Chapter Twenty-Five
I’m charging full steam ahead into the building when I get caught up in swinging glass doors and the exact arm and pair of blue eyes that’ve frozen me in a similar position before.
Those lying eyes proclaimed us inevitable, only to then blink me out of existence.
Well, his mouth did the actual talking, but I’m not looking there at the moment.
Stupid lying mouth.
I definitely don’t want him to press it to the base of my throat.
Noah’s gaze narrows there, as if I’ve spoken the errant thought aloud, and my pulse thunders in response. Sand pours through me like an hourglass about out of time, coating my tongue and rendering me incapable of speech.
I refuse to curl myself smaller or succumb to the urge to hide the magnificent pink feathers on the toes of my shoes.
Forever in motion, the heels are fabulous and I love them.
Eniola refused my offer to pay for them, insisting they’d belonged to me the second I put them on, like a NSFW version of Cinderella, where she performs burlesque rather than attends a ball.
“You look different,” Noah says, his voice cautiously monotone as he appraises the bolder makeup and hairdo.
“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.
” I might also be projecting my insecurities into the furrow of his brow and disappearing press of his lips.
It’d be nice if my kickass-babe vibes could carry on longer, but loving myself is such an active, intensive practice that the second I stop, I slip up.
“It’s more of a statement.” No change of expression or clues to be found, but at the roll of my eyes, he chuckles and adds, “You always look good.”
My knees go soft, untrustworthy beneath me. “Really? I thought I dressed like a granny.”
In my peripheral his arm bends, biceps bunching as he uses his leverage on the doorframe to lower his body a few inches from mine. “Yeah, that’s what I’m into.”
My jaw drops and hangs open, a fish without water, but like one of those colorful bettas with the flowy fins that enjoys a good brawl.
Noah laughs, a rich rumble that vibrates across my skin, and flutter is the wrong word for what happens to my heart and other internal organs when he reaches out and tugs a curl. “I like the hair. Makes you look less buttoned up.”
“Well, make no mistake…” Breathy and dizzy, I’m struggling but determined to maintain my poker face. “I’m still wound as tight as a cat in a bathtub.”
“Yeah,” he says, and why am I experiencing butterflies over this infuriating dude again? “But it’s kinda growing on me.”
Oh right, that’s why. “Big talk from Mr. Grumpy Grandson himself. Were you born a grouch, or did it happen in your thirties?”
The tiniest twitch at the corners of his mouth implies I’ve struck a nerve. “I’m twenty-nine.”
“So your twenties, then.” I suck my breath in through my teeth. “Yeesh, that’s rough. You’ll be insufferable by forty, for sure.”
He grins. Grins!
Despite not leaving me much room, I manage to cross my arms. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“What? I’m allowed to work on the grounds, but not play?”
“Of course you can play.” I just wish it didn’t have to be on the night I’m attempting to shed my inhibitions.
Wait. Does that mean he’s not leaving?
A quick assessment confirms he’s coming, not going. I double down, signaling him to go ahead of me with a sweep of my arm, and give reverse psychology a stab. “Better hurry or they’ll start bingo without us.”
He doesn’t move for what seems like five minutes but is probably closer to five seconds. I follow the protruding veins in his arms as he readjusts his grip on the door and holds it open for me, same as the day we met. “After you.”
My breasts graze his chest as I squeeze past, the brush of lace and hardening nipples causing my nervous system to go haywire. Warning lights flash, blaring about clogged pipes and misfiring spark plugs, needing coolant, oil, and a tune-up.
Any second, I think as we walk down the hallway toward the Gymnasium of Plot Twists and Petulance, he’s going to lose this game of Chicken.
Game on, buddy.
Thanks to the past couple of months, I’m not only used to the zany antics of our grandmothers, it’s why I came tonight. All I want to do is get a little tipsy and play a raucous game of bingo with a bunch of overly competitive grandparents.
But the odds, they’re never in my favor.
