4. Noelle #2
So I did, as she was waiting outside of our nineteenth-century lit class.
His driver looks back, and Dash says, “Nearest cell repair shop next.”
Three lights later, the driver pulls over and starts to get out.
“No need, Joel. I got this.” Dash opens the door and steps out, waving his hand toward the glass storefront.
We step inside the shop, greeted by the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights. Behind the counter, a kid who can’t be more than twenty slouches on a stool, hoodie half-zipped, an earbud in one ear. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I slide my phone across the scratched laminate counter. He takes it, taps a few buttons, and doesn’t bother making eye contact. “Battery’s shot,” he murs. “You can pick it up tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. My stomach twists. Tomorrow might as well be next year.
Before I can protest, Dash steps up beside me, close enough that the kid’s head jerks up at the sudden shadow. Dash doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. He just clears his throat, that low, deliberate sound that makes people instinctively straighten their spines.
“Any chance we can take a deeper dive?” Dash asks, voice polite but naturally deep enough to convey authority. “Miss Pembrooke’s phone was working before it had an unfortunate run-in with a cup of coffee.”
The kid blinks, finally really looking at him. Recognition flickers. Not full-on fanboy awe, but that half-second of is that who I think it is?
Dash leans one elbow on the counter, casual but solid. “Pretty sure a woman shouldn’t have to go without her phone for twenty-four hours.” His mouth twitches at the corner, something that says he knows the power of persuasion.
The kid shifts, clearing his throat like Dash’s tone rubbed off on him. “I mean … I guess I could, uh, run a diagnostic? Maybe check the board; see if it’s just the connector.”
Dash nods once, like that’s the obvious answer. “Appreciate it. We’ll come back in an hour.”
The kid bites his lip, then shrugs, sliding the phone into a tray behind the counter. “Yeah, an hour. That should be enough.”
When we step back out into the cold, I glance at Dash. “You didn’t threaten him, did you?”
Dash smirks, eyes on his own phone screen as he taps out a message. “Didn’t have to. Some people just need reminding that they can actually do their job.” He nods left. “Let’s grab a drink, maybe a bite to eat while we wait.”
Following him, I say, “I can catch a cab. I don’t want to tie you up all night.”
“Never been tied up,” he states. “Not sure I’d like that much.”
I feel my face burst into flames. “I didn’t mean it like that. I?—”
“I’m messing with you, Noelle.” He smiles as he throws open a door to a pub. “Come on; I’m starving.”
Inside the pub, I focus on my surroundings, needing a distraction from the exchange that just took place, trying not to overthink it because … of course I will.
The pub is all dark wood and low ceilings, strings of evergreen garland strung up early for the holidays, and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.
Other than that, it’s nice. Chill. The kind of place I can see being packed when there’s a hockey game on the TV, but not like the Bears hangout, Icehouse.
There’s just one TV, and most people are too busy talking over pints and steaming plates to pay that much attention to it, or the fact that Dash Sterling just walked in the door.
Dash leads the way to a booth in the back, sliding in like he’s been here a hundred times before. I take the opposite side, clutching the laminated menu, even though I can’t focus on a single word.
“So,” he says, draping an arm along the backrest, “you a burger-and-fries girl or more of a salad-and-something-light type?”
I arch a brow. “You saying I look like someone who orders lettuce?”
His grin is slow, easy. “You look like someone who pretends to like lettuce so you order it, but steals fries off the guy sitting across from her.”
My lips twitch, despite myself. “You’re not wrong.”
The waitress appears, pad in hand, and Dash orders two burgers and a large plate of fries without even asking.
As soon as she leaves, he leans in just enough for me to feel the shift in the air. “You know, you blush easily.”
I want to deny it, but the heat crawling up my neck betrays me. “You’re a little much, you know that?”
“And you’re fun when you’re flustered,” he says, settling back with a satisfied look. Then his lips twist up. “All right, I have to confess something.”
“Here and not a church?” I joke.
He rests his elbows on the table. “When I stepped into your place, I went up the wrong set of stairs while I was looking for you.”
“Alright, give me twelve Hail Mary’s and move on?” I lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
His grin fades into something more careful. “I found your office? Cute little set up with a desk, stacks of notebooks, and?—”
My breath snags. “That’s private.”
“I didn’t snoop,” he says quickly. “Didn’t need to. Your computer was open. Read a bit about a?—”
“You—what?” I freeze.
“I know I shouldn’t have. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.” His eyes are smiling. And although I should be some kind of embarrassed, and I am, I also secretly want to know what he thought, since no one else has read any of my twenty different works in progress—no one.
“So, Noelle, you lied to me. You do have another dream.” He pouts out his lower lip.
The pub noise fades, or maybe I just stop hearing it. My heart’s thudding so loud it might as well be on the table between us.
I shake my head.
“No? Was it a diary entry then?”
My jaw drops, and he chuckles. “Now I don’t even feel a little bit bad about putting you out today.”
“Not gonna lie, I’d have kept reading if I didn’t get a message from Koa telling me to use the back staircase.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he gives a low laugh.
“I play hockey for a living. People think that means I don’t read, or if I do, it’s stats and playbooks. But your words, they’re stuck.” He taps the side of his head.
I press my palms against my thighs under the table, trying to ground myself.
“You really read my work?” My voice comes out smaller than I want.
Dash leans forward again, his voice soft now, almost reverent. “Yeah. And it made me want more.” Before I can reply, he continues. “Friends don’t lie to each other.”
I scowl. “The best friends I have haven’t even read my words.”
He relaxes his elbow, allowing his arm to reach across the table, and he holds his pinky out. “I, Dash Sterling, promise not to tell a soul about the naughty little words you wrote as long as you promise to never lie to me again.”
“You’re such a dork,” I mumble and hook mine around his, and give it a shake. “Fine, I promise not to lie, even though I don’t think not telling a personal secret is a lie.”
I begin to pull away, and he hooks his tighter.
“What are you doing?”
“Pinky’s hooked; no room for lies. Plus, I already have your promise. But tell me, what’s the dress for?”