Chapter 11 Noelle

11 Noelle

June 20, Version 51-ish

It’s Cam. The guy from the tea shop. After he finishes his bubble tea, he must come here for work. Then after work, he goes to the night market.

Why am I running into him again? What does it mean?

Maybe it means nothing. It’s just a coincidence.

But I can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t.

“We have,” I say at last, replying to his question. “Cam, right? Cameron?”

“Actually, it’s short for ‘Canmore.’?”

“Did your parents name you after the place where you were conceived?”

I’m repeating a conversation we’ve had before because I’m thrown off by his appearance here and there’s comfort in the familiar, even if it’s a ridiculous question. I should know better than to ask such things. After all, my name sometimes leads people to ask if my parents are obsessed with Christmas—and that’s not nearly as awkward.

The other guy laughs.

So does Cam. “I hope not. They just said they looked at a map of Canada for inspiration.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Noelle.”

“Nice to meet you. Again.”

“You used to be a journalist, right?” I try to follow the script, even though it’s an odd question in this situation. It’s easier than figuring out what else I should say to him. Sure, it’s been a while since we had this conversation, but I haven’t forgotten how it goes.

“No, you must have me mixed up with someone else.”

“Ah, I remember. Secret billionaire.”

“And you’re the heiress, right?” He winks at me, like he did the last time he said those words. There’s that dimple again.

The other man slaps Cam on the shoulder before exiting the taproom. Cam and I have nearly finished our script. It was at this point in the conversation that my bubble tea order was ready.

“Where have we met before?” he asks. “It’s strange that I can’t remember.”

I name the tea shop. “We’ve talked there a couple of times. I occasionally stop in before boarding my private jet.”

He laughs. “Of course. Any good heiress has a private jet in case she has to make a quick escape—or an impromptu trip to Paris.”

“Exactly.”

“I ordered the Iron Goddess just an hour or two ago, but I hadn’t been in a while.” He shakes his head. “I guess that’s why I can’t remember, but it’s still odd.”

Yeah, it certainly is.

I tell myself to just go with the flow. After all, Cam is unlikely to recall the details of any conversation we have.

“Why is it so odd?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

“Because you’re a very striking heiress,” he says with a smile, and I can sense him trying to feel me out, trying to figure out where to go with this because he doesn’t want to overstep.

“Is that so?”

He gestures to the chalkboard. “What do heiresses like to drink?”

“We usually go for wine of very exclusive, uh, vintages. I’m open to trying something new, but I don’t know much about beer.”

“Hm.” He picks up a small glass and pours me a tiny amount. “Try this.”

I knock it back and make a face before I can stop myself.

He chuckles. “Okay, no pale ales.” He gives me something else to try.

I take a sip. “That’s not bad.”

“It’s the Annex Pilsner.” He points at the chalkboard and grabs another small glass.

I hold up a hand. “The pilsner’s good. I’ll have that. I’m sure your boss wouldn’t like you giving away more beer. Or I can buy a flight. I’m an heiress, remember, so I have money to throw around.”

“I’m the boss. It’s fine.”

“Yeah? Do you own this place?”

He nods. “With my friends. I’m the taproom and events manager—and I do various other things too,” he adds with a laugh. “Whatever needs to be done.”

Opening a brewery. Wow. That’s the kind of risk I can’t imagine taking. I’d rather just be an employee, though as Madison pointed out, being an employee at a different engineering firm might be something to think about.

He hands the third sample to me rather than putting it on the surface of the bar. When our fingers brush, my breath hitches.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“The Corktown Hefeweizen.”

I take a tentative sip. The beer is a bit cloudy and has a slightly odd taste—I don’t have the words to describe it—but it quickly grows on me. “I like it.”

“Better than the pilsner?”

“Yeah. I’ll have a pint of that.”

He smiles and starts pulling me a pint of the Corktown.

“The p-pale ale really wasn’t that bad,” I stammer. “I’m sorry I insulted your beer.”

“You didn’t insult it.”

“I think my facial expression did the work for me.”

