Chapter 9
Rika
Mitchell just confirmed he's picking up the kids for spring break tomorrow at six p.m. sharp and I don't know if I should be happy for them or roll myself in a tight little ball and cry all week.
I'll probably do both.
It's a good thing for kids to spend time with their father. At least, that's what I keep repeating to myself.
"Mom?" Matthew's small voice interrupts my thoughts. "Can you come back in?"
He's sitting up in bed, his pale-green wings lying on the pillows behind him, his purple eyes wide. I can tell he's nervous at the idea of spending seven days without seeing his mom.
Matthew has been excited about the trip. At least, he was trying to be. Mitchell promised him they'd go to the science museum, to the movies, maybe even the aquarium. But as bedtime approached, the reality of being away from me for that long started to sink in.
I sink down onto the edge of his bed, brushing a strand of green hair away from his forehead.
"What's wrong, baby?"
His bottom lip trembles. "I don't want to go."
"Hey." I pull him into my lap, wings and all, and he burrows against me. "It's going to be okay. You're going to have so much fun with your dad."
"But what if I miss you?" His voice is so small it breaks my heart. "What if I need you and you're not there?"
I squeeze him tighter, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. "I'm always going to be here for you, Matthew. Even if we're not in the same place. You can call me anytime, okay? Day or night."
He nods against my shoulder but doesn't let go.
We sit like that for a long moment, and gradually, his breathing evens out. His grip on my body loosens, and I think maybe, just maybe, he's starting to relax.
Then he pulls back, his eyes going wide with sudden panic.
"Mom! I forgot Mr. Gears at Noah's!"
I blink. "What?"
"This afternoon!" Matthew's voice pitches higher, tears already welling up again. "I took him downstairs to show Noah my new tricks, and I left him there!"
"Honey, it's okay. I'll go get him tomorrow morning."
"I can't sleep without Mr. Gears!" Matthew's breathing is getting faster, that telltale sign that he's spiraling toward a full meltdown.
I glance at my wristwatch. It's a quarter past eight. I really don't want to disturb Noah this late. He's already gone above and beyond for me in his short employment.
"Matthew, why don't you sleep with your teddy instead? You used to love Cuddlepuff."
"Please, Mom!" His eyes fill with tears. "Please get him! Noah won't mind. I know he won't."
And there it is. The tears. The trembling lip. I know this battle is lost before it even begins. I'm trapped. I have to go down to the apartment and get Mr. Gears.
"Okay, okay." I wipe his tears with my thumbs, forcing a smile. "I'll go get Mr. Gears right now."
Matthew throws his arms around my neck, squeezing tight. "Thank you, Mom. You're the best."
I hold him for another moment, then tuck him back into bed. "I'll be right back. Five minutes, tops."
"Okay." He settles against his pillow, still sniffling but visibly calmer.
I slip out of his room and head downstairs, already pulling out my phone to text Noah.
But by the time I'm standing outside his door, he still hasn't answered my text. I hesitate a few seconds more, then I try calling.
No answer.
Unease crawls up my spine as I consider the possibility that Noah might be out for the night. But no. His car is parked in my driveway.
I knock softly on the door. Once. Twice.
No answer.
I knock again, a little louder this time, and call out quietly, "Noah? Are you there?"
Still nothing.
I move to the small window beside the door and peer inside. The living room is dark except for the faint glow of a nightlight in the hallway. And there, sitting on the kitchen counter near the breadbox, is Mr. Gears.
Right there. So close.
I could be in and out in thirty seconds.
I look down at the key in my palm, already warming from my nervous grip. My fingers are slick with sweat.
This feels wrong. All kinds of wrong.
Walking into Noah's apartment without him knowing feels like crossing an invisible boundary, no matter that he's living on my property. It's his space now.
But Matthew is upstairs, waiting. Building up to a meltdown if his comfort toy isn't in his arms in the next ten minutes.
