Chapter Two
Juliet
I’m so glad I started following him home.
If I hadn’t, how would I know that he shops at the health food store?
That he walks in every Wednesday evening, right after work, his apron strings still faintly creased into his jeans?
That he buys organic fruit? The good kind, not the cheap, bruised ones. That he lingers at the display, thumb pressing into a peach, testing for ripeness? That he always picks the firm ones, like he knows exactly what he likes?
That he drinks oat milk, not dairy? That he reads the labels, checking the ingredients, frowning slightly if the sugar content is too high?
That he picks up protein bars but never candy?
Self-control.
Discipline.
A man who takes care of himself.
It tells me everything I need to know.
And I take notes.
But tonight, something changes.
Because she notices him, too.
I’m two aisles over, watching through the reflection of the freezer doors as some blonde in tight jeans and a cropped workout top leans against the shelf beside him.
She’s holding a bottle of something, protein powder, maybe, and she’s laughing too much.
Tucking her hair behind her ear.
Tilting her chin just enough to make sure he sees the delicate slope of her throat.
I shift closer, reaching for a random box of frozen fruit, pretending to read the back.
Don’t.
Don’t smile at her, Noah.
Don’t look at her.
He doesn’t.
Not the way she wants.
His posture stays relaxed but distant, his gaze flicking up only briefly. He nods politely, says something short, something dismissive, then walks away.
No hesitation.
No interest.
Nothing.
I release a slow, steady breath.
She frowns, watching him go, then rolls her eyes and tosses the protein powder into her basket.
I smile.
She thought she had a chance.
She doesn’t understand him at all.
She doesn’t know him.
Not the way I do.
Because how would she know that he plays guitar at open mic night at the bar down the street?
That he always drinks the same thing, never beer always soda in the can, but never more than two?
That he taps his fingers against the bar, mimicking chords when he’s waiting his turn?
That he sometimes closes his eyes when he sings like he’s somewhere else entirely?
I didn’t say hello last week. That would’ve been too much.
I mean, imagine bumping into him again, so soon after our fateful coffee shop encounter?
Too obvious.
Too soon.
But a week later?
That’s just a coincidence.
It’s a small town, after all.
And tonight?
Tonight, I’m going inside.
I planned for this.
Picked the perfect dress, soft, romantic, delicate. A pale pink slip dress, thin straps, satin that hugs just enough without being obvious. My hair curls just right, my perfume is light and floral, something you only notice when you’re close.
I wear pearls.
Noah likes soft things.
I know this because I’ve watched the way he handles his guitar, careful and reverent, like music is something sacred to him. The way he tugs at the hem of his sweaters absentmindedly, the way he smiled at me the day we met.
And tonight, he’s going to see me again.
The bar is dimly lit, warm, full but not crowded. The kind of place where people nurse their drinks and pretend to care about poetry. I arrive just early enough to find a seat toward the back, not hidden, but not obvious. Not yet.
Because I want to watch him first.
And then I see him.
Noah.
He’s sitting at the bar, fingers drumming against the counter, his guitar case leaning against the stool beside him. Waiting for his turn.
I open the Notes app on my phone.
Noah Carter. (He told the host his name when signing up.)
Drinks Coke, not beer.
Doesn’t smoke. (A man walked past offering a cigarette. Noah shook his head, barely looked up.)
I love learning about him.
I love that no one else knows him like I do.
I tuck my phone away, scanning the room.
Then I see her.
At a corner table. A cocktail in front of her. Legs crossed, posture relaxed, head tilted just slightly.
She’s watching him.
Watching him the way I watch him.
My lips press together.
I don’t like that.
She’s pretty. Not stunning. But trying. The careful, curated kind of pretty, the one that takes an hour in front of the mirror, the kind that wants to be noticed.
But Noah doesn’t notice her.
He’s focused on his music.
Still.
I move anyway.
Slowly, casually, I rise from my seat and slip to the front, sliding into a table directly in front of the small stage. Close enough to be seen. Close enough that when he looks up, I’ll be the first thing he sees.
And then, it happens.
Noah is called up. He stands, grabs his guitar, and makes his way onto the stage. He adjusts the mic. Strums once. Twice.
Then, his eyes lift…
And land on me.
For a second, he looks surprised. Then, he smiles.
My heart pounds.
There it is.
The quiet little thrill that spreads through my chest, warm and perfect.
Because of course he smiles.
Because he remembers me.
Because this is fate.
And then, he plays.
Noah plays beautifully.
I knew he would.
But knowing it and experiencing it are different things. His voice is soft, warm, a little unpolished but in a way that makes it feel more real. More intimate. The way his fingers move, the way he strums like it’s effortless, like the guitar is an extension of him.
I can’t look away.
And I don’t have to, because he’s looking at me.
Every time his eyes lift from the strings, they find mine. Over and over, like a silent message. Like a confession.
By the time the song ends, I feel high.
I knew it. I knew this was real.
