19. Noelle
NINETEEN
NOELLE
Not a word is said. Not when we left the house, not in the SUV, not even when we parked and had to trek half a mile from the last open spot in the school lot to the town center.
By the time we squeeze into the packed crowd of families, strollers, and overzealous joggers bouncing in place like they’re warming up for the Boston Marathon, I’m already winded.
And for a blissful second, I think maybe—just maybe—I’ve gotten away with it.
Then Mom hands me a black, long-sleeved shirt and a … tutu.
“Team Gobble Till We Wobble,” she says proudly, holding up the shirt like it’s couture. Across the chest, in blinding orange bubble letters, is a sprinting cartoon turkey with sweat dripping off its wattles.
Caleb and Ethan are already yanking their shirts over their heads, feather-covered tutu’s puffing around their waists like deranged Thanksgiving centerpieces. They look like linebackers auditioning for a farm-to-table ballet.
Rick—stoic, serious Rick—has his tutu already tied and is fiddling with a stopwatch on his lanyard like this is an Olympic trial.
And if that was not enough humiliation, she tops it off with hats. No, not ball caps or beanies. Mom produces the pièce de résistance: plush cornucopia hats. Fabric horns stuffed with little fake pumpkins, grapes, squash tumbling down the sides, and yep, a turkey too.
I gape at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“It’s festive,” she says, strapping hers under her chin. “We’re a team, Noelle.”
So, now here I am, on the town green, in a tutu and a horn of plenty strapped to my head, feathers swishing with every breath, surrounded by what looks like half the county, and wishing the earth would swallow me whole.
The announcer lifts a plastic megaphone and, instead of a whistle, lets out a loud, triumphantturkey call. The crowd gobbles back, a hundred voices overlapping until the whole green sounds like a barnyard. How are these the same Harbor Point residents as last night?
“Line up! Walkers to the right, joggers in the middle, runners to the left!”
I hang back, tugging at my tutu, because humiliation is best experienced from the rear of the pack.
It gives me time to take it all in—families with “ Waddle Squad ” on their shirts, a group of teenagers calling themselves the “Plymouth Rockers” in full Pilgrim hats, even a man in an inflatable turkey suit bouncing against the crowd like a rogue balloon at the Macy’s parade.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loud. This whole thing is ridiculous. Joyfully, unapologetically absurd.
And then I glance left. He’s right beside me, Dash Sterling.
Not in a tutu, not in a cornucopia hat—just sleek black track pants hugging his long legs, thick thighs, a fitted gray, long-sleeved tee that stretches across his chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal, and a backward cap that somehow makes his dark hair messier and hotter all at once.
He’s standing with that casual, relaxed stance that screams confidence.
There’s a bead of condensation on the water bottle in his hand, and he tips it back for a slow drink, throat working, jaw flexing. And he catches me looking.
Those blue eyes spark mischief and heat all at once, like he’s fully aware I’ve just cataloged every line of him. His smirk is of the lazy, sexy variety.
“Morning, Pembrooke,” he drawls, low enough that only I can hear. “Nice … hat.”
Heat rushes to my face. I resist the urge to rip the cornucopia off my head and hurl it into the nearest trash can.
“What …? What are you doing here?” I hiss, eyes wide.
He shrugs, slipping in beside me like he belongs. “Figured it’d be a fun way to meet my girlfriend’s family. Then I’ll head back to the city.”
“Girlfriend?” I whisper-shriek.
“I mean, we’re a couple, but if you think it’s too soon,” he shrugs, “noted.”
Before I can argue, the horn blasts and the crowd lurches forward. Caleb and Ethan shoot ahead. Mom and Rick jog together, steady and sure. And me? I start slow, already feeling my lungs revolt.
Dash jogs easily at my side. “You got this. Power through. Run with your heart.”
I shoot him a glare. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Fine, fine.” He adjusts. “Pretend there’s free coffee at the finish line.”
“That’s better,” I mutter.
“Okay, new one—pretend a latte’s chasing you.”
I shoot him a look. “Why would a latte chase me?”
“Because it’s desperate to be chosen over tea.”
I snort, almost trip, and glare at him again. “Weak.”
“All right, all right. Pretend every step you take is earning you bookstore credit.”
That makes me laugh, even as my lungs burn. “You mean, I’d basically own the place by the finish line?”
“Exactly. I’ll even shelve the books for you as a prize.”
I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t survive a shift at Pembrooke.”
He clutches his chest in mock injury. “Try me. I’m great with my hands.”
“Stop.” I press my lips together to smother a smile. “That’s not motivational; that’s harassment.”
“Harassment?” He grins. “Sweets, that was me holding back.”
I groan. “You’re unbearable.”
