Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
In the daylight, Noémie’s semi-detached Victorian residence exudes charm and timeless elegance. The shutters and front door are painted a wintery shade of green that complements the red brick facade. Wooden shingles line the steeply pitched roof. Neatly trimmed shrubbery edges the driveway that I pull into.
Cutting the engine, I get off my motorcycle. As I remove my helmet and walk up the short concrete staircase, my stomach twists. I question what the hell I’m doing. I should not be at Noémie’s place. We could never be roommates.
Biting my lip, I turn and look at my motorcycle. I consider leaving, but only for a moment. Since I drove all the way here, I might as well take Noémie up on her offer for a tour of the home—even knowing I have no intention of cohabitating with her.
I push the doorbell. It’s fitted with one of those tiny cameras. A loud whimsical chime plays followed by frantic barking. My anxiety notches up a level. It’s not that I’m scared of dogs, but having had very little interaction with them, I do fear getting bit. Growing up, I always wanted a pet, but according to my Caribbean mother, “Dawg and puss fi deh outside.”
The front door opens. Noémie stands in the threshold wearing a pair of grey Roots sweatpants, orange slides with Givenchy embossed in crisp white letters, and an oversized white shirt with a collar so wide that it falls off one shoulder. Though she’s dressed in clothes that suggest an itinerary of binge-watching sitcoms all day, her makeup is perfection. Her auburn hair is pulled up into her signature ponytail. She is faultless.
The uneasiness in my belly intensifies. I sneak a quick look over my shoulder at my bike.
“Hey,” Noémie greets, opening the front door wider. She smiles, waving for me to come inside.
I try to smile back, but the muscles around my mouth aren’t working. For a second, I hesitate, but then I step into the bright foyer.
The dog’s still yapping. It’s a tiny thing with long silky blue-grey hair on its body and brownish-gold hair around its face and muzzle. It pins me with its beady black eyes and barks at me like I’m an intruder.
Jumping on its hind legs, it paws Noémie’s calves. “Tais-toi, Céline,” she says, scooping the tiny terror up into her arms. “She doesn’t bite. Normally, she’s very quiet, but visitors make her excited. She’s just saying hi.”
I can’t imagine the dog ever being quiet, but I nod.
I slip out of my Nikes and instantly note how pleasantly warm the glossy-white tiled floor is beneath my socked feet. “Heated floors?” I ask with wonder.
“Yeah, all throughout the house,” she says, scratching Céline’s head with her French-tipped nails. The dog relaxes and ceases its barking and wriggling.
I imagine Noémie raking those manicured nails down my neck and suppress a shudder. Clearing my throat, I say, “Fancy.”
“Just wait until you see the kitchen.” Noémie gestures for me to follow her, so I do.
I’m guided away from the foyer, and the white tiles transition to sandy wooden floors arranged in a herringbone pattern.
Noémie points to a room opposite an ascending staircase, “That’s the sitting room. It’s good for collecting dust.”
I give the richly furnished space a cursory glance and can’t help but think that it’s ridiculous how some people can have rooms they never use. Space is something I’ve never had enough of. I grew up sharing a two-bedroom apartment with my mother, grandmother, and older sister. Our cramped situation always put us at each other throats. Any little thing sparked an argument, but usually it was an escalating chain reaction. Every weekday began with Amari hogging the bathroom and me banging on the door, screaming at her to hurry up. My screaming and banging always triggered Grandma Janet, who’d start crying out the Lord’s name and scripture, and that set off my mother. Before 8:00 a.m., all four of us would be hollering at each other.
I follow Noémie into the main living space. It’s an open layout. Natural light pours in from giant windows that overlook a quaint backyard fitted with a canopied deck, grilling station, and what looks to be a hot tub. There isn’t much green space, but it’s more than most could hope for in the heart of the city. Near a set of sliding doors is a dining area featuring a heavy wooden table that’s definitely not from Ikea—probably custom built. The eight adorning high-backed chairs aren’t very comfortable-looking.
My eyes go wide when I see the kitchen. It’s giving beauty, opulence, and functionality. With its classic white countertops, gold fixtures, and sage green cabinets, it’s the kind of kitchen people pin on Pinterest. I’ve never stepped foot in a kitchen this grand before. I count twelve stools tucked underneath the overhang of a giant kitchen island. A gold range hood hovers over a gas range boasting six burners, a large stainless-steel griddle, and two ovens.
Across the kitchen is a modern living room that looks more staged than lived-in, but there are pops of orange here and there that loan it some of the owner’s personality. Noémie being Noémie, I guess I expected her place to have the colour scheme of a creamsicle.
She saunters into the kitchen and walks over to an impressive espresso machine. My eyes narrow on the logo—it’s a La Marzocco. Not a machine for beginners. I wonder if it’s just for show or if Noémie actually knows how to use it.
“Would you like a coffee?” Noémie asks.
Truth is, I drank a coffee already, but I want to know if the Poutine Princess can operate the espresso machine. “Sure,” I say.
“What kind of drink would you like?”
I pull out a stool and have a seat at the island. “How about a latte?”
“Sure.” Noémie sets Céline down on the floor. The little dog shakes violently and yawns.
I watch Noémie get to work. She weighs whole coffee beans and spritzes them with water to prevent static during the grind. Before tamping, she whisks the grounds using a WDT tool to ensure even distribution. After tamping, she tosses on a puck screen before twisting the portafilter in place and pressing a button to begin the extraction. I’m thoroughly impressed with her speed and technique, and I know even before she pulls the shot that it will be a perfect golden emulsion.