“It’s fine. Everyone has different tastes—I’m sure heiresses have quite particular ones.”

Music starts playing, and the other guy returns with some glasses and coasters. He sings along to the Matchbox Twenty song, which I haven’t heard in a while. Cam joins in a moment later, pretending he’s holding a microphone. I admire his ability to be a little goofy, to not be too self-conscious or take himself seriously.

And since I’m the only customer, I feel like it’s a show just for me.

The song ends, and I clap. The other guy smiles as he exits the room, leaving Cam and me alone once more.

“You have a nice voice,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“You ever been in a band?”

“I was in an all-Asian Matchbox Twenty tribute band.”

Okay, that’s not what I was expecting. “Did you have many gigs?”

“A bunch, but it wasn’t a full-time job, and unlike you, I don’t have all those billions to fall back on.”

I decide to tell him something true about myself. “I’m a mechanical engineer.”

“Yeah? How do you like it?”

“It’s fine. It… pays the bills.”

“You sound a little unsure.”

“It’s the people I work with, not the actual work itself, which is part of the reason I’m taking today off. I feel like nothing I do matters.” I mean that more literally than he knows. “But it’s okay. This afternoon, I’m here with you.”

I flash him a smile that I hope is a little seductive. Not because I’m scheming to get a kiss, but because I like him, and if I make a fool of myself, no one will remember but me.

Cam pretends he’s strumming a guitar for a few seconds. Some kind of ’90s or early 2000s alternative rock song is on now, though I don’t recognize the band.

“Do you play?” I ask.

“A little.”

I’ve never been a woman who dreams of dating a musician, but today, that’s changed. I want this guy. He might not be winning any awards for his air guitar, but he’s fun and sincere, even when he’s joking about me being rich. He seems like the kind of man who’s not afraid of showing his feelings.

The door opens behind me, and I try not to be annoyed. I have no right to be irritated that I don’t have the bartender to myself anymore.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Cam says, “and order at the bar when you’re ready.”

I’m relieved when the couple chooses the table farthest from the bar.

“You still like it?” He gestures to my pint.

“Yeah, I’ll have to grab some cans for the jet.”

“Are you taking off somewhere soon?”

“I’ve got a few hours.”

I swear he looks at my mouth, then snaps his gaze back to my eyes. “Any plans for the rest of the day?”

I wonder if he wants to see me whenever he’s done here. Or maybe he’s just making conversation.

Probably the latter. I’m not great at reading these situations.

By four thirty, I’m almost done with my second beer, and the taproom is fairly busy. There’s a group of seven guys at a table just behind me, and an older couple by the window. A few men in their twenties sit at the bar and ask a bunch of questions about the beer, which Cam gamely answers.

I consider ordering a third Corktown, then decide against it. I don’t feel like getting drunk, and the only reason I want to stay here is Cam, who’s now occupied.

“Can I get you another?” he asks me as I knock back the rest of my pint.

“No, just the bill, thanks.”

He nods, and it’s not long before I’ve tapped my credit card and am ready to go.

“Noelle. Wait.” He slides a scrap of paper toward me.

“Your number?”

“You can toss it. No pressure. But I’m going to a night market tonight. Gotta talk to someone—I want them to bring their food truck here in August—but after that… No pressure, like I said.”

“I’ll see if my busy heiress schedule allows it.” I’m tickled that this sea shanty–singing brewery owner wants to see me again. I lean forward and touch his wrist. “I’ll text you. I promise.”

After I get home and grab a snack, I add Cam’s number to my contacts, then spend a good five minutes typing and deleting potential messages before sending something simple.

ME: It’s Noelle. You still want to meet up tonight?

I don’t immediately get a response, but that’s okay. If he’s working behind the bar, he won’t be able to check his phone.

About half an hour later, he replies.

CAM: Hey! Good to hear from you. How about I meet you there at eight?

ME: Sure! I’ll let you know when I arrive.

I set down my phone and practically squeal. I have a date tonight, and it’s not because I engineered a fancy—or messy—meet cute.

I’d forgotten what this feels like.

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