“Unbearably … charming . Admit it.”
“Unbearably sarcastic,” I correct.
Dash leans closer, voice dropping so only I hear it. “Then maybe I’ll save my breath and just whisper encouragements. Like … every time you think you can’t go farther, picture me right behind you, tongue at the ready.”
My cheeks flame hotter than the run. “Stop …”
Eyes gleaming, he says, “No promises.”
“There are too many people,” I pant.
“You mean in front of us? Or just in general?”
“If I could elbow you without breaking … whatever stride this is, I totally would.”
“Noted. Zipping the lips,” he states … evenly and with zero panting or huffing.
Lord, help me …
Half a mile in, I’m gasping. “I can’t?—”
“Not an option,” he says firmly.
Then, before I can argue, he scoops me up, swings me around to his back like I’m a toddler, and takes off at a jog that might as well be a stroll for him.
I shriek, pounding my fists against his shoulders. “Put me down! Dash Sterling, I swear to God, if you don’t?—”
“Save your breath, sweets. You’ll need it for the victory speech.”
I bury my face in his neck, mortified, muttering every threat I can think of while laughing, because this is so ridiculous, wholly. The costume, me thinking I can do a 2.5K in anything but maybe a writing sprint online. He just laughs, the sound rumbling against me, and keeps running.
When we round the bend, Caleb and Ethan are just ahead. Dash slows, setting me down on my feet right before we pass them.
They don’t even notice. That is … until Dash, the showoff, is now running backward ,grinning at my brothers.
“Nice form, boys,” he calls. “But hockey legs beat football legs every time.”
He knows they play football? Whatever. Focus on not swooning, because him knowing details like that punctuates the fact I have always thought there was a fine line between sweetness and stalking … in books, anyway.
Caleb flips him off.
Ethan yells, “Better hope you don’t trip.”
Dash just winks, keeping pace like it’s nothing. “Already skating circles, fellas.”
Caleb yells. “Backward doesn’t count.”
Dash grins wider. “Backward is harder. Style points, gentlemen.”
Ethan quips, “You skater boys are all quads, no lungs.”
Dash gives it back, “Funny, because I can still talk while you’re wheezing.”
Caleb jabs out, “This isn’t hockey, Sterling. No skates, no stick, no puck; what do you got left?”
Dash nods in my direction. “Still your sister’s favorite runner, apparently.”
Ethan groans. “Gross, man.”
He grins. “Not gross—accurate.”
Caleb tries to surge ahead. Dash shadows him easily, backward. “Nice burst of speed. Reminds me of when I allow rookies past me to boost their confidence.”
Ethan shouts, “You’re supposed to stay in your lane!”
“A man with confidence knows no lanes.”
Ethan laughs. “We’d crush you on the field.”
“I’ll have to confirm with your highlight reels. But from where I’m standing, you’d have to catch me first.”
Caleb, puffing, says, “You’re in our house, Sterling!”
“Then thanks for letting me redecorate … with my footprints all over your finish line.”
“Cocky?” Ethan says, actually laughing.
“It’s confidence, and you can only see the difference when you can back it up.”
Caleb comes back with, “Keep running your mouth, man. Eventually, you’ll run out of steam.”
“I play hockey, not football. Game average is four to six miles, compared to football’s one to one and a half, tops.” He grins. “And we don’t get boo-boo breaks when we fall down.”
He’s not wrong.
“We could tackle you,” they both say at the same time.
“Yeah, but you’d have to catch me first.”
Caleb growls, “You keep running your mouth, and I swear?—”
“You’ll what?” Dash cuts in, smirking. “Flag me? Blow a whistle? Call a timeout?”
Ethan snorts so hard he almost stumbles.
Caleb narrows his eyes. “You think you’re funny?”
“I don’t think,” Dash says, sliding between them and me. “I know .”
He spreads his arms wide like he’s on the penalty kill, body blocking both brothers. “And right now, my job’s making sure your sister gets the W.”
“What the hell?” Caleb tries to dart around him, but Dash shifts, cutting him off without even breaking stride.
“Pick and roll,” Ethan mutters, but he’s grinning, and I swear Dash is loving every second of it.
“Run, Pembrooke,” he calls over his shoulder, grinning at me. “Run!”
And I do. Legs burning, tutu bouncing, cornucopia hat sliding down over one eye, but I surge past them while Dash plays wall, laughing like a maniac.
“Unfair!” Caleb shouts.
“Unsportsmanlike!” Ethan adds.
“Strategic,” Dash fires back. Then, because he can’t help himself, he jogs backward again, keeping his body between them and me. “Thanks for the assist, boys. Your sister’s about to hit the finish line first.”