15. Noelle
FIFTEEN
NOELLE
I’m still in his shirt.
The thought alone has me burying my face in the pillow, grinning like an idiot, kicking my feet like a freshman at college. I can’t help it. Because last night wasn’t supposed to happen, not like that, and definitely not with him.
Dash Sterling. The One Night Dash. The guy who never sticks, never stays, never slows down long enough for anyone. He’s the spotlight, the laugh too loud, the body every camera wants on their reel. And me? I hate the spotlight, but hot damn, did I love his moves.
Not just that, but the things he said—God, the things he whispered at that wedding.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing when I used to consider myself the plain old duck among the sorority swans.
It all comes rushing back in flashes. The sway of the dance floor, the heat of his hands, his mouth on my neck.
And then last night, the way he pulled my hair back when I couldn’t keep it together, the patience in his hands as he brushed my teeth when I literally couldn’t anymore. Incredibly hot and maddeningly sweet.
Too good to be true. That’s what he feels like. Too hot, too cocky, too Dash Sterling. And also, my fun-loving, hot-as-hell ex-best friend’s ex-fuck. The universe clearly loves irony.
I roll over and spot it on the nightstand. Two keys. His and mine. And a folded note written in sharp, heavy strokes:
Please eat the cakes and pastries. I got my fill of
sweet treats last night.
My face goes up in flames. “Oh my God.”
And then it hits me …
I have to write, like right now.
I sneak out of the room, clutching the hem of his shirt like it may fly up, and step across the hall. Literally right across the hall. My room is right there. What a coincidence.
When I slip inside, I expect a mess, but everything is pristine. No lingering stench, no evidence of last night’s disaster. Just clean sheets, a fresh stack of towels, and me with a head full of heat.
First shower, then coffee and my laptop.
I head straight to the shower, letting the water run hot as the memories hit harder—the slide of his fingers down my spine, his laugh when I groaned into the sink, the way he carried me like I wasn’t a burden at all.
By the time I’m dressed, towel still wrapped around my damp hair, my phone buzzes.
Dash
Joel will be back to get you. He’ll take you to New York.
And just like that, my stomach flips again—giddy, terrified, and already too deep.
Me
Not necessary. I’m staying in Connecticut a couple more days.
His reply is immediate.
Dash
Why?
I snort. Straight to interrogation. Classic Dash.
Me
Wow. Straight to clingy.
Or is this love bombing?
Seconds later, my phone lights up again—this time with a screenshot. His entire Bears schedule. Practices, travel, media, games. Color-coded. Highlighted. Annotated like it’s gospel.
Dash
We have busy lives. It’s not clingy; it’s logistical alignment.
My mouth falls open. Logistical alignment? Who even says that?
Me
Did you just turn stalking into a corporate memo?
Dash
Efficient planning.
I groan, drop my phone onto the bed, then pick it back up because, apparently, I’ve lost all willpower.
Me
My family’s here. I’m staying until Sunday night.
Dash
Joel will be available when needed.
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly stick.
Me
Dash, let Joel have a break. I’m a big girl. I can handle my own travel.
And then … nothing.
No dots. No reply. Just silence.
I toss my phone aside and flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Does he think he’s proving he’s not clingy?
I realize immediately that I don’t like it, not one bit.
Does that make me clingy, too? Or crazy?
Nope. No way I’m going down a self-realization rabbit hole on the writer’s block express.
I grab my laptop instead, shove a pillow behind me, and pull it onto my knees.
Something’s missing. Hemingway.
I look at the time, and it’s far too early to call and get a kitty update, so I look at the last photo Angie sent me with Earnest and Hemingway in a death stare-off that she tries to sell as them starting to be friends.
Well, it has to work , I think as I open my laptop.
When last we saw Emmett and Sandra, they were tangled up in the back of the café, steam fogging the windows, every line blurred between workplace banter and something much, much dirtier.
My fingers hover over the keys then start moving.
Emmett doesn’t let her retreat. Not after what they just did. He leans against the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grinning like he’s the one in control when they both know she could set him on fire with a look.
“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmurs, brushing a hand across her jaw, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.
“I am not.”
“You are. I can hear it.” His thumb skims her lower lip, his smile edged with mischief. “But don’t worry; I’ve got enough confidence for both of us.”
Sandra’s heart kicks harder, because it’s true—he does. He fills the room with it, easy charm and steady heat, like he knows the world bends a little to his will and he’s only just now deciding to use it on her.
And she hates that it works. That she melts under it, even as she rolls her eyes and says, “Cocky much?”
“Cocksure.” He wags his thick brows, leaning closer until she feels the whisper of his breath against her ear. “But I also know exactly what I want.”
I glance at my phone to see if he’s messaged. He hasn’t.
If Dash Sterling wants silence, fine. I’ll drown myself in sugar-sweet words until I forget. I grab the pastries and settle deeper into the pillows, fingers flying, between bites.
Emmett leans closer, his eyes as dark and rich as a double-shot espresso. “You’re sweeter than tiramisu, Sandra. And I’m done pretending I don’t want the whole damn dessert tray.”
