but in a way that is obvious; he’s not hiding the fact, no ulterior motives or red flags.
He was great to Lauren back in college; they were officially not an official couple, but there was no bed hopping.
Purely physical. Although I remember letting my imagination go wild and picturing them married, with a kid and a retriever.
He’d play hockey, she’d … spend his money.
I’d get a Christmas card of their perfect family and hang it on my mantel, next to the one of me and my genius husband, a professor with sexy glasses who loved books and discussing them with me.
A tech geek who changed the world and rocked mine at night.
He’d be in a thinking man pose, and our genius kid would smile but would be doing it just for the camera because somewhere in the back of their minds, they would have a project or a book they were counting the seconds until they could get to.
Oh, and Hemingway, of course, would be there, too.
This is a friendly gesture, one I greatly appreciate, especially since he hasn’t brought up the way he found me after my spiral, in full crash mode, listening to the song—my anthem—that brings me out of those moments … on repeat. Not that I care—it’s Dash.
I keep the garment bag balanced across my lap like it’s an injured animal. Dash leans back in his seat, one arm stretched along the backrest, so relaxed he’s man spreading, but not in an intrusive way; there’s plenty of room for …
“What are you doing?” I ask when he leans over and wraps his arm around me, pulling me snug against him.
“Proof of life.” He holds his phone out and says, “Smile.”
“Whaaattt?”
Chuckling to himself, he leans back to where he was and taps on the screen as he tells me, “Sending Nalaini and Koa a text, letting them know I got you and that we’re off to save this perfect dress and get your phone fixed.”
“Thank you,” I say as I look down. “Really, it’s nice of you to go out of your way to?—”
“Help a friend out?” He shakes his head. “You’d do the same for me.”
I think about it for a few seconds. “I would, but we’d be taking the sneaker express or the subway. I’ve yet to find myself a car and driver.”
“You’ll have one if that’s what you want, I’m sure of it.”
“One day.”
“You’re a business owner, that’s pretty damn cool.”
I sigh and then nod. “Took some work to figure it all out, but yeah, it is a dream come true.”
“You plan to make any other dreams come true?” he asks.
I consider telling him about my writing aspirations, my future family, my crochet aspirations, but decide those conversations are ones I should reserve for my talks with Hemingway or on nights with my girls when I’ve drank too much wine.
“Nope.”
He eyes me suspiciously, but also, maybe not. Maybe it’s all in my imagination.
“Do you have dreams other than playing pro?”
“Never wanted much more than to just be happy, you know. Take care of my mom in the way she took care of me and my sisters.”
“That’s kind of beautiful.” My thought comes out in words.
A slow smile creeps up his face. “That’s how I know you’re good people, Noelle Pembrooke.” He chuckles. “Your family close, too?”
I hate this question, because how do you answer it without explanation?
“I’m the oldest of three. I have two younger brothers.”
“They live here in NYC?”
I shake my head. “They live with our mom and their dad.”
“Your dad live here?”
“He did. He, um, moved to the city here after the divorce.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, clear my throat, and straighten my shoulders. “He passed away my senior year at Hayward.”
“Shit, Noelle, I’m sorry.”
I force a laugh. “It happens.”
He chuckles. “Sure does. We lost my dad when I was eight.”
My heart starts to sting. “I’m sorry, Dash.”
“Shittiest part of life is loss,” he says, looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It’s not his intention; it’s that I am uncomfortable being seen. “Doesn’t go away—the missing them part—but that pain does lessen.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
There’s a moment of silence that I want to fill, but thankfully, it’s brief.
The SUV eases to the curb in front of a brick storefront with a sun-bleached“ Caruso’s Wash House ”sign above the door. Looks like the kind of place that hasn’t changed its font since the 80s.
Dash steps out first, the driver holding the door open like it’s all choreographed. I slide out after him, garment bag balanced carefully in my hands.
Inside, the place smells faintly of starch, old cologne, and the hum of warm steam.
“Sal,” Dash says with that relaxed, we’re-already-friends tone. “Got a little emergency.”
The man behind the counter looks up from the press, eyes crinkling. “You still can’t iron?”
Dash smiles. “Wouldn’t dare put the professionals out of business. This one’s hers,” he adds, nodding to me, then unzips the bag to reveal the damage.
Sal leans forward, making a sympathetic noise. “That’s gonna take some coaxing.”
“Two days?” Dash asks, like he’s not pushing—just confident it can happen.
Sal shakes his head but grins. “You’re lucky I like you.” Then, flicking his gaze to me, he says, “Be careful with this one. He’s got a face and a smile that’ll get you in trouble.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s not like that,” I blurt before my brain can stop me.
“We’ve just … known each other for years.
College. He dated—well, not dated-dated —my sorority sister.
We have mutual friends. He’s friends with my friend Nalani’s man.
He’s just … giving me a ride. A favor. And—” I clamp my mouth shut before I start narrating our entire history and the fact that I once imagined him married with a golden retriever.
Dash just stands there, smirking, like he’s watching a show.
Sal chuckles. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”
“Sal,” Dash says with mock warning, though his voice stays warm.
Sal waves us off. “You’ll have it back in two days. Go cause trouble somewhere else.”
“Thank you so much. I appreciate this.” I stop myself from diving too deep with Dash-freaking-Sterling. He’s not one of the girls, although there is a pending rant when Dash grips my shoulders from behind and chuckles as he turns me toward the door.
He lets go and opens the door. “See? Easy.”
Stepping outside, I exhale, as if saving that dress was like saving the world from crashing down.
“Thanks, Dash.”
“It’s not a problem.” He winks as he opens the door to the SUV.
Climbing in, I feel the need to explain, “A good dress is more than fabric. It’s armor and magic stitched together. It holds its own kind of power. Makes you stand taller and breathe deeper.”
It’s more than that, but as much as mansplaining is an annoyance, I’m going to guess men —aside from my father, who loved to hear my ramblings—don’t particularly care for shesplaining. It makes you believe—if only for a night—that you could walk into a room and change your story.
In no way would I ever try to outshine a bride, even Lauren—not that I could—but you can bet I’ll remember the faces of my friends when they saw me in it, and that memory will stay etched in my mind long enough to get through the night.
“You’re talking to a man who gets it. Gearing up for games, there are things I need on my body or in certain places. It screws with my head if they’re not.” I see him fiddle with his watch.
I would almost bet the bookstore that the watch he’s wearing is from his father. It’s the same one he wore in college.
Lauren used to talk about how expensive it was after she looked it up online. I’ll admit I was impressed.
“He’s wearing a Rolex Daytona, Noelle.”
“A what?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes at me. “And that’s the reason he should be mine. Introduce us.”