The machine hums as an even stream of caramel liquid fills a double walled glass. Toasty notes of coffee season the air, and my mouth waters in anticipation. While shift manager at Grind that Bean is not my dream job, I am passionate about coffee. There’s nothing quite like a perfectly made cup. Coffee is the one thing in life that will always pick you up.
Noémie steams milk and proceeds to expertly pour it over the shot. When she sets the glass down in front of me, I see that she drew a swan out of the foam. I’m impressed. Latte art is extremely hard. It took me over a year to master drawing a leaf, and I’m an artist.
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the cup to my lips. I take a sip. My eyes close. The drink is perfection. It’s smooth and chocolaty. The balance between bitterness and acidity is on point. It’s possibly the best latte I’ve ever had.
“C’est bon?”
Not understanding, I look up and blink at Noémie.
“I asked if it’s good.”
“It’s excellent,” I say, licking my lips and setting down the glass. “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew how to work an espresso machine?”
Noémie folds her arms across her chest and leans against the counter. “Before you hired me, I told you that coffee is one of my hobbies,” she says, pinning me with a look that makes me want to hunker down in my seat.
“Yeah, you did,” I say. Truth is, I hadn’t really believed her.
“And I’ve been trying to talk to you about it, but you literally go out of your way to ignore me at work,” she says. “Do you have a problem with me?”
Yes, I do. You’re under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t want you to know. “I don’t have a problem with you,” I lie. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”
“If you say so.” She rolls her eyes.
“I do,” I say, drumming my fingers against the double-walled glass of the coffee cup. I sigh. “Look, starting your next shift, I’ll put you on drinks.” When the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back immediately. I work on the espresso machine. If Noémie works the machine with me, it’d mean we’d be working side by side with each other for almost the entire shift. She’s going to be such a distraction. Fuck.
A smile spreads across Noémie’s face. She’s looking at me like I’ve just offered her the world. My insides melt. I look down at my cup and tell myself that it’s not a big deal. I’m an adult. I can be professional around Noémie.
After I finish my drink, Noémie continues the tour of her home. We walk up a flight of steps, and I’m shown the guest room that she’s considering renting out. It’s a large room—double the size of my current bedroom and a lot brighter. There’s a large bay window with a bench that looks onto the street. The bed looks like a queen. It’s richly outfitted with a thick comforter and a pile of pillows and cushions. I bet sleeping on it would feel like sleeping on a cloud. My current mattress has spring coils that dig into my back if I lay on it a certain way.
Noémie pulls open a door that leads to a walk-in closet. I gawk at its size. I don’t have enough clothes to take up even a quarter of the space.
She opens another door, revealing an ensuite four-piece bathroom. My mouth hangs open. “Is this the primary bedroom?” I ask.
Noémie chuckles. “No. I told you this is the guest suite. My bedroom is on the third floor.”
“I didn’t know guest suites had ensuite bathrooms.”
Noémie chuckles like I said something funny. “So, you like it?”
Of course, I like it. Who wouldn’t? But I’m out of my element here. I don’t belong here. People like me don’t live in places like this. “Yeah, it’s great,” I say. “But, I don’t think I can afford it.”
Noémie frowns. “What makes you think that?”
I gesture at the room. “You have to know what a space like this could go for on the market.”
“Yes,” Noémie admits. “But I’m not keen on living with a stranger.”
“Aren’t I a stranger? You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re the type of person who doesn’t let drunk girls walk home alone,” she says. “I know that Wayne thinks the world of you, and I trust his judgment.”
I want to say that she barely knows Wayne, and that she shouldn’t put so much faith in him. Wayne is great, but he’d sell his mother to the devil for a designer bag.
“Doesn’t change the fact that I can’t afford to live here.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t even know what I’m asking for it.”
“And what are you asking for it?”
“What are you paying in rent now?”
“Twelve hundred,” I reply honestly, knowing that the pitiful amount is well under what Noémie could possibly want. “I can afford as much as fifteen hundred, but even that is pushing it for me.”
A hush falls over the room. Noémie’s brows knit together. “Would you be open to renting the room for thirteen hundred?”
“You can get more than double that if you rent to someone else,” I say.
“Seriously, why are you fighting this? I already told you that I’m not interested in living with a stranger,” she says, annoyance creeping into her tone. “Besides, I am not hurting that bad for money now that I’m working. Thirteen hundred is more than enough to cover the utilities, which is why I’m looking for a roommate in the first place.”
“Don’t you think it’d be weird—living together?” I ask.
“Because you’re my boss?”
“Yes.”
She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder. “No, not really. This house has more than enough space for the two of us,” she replies.
I bite my lip. Am I actually considering moving in with Noémie? Logically, it would be stupid not to accept her offer. I can afford thirteen hundred dollars a month in rent, and Noémie’s place is close to work.
But I can’t live with her. It wouldn’t be wise, and not just because we work together. Noémie makes me feel things I’d rather not feel. She’s a temptation I can never have. Whenever I’m near her, I lose myself a little. I’m not sure how long I’d be able to keep up my front of disinterest if we lived together. And she can never know that I’m interested in her. She’s straight—the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable.
Sharing a space with Noémie would likely put me in a state of constant sexual frustration. Even now, my fingers itch to drag her over to the bed and have my way with her. Where women are concerned, I’m used to getting what I want. But I can’t have her for so many reasons.
Still, I wonder what Noémie would do if I made a move and flirted a little. Would she push me away or pull me closer? I wonder if Noémie is like spaghetti. Some women really are only straight until wet. Nope—not going there. I’ve been with straight girls before—it’s asking for drama. I’m too old for drama.
Noémie stares at me. She’s waiting for an answer.
The right thing to do would be to turn down her offer. But when have I ever done the right thing?