I close my eyes and count to three. My wings flutter against my back, the tips brushing against my blazer in agitation.
Maybe Noah is out. Maybe he went for a walk.
Or maybe he's in the shower.
The thought of Noah in the shower sends an unwelcome spike of heat through my body.
I immediately shove the image away, but it's too late.
My traitorous brain has already supplied a vivid mental picture: water sluicing over broad shoulders, steam rising, those muscular arms I definitely haven't been staring at.
Large hands running suds along toned abs and down to powerful thighs.
Stop. Stop it right now.
"In and out," I mutter through gritted teeth. "It'll take five seconds, tops."
I unlock the door, the deadbolt clicking open with a sound that seems absurdly loud in the quiet evening. The door swings inward, hinges creaking softly, and I step inside.
Get it together, Rika. You're a grown woman. Act like one.
The apartment is still perfectly tidy, but signs of Noah's presence are sprinkled throughout the place. A hoodie draped over the sofa, a pair of sneakers on the rug by the door. My eyes stray to a book left on the coffee table, pages splayed open and turned upside down.
I close the door carefully behind me, wincing at the sound.
I move to the kitchen, walking on tiptoes like a thief in the night. Like I'm not enough of a creep as it is. On the refrigerator, I spot one of Matthew's drawings. A robot with mismatched arms and a crooked smile, held up with a magnet like a trophy in the middle of the door.
My heart does that stupid thing where it tries to jump into my throat.
Noah kept it. Of course he did.
I force myself to focus. Mr. Gears. I'm here for Mr. Gears.
I grab the stuffed robot and turn to leave. I'm tiptoeing toward the door when I hear the sound of a door opening down the hallway. Then Noah's voice, low and relaxed, humming something off-key.
I freeze.
Every rational part of my brain screams at me to announce myself. To call out a cheerful "Hey, Noah! I dropped in to get Mr. Gears" like a normal person who isn't skulking around someone else's place like a crazy stalker.
But my body has other ideas.
Instinct takes over, and before I can stop myself, I'm pressing against the wall just inside the living room archway, clutching Matthew's toy to my chest like a shield. My wings press flat against my back, my breathing shallow and quick.
This is insane. I'm being insane.
But I don't move.
The humming gets closer. Footsteps pad down the hallway—bare feet on hardwood, soft and unhurried.
And then Noah walks into the kitchen, just to my right.
My brain short-circuits.
He's wearing a towel. Just a towel.
A small white towel slung low around his hips, barely clinging to the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath the cloth. Water beads on his chest, catching the low light as it rolls down the defined planes of his pectorals, over his abs, and down.
There's a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, trailing lower in a line that draws my gaze south before I can stop myself. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle. His hair is damp and tousled, and his clean scent makes my knees weak.
My mouth goes dry. My heart slams against my ribs. Every coherent thought evaporates, replaced by a white-hot awareness of his body, of how close he is, of the towel and what it's barely covering.
Say something, Rika, my brain screams at me. Say something before he turns around and sees you hiding in the corner.
I watch the shift and sway of the fabric as he moves, the way it clings to his hips, and my mind supplies images I absolutely should not be imagining: the towel slipping, falling, revealing—
Stop. Stop, stop, stop.
But I can't stop. I'm frozen in place, my eyes tracing every line of him like he's a work of art I'm not allowed to touch but can't look away from.
Noah opens the fridge, reaching for something.
I don't know why, but I have the crazy image of him taking out a can of whipped cream, then quickly tamp it down.
To hell with my mother and her damned mouth, putting images of Noah and whipped cream in my brain.
The movement makes the muscles in his back flex and shift.
Then he glances to his left. His face takes on a shocked, surprised expression that would be comical if it didn't make me want to melt down and disappear on the spot.
Our eyes meet.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
"Rika?" His voice is rough, relaxed, and it does absolutely obscene things to my nervous system.
