Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
When we get home from the Christmas market, I rush off to my bedroom so fast that I forget to take off and hang up my jacket in the coat closet.
Whatever.
I’m going a little insane, to be honest. The image of Noémie kissing Felix plays over and over in my head like a bad song, and each time it does, a cocktail of emotions braids a barbed rope tighter around my heart.
To my dismay, Felix stuck around for the rest of our time at the market, clinging to Noémie like she was a helium balloon and he was a kid scared to loosen his grip on her string. All fucking night, I’d been haunted by the timbre of his voice and Noémie’s responding laughter.
I learned a lot about their relationship that I could’ve have gone without knowing. They’d met four years ago on a first-class flight to Vegas. Noémie had just turned twenty-one and she’d been flying to Sin City with friends to celebrate. It was supposed to be a girls trip but, after uncovering that Felix and his buddies were also staying at The Venetian, the two groups merged.
Specifics of what exactly they’d gotten up to in Vegas weren’t provided, despite Wayne’s constant probing. Each time, Felix was about to say something damning, Noémie interrupted him with a spearing look, resulting in Felix saying, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Over the years, the two friend groups linked up for other events like attending Tomorrowland in Belgium or hitting up Paris for fashion week. These were the experiences of the rich, and Felix’s connection with Noémie really hammers it home just how out of my league she is.
I throw my jacket on my desk and strip down to my sports bra and boxers. There’s a headache building behind my eyes. Collapsing on my bed, I rub my temples.
Noémie knocks on my door. “Hey, Jordan, do you have a sec?” I rise up on my elbows and stare at it.
I don’t have a second. I want to be alone. But for some stupid reason, I say, “Yeah, sure come in.”
The door creaks open, and Noémie steps inside. She looks at me and goes still. Her face flames as she diverts her gaze.
If she was someone else, I might interpret her reaction to be attraction. But it’s more likely that she’s never seen a woman in boxers before. I consider grabbing the oversized shirt laying on my nightstand and pulling it over my head, but I decide not to. All night, I had to endure Felix’s presence. Noémie can stand to be a little uncomfortable for the duration of this exchange.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Noémie bites her lip. “I just wanted to check on you.”
“Why?”
“You seemed off tonight.”
Great, I failed at coming off as neutral. My head pounds. “I hate Christmas,” I say. It’s not a lie.
“Because of your dad?”
I nod, but don’t offer up much else.
Noémie wrings her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she says, meeting my eyes. “I guess it was inconsiderate of me to ask you to come out.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug.
Noémie shakes her head. “It really isn’t.”
“It is—I’m a big girl. Besides, my dad’s passing is just one of the many reasons I hate the holidays.”
“There are others?” Noémie frowns.
“Yeah, the holiday season has never been a merry time for me,” I confess.
Noémie inches closer to the bed. “Can I ask why?”
I take a moment to consider whether I want to tell her. Funny enough, I do. “My mother usually works during the holidays to get the pay bonus. And for the longest time, Amari and I celebrated Christmas with my dad’s side,” I explain.
There’s more to say, but I’m not quite sure how to put into words what I experienced growing up. How can I explain the feeling of not belonging? My father’s ancestry is a blend of Norwegian and Scottish. The Alexanders are tall, blond, and blue-eyed. The Alexanders are all dentists, lawyers, or engineers. The Alexanders all drive BMWs and own homes that can almost rival this townhome, but not quite. In other words, they are whiter than Wonder Bread, and Amari and I are not.
I clear my throat and stare down at my lap. “I think Amari and I were only ever tolerated—not ever really considered as family,” I say, trying to ignore the lump forming in my throat. “We never had a seat at the main table. No one ever went out of their way to talk to us. And it was always so exhausting trying to pretend to want to be there. Of course, you know my sister—she never pretended. Maybe that’s part of the reason the invitations stopped coming the moment my dad died.”
Crossing the room, Noémie sits on the edge of the bed near me. Her grey eyes have a glossy sheen of empathy. She places her hand on top of mine and squeezes.
And just like that, the braid unravels and my stupid heart’s soaring again. I should probably pull my hand away. I’m playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before I get cooked.
“You should come to the chalet,” Noémie blurts.
“Huh?” I blink at her.
Noémie gives my hand another squeeze. “For Christmas—come to the chalet with me. The change in scenery might be just what you need.” Her expression is pure excitement. “The view is to die for. We can roast marshmallows by the firepit. We can even go skiing or snowboarding. You’ll have so much fun.”
I cringe internally at the thought of engaging in any type of winter sport. “I wouldn’t want to intrude?—”
“C’est tiguidou. You wouldn’t be,” she says. “It’ll just be me, my brother, and his fiancée. There’s plenty of space. You’d have your own room. And I know you’ve been looking for inspiration for your next graphic novel … maybe you can find that inspiration in Québec. You know I’m dying to read the next chapter, especially after that cliff-hanger.”
I still don’t know how Noémie managed to talk me into letting her read my graphic novel series. I feel like I should still be mad at her for invading my privacy. Sometimes it feels like I can’t say no to anything she asks for.
To my utter mortification, Noémie immediately clocked that Detective Pamela Cross looks like her. “You definitely designed her after me. Admit it,” she teased me a few days ago.
“A narcissist like you would think that,” I countered. “Pamela’s modelled after Amy Adams.”
Pouting, Noémie shook her head. “No, I don’t see it. Amy’s whole milk wholesome. Pamela’s a margarita—she’s got sass and style like me.”
“No, you’re not a margarita. I like those. You’re a negroni and burn like lighter fluid,” I said with a chuckle.
“Take that back,” she said, shoving me. Not hard, but hard enough that I instantly reacted, grabbing her wrists and pushing her back down on the couch.
It was such a stupid thing to do. In that moment, I was so tempted to kiss her. And I got the sense she would have let me. There’d been a charge between us. I’m pretty sure Noémie felt it too.
Luckily, I had enough sense to let go of her quickly and scuttle away. It would have been very bad if I kissed her. We live and work together. I can’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship. I can’t kiss someone I have feelings for.
Now, Noémie’s looking at me with the biggest doe eyes—like she actually wants me to go with her to Québec. Like she isn’t just making the offer to be nice.
I meet her gaze and feel pulled in two different directions. Part of me wants to go the chalet, but only because it means being with Noémie, which is the exact reason why I shouldn’t go. Time away from her is what I need to reset. I need to squash my feelings, not strengthen them. But …