Case in point, when I push through the gymnasium doors, the Cronies are already seated at a table, not a chair to spare, even without their newest member.
“Where’s Arlene?” I ask as I approach, handing Sophia the keys to the Caddy so I won’t accidentally leave with them.
“On a date,” Grandma Helen says without taking her gaze off the card in front of her. The game hasn’t started, but I suspect she’s using our mnemonic prowess to memorize the squares and gain an edge.
“Wayne of Shady Tree Lane?”
“Nah, she’s out with a new fella tonight,” Wanda says with a pop of her gum, equally entranced with her card as the emcee instructs everyone to please take their seats.
“Bruce,” a few voices add, overlapping one another.
“Banner?” It’s out of my mouth in a wink, but the ladies take their time scowling at me. Not because they get the reference, although Noah nudges me with his elbow, giving me a dude nod I think means I’ve earned his respect.
“I don’t know any Bruce Banner,” Grandma huffs, now onto stacking her bingo markers by color, so yeah, the genetics are strong with us.
“Bruce is one of the new residents,” Sophia says, “A highly in demand bachelor, might I add, and he took one look at Arlene and was smitten.”
“Aww.” I glance at Noah to see how he’s handling the exchange. His features remain carefully placid, save a tiny tick in his jaw, so I give his shoulder a supportive bump. “It’s good for her.”
With the first round about to begin, other attendees encourage us to find a table with extra supplies, and by encourage, I mean they yell at us to get the hell out of the way, so we do.
I’m afraid I’ve been sadly misled about the booze until I see the drink cart, and then I trip my way over giant purses, bags, and a cylinder of oxygen to place an order. Noah follows right behind, asking for a beer while I go native and order a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime juice and gin.
I scan the tables, but there’s only one with empty spaces, the table behind the Cronies.
A sigh escapes but doesn’t magically open more seats, and Noah takes me by the elbow, five long fingers of heat imprinting themselves on my skin.
As he guides me toward the empty table, his grip and his stride so confident and firm, I’m acutely aware of all the places we’re touching and all the places we’re not.
Once we reach the table, Noah pulls out a chair for me, settling me in place before taking the seat next to mine. He passes me supplies from the stack in the middle, the right side of his mouth kicking up in a crooked smile as he says, “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
By the fifth game of the evening, Noah can’t get over the fact that I’ve called bingo once already, and he hasn’t even come close.
I can’t stop fiddling with my red, yellow, and blue markers, perpetually nudging the plastic circles so they’re more centered in their squares. Noah’s card looks like he organized his on the San Andreas Fault, but the knock of his elbow against the table is what causes the quake.
He’s so generally like that. Uncontained energy, the vibes I pick up all over the place. Knee constantly bouncing, blue-eyed-gaze flicking to me at intervals. I could almost set my watch and heart rate by it.
With a purse of my lips, I get to rearranging. “I like this game much better than tennis. I actually have a chance of winning.”
“Not this game,” Noah says. “This game is mine.”
“Dream on, Landscaper Man.”
This time, his bump of the table is deliberate. “What’s that again? Better not talk trash when I know your weakness.”
I gasp and get to tidying my card, doing my best to ignore Noah’s laugh and the intoxicating shiver it sends down my spine. Seriously, if my heart thunders any harder, it’ll beat a hole through my chest. “You do? Which one?”
Another laugh; another shiver of electricity.
He leans closer, sucking the oxygen out of my bubble and leaving me dizzy with the scent of fresh-cut grass and his woodsy, masculine cologne. “One big bump and I could scatter your pieces and your focus.”
I twist in my seat, knee nestled extra high on his upper thigh. “One big bump and I could ruin the rest of your night. Do you really want to test me?”
Afraid I’ve bluffed too big, I debate changing my threat to ruining the next five to ten minutes, even though it doesn’t sound nearly as impressive.
“I’m not sure why,” he says, and I’m rewinding our conversation in an attempt to piece together his meaning. “But I really do. Want to test you, that is.”
