Chapter 4 #2
“I saw that much,” Noah replies. His tone is evening out now; I can all but hear the panic subsiding as I set up the stepladder carefully on the ground beneath him, looking for the most level spot I can.
And trust me, that’s not an easy task on a slightly rocky hillside.
I send a word of thanks to the sky that the gondola didn’t get far before Gabe turned it off, and the car’s still low enough that I’m able to get the stepladder set up only a foot or so off to the side of where Noah’s hanging.
I climb the ladder carefully and arrive next to his crotch.
“You’re my hero,” he says breathlessly. “Get the dog first, okay? She’s scared.”
Huh. Talk about everyday heroes. I lift an eyebrow, but I don’t argue. Whatever makes Noah feel better right now is what I’m going to do. I reach for the dog, but she whimpers and stays put next to Noah’s forehead. I have to smile.
“I don’t think she’s going anywhere without you,” I tell him.
Noah groans. “Okay, fine. We go together, I guess. Sort of. But I kind of can’t move?”
“That’s because your jeans are stuck to the door mechanism. If I reach for your inseam, will you think I’m getting fresh with you?”
Noah laughs out loud. “Getting fresh with me?”
“It’s something my grandma used to say.”
“Take the damn jeans. You can take everything I’m wearing if you’ll just get me out of here.”
Damn, that sentence goes right through my bones.
I’ve always been equal opportunity when it comes to dating, and there are reasons Noah grabbed my eye right away that day in the elevator.
He’s exactly the kind of guy I tend to go for: a little smaller than me, with some thickness around his middle and thighs.
Soft, engaging eyes. But he’s still a hell of a lot younger than me and off-limits for plenty of other reasons.
But this definitely isn’t the time to be thinking about my ill-advised attractions.
“I think we can manage to keep your clothes on,” I tease him.
I reach for the middle of his legs, my hand brushing up against his right thigh, and Noah shivers slightly.
I manage to stay focused, though, as I find the place where the loose threads of his seam have gotten caught in the door mechanism.
With two quick pulls, I’ve got him free.
“Okay,” I tell him. “We can get you out of there now. But this ladder’s barely stable, so we’ve got to be careful, okay?”
Noah just nods. He’s gone a little quieter, I notice, and I can feel the edges of panic creeping up around him again. “How about if I grab hold of you?” I tell him. “Then you can just hang on to me while I get us down this ladder.”
The dog whimpers, and I can hear Noah’s heavy breathing.
“You’ll hold on? Tight?” he finally says quietly.
His tone reminds me of my patients when they’re asking me about success rates and danger zones right before a big surgical procedure.
Noah Hardaway is asking to put his trust in me right now, and that’s not an ask I take lightly. Ever.
“I promise,” I tell him clearly. “I won’t let you go, Noah.”
He nods and swallows hard. “Okay,” he whispers. But he’s still clutching the bottom of the bench seat. “Let’s do it.”
Fast is good right now, that much I’m sure of. So I give him no warning before I lean across his body, grabbing him under the armpits and wrapping my arms around him. He fits perfectly against me, and I breathe in the scent of something vanilla and musky as I say, “Let go, Noah.”
And he does. Just like that, he relinquishes his hold on the leg of the bench seat.
I pull him back against me until his body is tightly against mine, and I channel years of bench presses and squats as I grab hold of him.
He wraps his arms around me, and I breathe out as I savor the feeling of touch.
It’s been a long damn time since I held anyone like this, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good having someone cling to me.
I’ve always loved being the guy who could lift, hold, or carry their partner right to the bed.
Brad used to say that made me a control freak. I used to think maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Noah’s not all that heavy, and he clings to me as I carefully step us down the ladder.
I hesitate for a moment before I finally set him on the ground and charge back up to the gondola.
The dog seems reluctant to come with me at first, but then Noah whispers, “C’mon, Bear,” and just like that she lets me take hold of her and carry her down the ladder too.
“Bear?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She looks like a bear to me. She’s all fluffy.”
I put her down gently when we get to the ground, and Noah immediately wraps his arms around my neck as he pushes his face against my shoulder.
“Sorry, I know this is showing zero regard for your personal space. But thank you so, so much for getting us down from there. Seriously. I owe you my firstborn or something. Except, would you take a dog? Because I’m not sure I plan to have kids. ”
I laugh out loud and, just for a moment, let myself sink into the feeling of having Noah Hardaway’s arms around me. Clearly, it’s been too damn long since I allowed myself this kind of comfort. And hell, Noah fits against me like he’s a cast made personally for my body.
“No problem at all, Chucks. I was happy to help.” My earlier conversation with Ma passes through my mind, and I gently move to separate us.
He looks exactly the way I remember him from that hotel elevator.
Dirty-blond hair that falls across his forehead and ears, eyes that are blue with a hint of gray, and that smaller, stockier build that’s already drawn me toward him.
A quick glance at his t-shirt has me laughing out loud again. “Fun size, huh?” I ask him.
He glances down at his shirt, like maybe he forgot he was wearing it. “I like fun t-shirts. And I’m five-four,” he finally says. “People seem to have opinions about guys being five-four. Like my genes go against their personal opinions of manliness.”
“People are way too closed-minded. I bet you actually fit into airplane seats. The last time I tried to sit in a coach seat I couldn’t walk for two days.”
He grins.
“That’s a pretty dog,” I say, mostly just because I’ve got no idea what else to say. The dog cocks her head as she looks at me, as though she’s studying my every move.
“I think she’s a border collie,” Noah says.
“Or a mix. They’re farming dogs,” he adds, probably because that breed name means nothing to me and I’m sure my face shows it.
“Sheep dogs, traditionally. They’re bred for agility and speed.
” He shifts awkwardly in his sneakers. They’re the same Chucks I saw him wearing in Albany, of course: black, slightly scuffed, and a little dirty, just as well-loved sneakers should be.
“Such a good girl,” Noah adds as he scritches the dog under her chin.
“Why don’t we find you some food? I bet you’re hungry.
” He kneels to stroke her fur. “How does that sound, Bear?”
His voice is soft and gentle, exactly the way I’ve heard it in my head across every one of our epic texting sessions. I actually have to look away when he starts cooing at the dog.
There’s nothing I hate more than feelings I can’t control.