I knew he felt it, too.
He steps off stage, puts his guitar away, and for a second, I wonder if I should go to him, but then, he comes to me.
Noah Carter comes to me.
“Juliet,” he says, smiling as he slides into the seat across from me. He remembers.
He remembers my name.
I feel it everywhere. A thrill curling in my stomach, warmth spreading up my spine. My fingers flex against my lap. This is happening.
“I didn’t know you came here,” he says, still smiling, still looking at me like I’m someone.
Because I am.
I tilt my head, tucking a blonde curl behind my ear. “I love live music,” I say, voice soft, effortless. “And I didn’t know you played.”
He huffs a laugh, ducking his head, cheeks going pink. “I mean… I’m not great or anything.”
“You are,” I say, leaning in, just enough that he’ll catch the faint scent of my perfume. “You were amazing.”
His blush deepens.
I love making him blush.
For a second, he looks unsure. Then he shifts forward. “I was about to take off,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But… would you wanna go for a walk? Maybe to…”
The world tilts.
I feel weightless.
“Yes,” I say, before he even finishes the question.
We walk out together. The night air is cool, but I’m warm all over.
Noah is beside me. Close. Walking with me. Because he asked me to.
I glance down at his hands, big, calloused, beautiful. Fingers that play music, fingers that could do other things.
I imagine them sliding through my hair. Brushing against my lips. Around my throat.
I squeeze my thighs together.
And then, Noah reaches for me.
Casual, natural, like he didn’t even think about it.
Our fingers brush once, then again, and then, he just takes my hand.
Takes it.
And holds it.
I ache.
I squeeze his fingers, just to see if he’ll squeeze back.
He does.
I’m going to ruin him.
Noah’s hand is warm, steady, perfect. His fingers curl around mine, casual, natural, like he’s done this before, like it isn’t sending me into a spiral of want.
We walk in comfortable silence.
Comfortable for him, at least.
I want words. Details. I want to know everything.
“So, Noah,” I say, voice light, teasing. “Do you always steal girls away on late-night walks?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t say steal.”
“No?” I squeeze his fingers. “You did ask me to come with you.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes the inside of my palm. “I guess I did.”
That’s right, baby. You did.
“So,” I press, “Is this a thing you do? Taking pretty girls out after playing them love songs?”
His blush creeps down his neck. “It wasn’t a love song.”
I hum, tilting my head. “Seemed like one to me.”
He glances over at me, eyes flicking down to my lips, then back up. So quick. But I see it.
My stomach tightens.
He clears his throat. “I, uh… I don’t really go out much.”
I drink that in.
Noah doesn’t go out much. He doesn’t do this often.
Good.
“That’s a shame,” I say, keeping my voice soft, drawing him in. “You should. You’re interesting.”
His fingers twitch in mine. “…I don’t think I am.”
“You are,” I say.
He exhales through his nose, a little huff of disbelief, but I see the way his shoulders straighten. The way he holds my hand a little tighter.
He likes hearing that.
Good boys like soft praise. I’ll remember that.
I suck in every other detail he gives me.
He has a younger sister. (He mentions her in passing, says she’s the one who made him learn guitar.)
He’s always lived here. (Which means he’s probably never been truly in love.)
He likes thunderstorms but hates cold weather.
All of it matters.
Every word is something I can use.
Before I know it, we’re standing next to my car. Too soon.
Noah hesitates.
I can see it in the way his hand lingers in mine, in the way he shifts on his feet. He wants to stay. He wants to kiss me.
But he’s too sweet. Too careful.
I can fix that. I pull him closer.
Just a little. Just enough that his chest brushes mine.
Noah sucks in a breath.
And then, I kiss him.
Soft at first. Sweet. Testing the waters, giving him a second to react, to realize.
And then he melts.
Oh. Oh, he’s perfect.
He kisses me back, slow and deep, like he’s savoring every second, like he can’t believe this is happening. His hands are gentle. His lips are warm.
And I want more.
I want his hands somewhere other than my waist. I want fingers on skin, not fabric. I want to feel the warmth of him underneath his sweater, trace my nails down his stomach.
I tighten my grip on his shirt. Just a little. Just enough to feel the muscles underneath.
Noah makes a quiet, shaky sound against my lips.
I nearly lose my mind.
I force myself to pull back before I ruin it. Before I ruin him.
His eyes flicker open, dazed, dark, beautifully confused.
He swallows. “Wow.”
Wow.
I could devour him.
I smile, running my fingers down his arm, feeling the way his breath hitches.
“Goodnight, Noah,” I murmur, stepping back. Sweet, like this is too much. Like I need time to process what happened.
His lips part like he might ask me to stay.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
He takes a step back, like he’s physically reminding himself to be good.
“Goodnight, Juliet,” he says, voice soft, a little hoarse.
I slide into my car, watching as he shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing up at the sky, smiling to himself.
I made him feel that.
I knew this was real.
I knew he was mine.
This is only the beginning.