Since I’ve been extensively trained in good sportsmanship, I decide to rub it in his face that he’s still going to lose, and that devolves into a shoving and giggling match.
From their perch onstage, the pair of women who run the show continue spinning the noisy cage and yelling out numbers, but my card’s become a mess that’s now merged with Noah’s unorganized chaos.
“What was that space?” I loudly ask my grannies, but then Noah’s calling out letters and numbers at random, and I can’t tell him to stop because I’m laughing too hard, which only eggs him on.
I’ve never seen him like this, though. Kicked back, easy grin. Teasing me like we’ve been attending Boozy Bingo on the regular for years.
“What do my ears hear?” Grandma Helen cranes her neck, and Wanda beams at us like we’re adorable woodland creatures. “Is that fun going on back there?”
“Shh,” I say, finger to my lips. “Keep it down in front—we’re trying to play bingo back here.”
“Funny,” Vonetta says, her voice ringing through the rest of the hubbub, “it sounds like you’re playing at a different game back there.”
Now we’ve got their full attention, nine sets of eyeballs scrutinizing every move, to the point they miss the next space that’s called right along with us.
I open my mouth, hoping the right words will form, but before I can scoot away and insist there’s nothing going on between Noah and me, he gives my shoulder a shove and says, “Mia started it.”
I fire daggers with my eyes, conveying he’s messed with the wrong dame. Given my failure to stifle my smile, however, I doubt he gets the message. Then the roll of squeaky wheels and the rattle of glass filters through, and I turn to see the bartender pushing the drink cart in our direction.
“Ooh, over here,” I say, certain I’m going to need more alcohol for whatever’s about to transpire. Arlene’s not exactly here to give her blessing, but it’s not like Noah and I are doing anything besides flirting.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if she’d approve.
“I thought Mia didn’t drink at these events,” Wanda says, a pinch mockingly.
Withdrawing bills from my wallet, I pass them to the bartender along with my order. “Tonight, Mia does.”
Glee spreads over Bette’s features like a sunrise. “Are we finally getting through to you?”
They squee, congratulating themselves without waiting for my input, as per usual.
My cheeks blaze, and I sneak a sidelong peek at Noah to find his gaze steady on me. “How about you?” I ask thickly. “Would you like another beer?”
Noah waves off the offer, and my lungs fill with concern over how he perceives me. I’ve worked so hard on not caring, but every inch of my body radiates it anyway.
This round is running long, so many spaces called out and filled, yet refusing to line up in a row.
Feels a bit metaphorical for my life, but once Noah’s knee comes to rest against mine, I can hardly focus on anything other than the bob of his Adam’s apple and that wicked tongue I’d like to intimately introduce to mine.
This thought isn’t intrusive, it’s exhilarating and all-encompassing. I feel like I should be conflicted or confused, but all I am is…turned on.
“Guess there is something to red lipstick.” As if transfixed, Noah taps a thumb to my lower lip.
“It’s supposed to bring out my bold side.” Barely a whisper, the confession skates over the arm he’s draped across the back of my seat.
“I’ve never thought of boldness as a trait you lack. You have no problem telling me what’s what anytime our paths cross.”
“Yeah, something about you really brings that out in me,” I say with a breathy laugh, each word pushing past the resistance of the callused pad of his thumb. “I didn’t account for the sweet, though.”
“Oh, don’t go accusing me of things I’m not,” Noah says, immediately appalled. Guys are so silly like that. They fear being labeled a teddy bear, but guess who gets to sleep with me every night?
No one is the correct answer, but I shove that self-deprecating thought aside to study the coarse hair dusting his lip and his jaw, and whoa, the outer ring of his irises are such a dark shade of blue.
There’s no denying there’s a heart of gold beneath the gruff exterior, and I want a better look at both. “Grandma,” I say in her general direction as I extend a palm. “Can you toss me the keys to your golf cart? I need to take Arlene’s grumpy grandson for a ride.”