Sandra’s laugh bubbles up, nervous, a little breathless. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Can’t I?” His thumb brushes her lower lip, his grin sinfully smug. “You’re the whipped cream I didn’t know I needed, the drizzle of caramel on top of a life that’s been too bitter.”
She shoves at his chest, but it only makes him laugh harder, the sound warm as melted chocolate. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “But you make ridiculous taste good.”
I stop, blink at the screen, then groan into my hands. Oh, it’s over the top, all right. Cheesecake-factory-menu levels of over the top.
But I keep typing because, somehow, Emmett’s confidence is getting hotter, and I like it.
Sandra bites her lip, watching him with wide eyes. “You’re comparing me to desserts now?”
He grins, that cocky tilt that makes her knees weak. “Not just desserts. The dessert. The one everyone waits for, the one worth skipping dinner for—you.”
And then he leans in, whispering against her ear, voice low and certain. “And tonight, Sandra, I’m not leaving until I’ve had seconds.”
I actually snort out loud at that one.
“God, that’s terrible,” I mutter. “Terrible and … kind of perfect.” Because all of my FMC will get to be wanted like that. Over the top, full-course-meal ridiculous.
And without letting myself think too hard about it, I dive back into the sugar storm.
Emmett drags the plate across the counter, sliding it between them like it’s the only thing that matters. Two cakes. One fork. His grin says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Which one do you want?” Sandra asks, eyeing the strawberry shortcake piled high with whipped cream and the molten chocolate cake already oozing at the edges.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he dips the fork straight into the chocolate, lifts a bite, and holds it in front of her mouth. “Both. Always both.”
Her lips part, and he slides it in slow, watching, like feeding her cake is foreplay. The fudge melts on her tongue, hot and sinful, and she can’t stifle the tiny moan that escapes.
“Jesus, Sandra,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “You sound better than the espresso machine at full steam.”
Before she can reply, he scoops another forkful—this time of shortcake, berries tumbling free, cream smearing across her lower lip as she bites down.
He doesn’t hand her a napkin. He leans in, kissing the cream from her mouth, slow and dirty, his tongue chasing the sweetness. “Messy is better.”
Sandra gasps, and he takes advantage, sliding another bite between her lips, his thumb brushing along her chin where chocolate drips down. Instead of wiping it, he sucks it off his own skin, eyes never leaving hers.
“Emmett …” she breathes, chest heaving.
“Mm.” He kisses her again, chocolate, strawberries, and pure heat mingling on his tongue. “Told you. Both. Always both. And I don’t stop until the plate’s empty.”
The fork clatters forgotten to the counter as his mouth trails down her neck, his lips sticky-sweet, leaving marks only sugar could justify. She’s laughing, breathless, already reaching for another bite herself.
I sit back, horrified and delighted in equal measure, heat creeping up my neck as I reread.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. “I’m writing dessert porn.”
And yet … my fingers drift back to the keys. Because it’s ridiculous. Over the top. Sticky and sweet.
And somehow, I still love it.
éclair hanging out of my mouth, I nearly choke when my phone rings. I glance at the screen and freeze— Dash Sterling .
“Oh, for the love of—” I swipe to answer, thumb already going for speaker, and then I realize too late—it’s a video call.
I fumble with the phone but am not quick enough to turn off the camera. His face fills the screen, and at the same time, so does mine.
I see my reflection. I’m a disaster. A smear of cream on my cheek, strawberry juice on my shirt, and—oh God—a full ring of chocolate circling my mouth like a toddler left unsupervised at dessert time.
Dash chuckles, low and warm, and then breaks into that grin that always hits me like a body check. “Tell me you’re writing a scene where her man is rimming her and?—”
“Emmett would never!” I gasp, and his grin turns into that full, blinding Dash Sterling smile.
“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s miss?—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.” His laugh deepens, wicked now, and then he shakes his head and looks confused at the idea of it. “I mean …”
My laugh bursts out before I can stop it, full and loud, making him laugh. “You are filthy.”
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever thought: well, fuck it, let’s give it a taste.”
I grab a napkin and start wiping my mouth. “You’re in public.”
He shakes his head, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “That’s why I shut my phone down earlier. I had to. Otherwise, I’d get carried away with you, and …” He sighs, softer now. “I’m working on that. Promise.”
I swallow, chest tightening at the sincerity under his grin. “I can’t write when I’m worried,” I admit. “And yes, I was worried. And then I worried that I was being needy, which is its own circle of hell.”
His gaze sharpens, serious now even as the boarding announcement blares faintly behind him. “Hey, listen to me. We’ll figure it out. The schedules, the miles, the mess. Doesn’t matter. We’re going to be what I said—gold standard. The couple everyone else measures against.”
I shake my head, a half-smile tugging despite myself. “You really believe that?”
He nods once, certain. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean, sweets. And I meant every word.” His eyes narrow at his screen.
“Everything all right?”
He clears his throat. “Apparently, Coach D is picking me up from the airport.”
I suck in a breath between my teeth. “Ooo.”
“Worth it.” He winks. “Text me later?”
I nod, and the screen goes dark.
I sit there, sticky, ridiculous, and smiling so hard it hurts.
And dammit, I believe him.