Words tumble out of me in a breathless rush, tripping over each other in my desperation to explain and escape.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I mean, I did mean to sneak in, just not sneak up on you." I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling. But I can't stop. "Matthew forgot Mr. Gears at your place, and he can't sleep without it."
There’s a short pause where I think my heart really will jump through my throat and out of my body. Then my brain finally spits out something useful.
"I did try to call and knock."
My lungs finally run out of air, and I hold up the toy in front of me with outstretched arms. As if it's evidence that I have a legitimate reason for being here. As if this will somehow erase the fact that I just got an eyeful of my children's nanny in nothing but a towel.
Noah recovers first. One hand drops to his towel, tightening it slightly at his hip in a gesture that draws my gaze right back to the spot I'm desperately trying not to stare at.
Then he laughs, a warm, easy sound that fills the room and makes me flush even hotter.
"Hey, it's okay," he says, his voice still rough and amused. "You didn't sneak up on me. I just didn't expect company."
He takes a step closer, and my back presses harder against the wall even though I'm already flush against it. He's so tall. I have to tilt my head all the way back to meet his eyes, and the movement puts his chest at my eye level.
Which is not helping.
At all.
"I found Mr. Gears behind the sofa before stepping in the shower," Noah adds, his lips quirking in a grin that's both playful and devastating. "I was about to bring him up to you."
A beat of silence stretches between us. I should say something. Thank him. Make a joke. Literally anything other than stand here staring at him like I've forgotten how words work.
"You know, the kids are gone all week at Mitchell's," I hear myself say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Maybe if you're free, we could go out. Grab a bite at the Wandering Gnome? If you want. No pressure."
Oh God. What am I doing?
Noah's eyebrow lifts, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch. Heat floods my face so fast I'm surprised I don't combust on the spot.
"It's not a date! No! No, it's just dinner. As friends. Very much not a date." Words spill over each other and out of my mouth in my desperate need to clarify. Or to die. I could die right now. "Just, you know, eating food. Together. As people who know each other. Platonically."
"Platonically," Noah repeats, and there's laughter in his voice now, warm and rich and entirely too appealing.
"Exactly. Completely platonic. Just… dinner."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, those hazel eyes dancing with amusement, and I want to melt into the hardwood floor and disappear forever.
Then he nods slowly. "Alright."
I blink. "Alright?"
"Yeah. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Not a date." His grin widens. "Sounds good."
"Oh. Okay. Good. Great." I'm nodding too enthusiastically now, my wings doing nervous little flutters behind my back. "I'll see you then. Let's say around eight?"
"Looking forward to it."
He's still smiling at me, and I'm still standing here like an idiot, clutching Matthew's toy to my chest like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
I can't believe he said yes.
I can't believe I asked.
Noah's gaze drops, slow and deliberate, traveling over my face, down my neck, lingering on the curve of my breast before returning to my eyes.
The look is openly appreciative. Hungry in a way that makes my breath catch and heat pool low in my belly.
For a charged, crackling moment, we just stare at each other. I'm hyperaware of the rise and fall of his chest, still damp from the shower. The way his jaw tightens. The heat in his hazel eyes that matches the fire building inside me.
I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. See the way his fingers flex against the towel, knuckles going white with the grip.
He's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that if I just leaned forward a fraction, I could grip that darn fabric and give it just one quick pull.
No. Absolutely not.
I want to touch him. God, I want to close the distance and find out if his skin is as warm as it looks, if his mouth tastes as good as I've imagined in those late-night moments I refuse to acknowledge in daylight.
But that's insane.
"I should go." My voice comes out strangled, too high. I clear my throat and try again.
I'm already moving toward the door, clutching the robot toy to my chest, my wings fluttering with the urge to flee.
I yank open the front door and practically stumble onto the porch, the cool air hitting my flushed face. I speed-walk to my door. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
I only calm down when I'm safely inside my house, my back against the door.
What the hell did I just do? I just asked my manny on a date.
And he said yes.