Chapter 11 Noah
eleven
Noah
This whole getting married is messing with me. I thought it was just going to be a transaction. It’s so much more than that.
It’s Willow’s underwear in my dresser, her dresses next to my jeans, our toothbrushes in the same glass. “If we’re going to make this look real,” she whispers to me as we’re unpacking in my bedroom, “we have to do it right.”
Later that night, our first in Emerald Creek, it’s sleeping on a too-small couch and having to argue with my wife about it. “I fit right on it. Look,” she says, nudging herself on my pillow, under the blanket, showing me how her feet don’t stick out because she likes to sleep in a fetal position.
“Absolutely not,” I growl. Usually that tone gets me whatever I want in this house. Not this time.
“Make me go,” she says, closing her eyes and crossing her arms.
I’m tired. My nerves are shot.
I have blue balls from the past days in close proximity to Willow’s soft curves and sweet scent and singing voice and overall bubbly personality that is such a contrast to my own at times it feels like I am drowning in her—and the last thing I want, is to come up for air.
I pick her up, which makes her shriek in the most feminine way while bringing her whole body right against mine, her hair tickling my face, her feet kicking the air, pink toes dancing up and down, the full underside of her breast against my chest. I drop her on the bed, letting her bounce up and down, because if I’m going to let her go easy I might end up… not letting her go at all.
She shrieks again, then laughs out loud.
“Gross!” my sister shouts from across the hallway.
Willow rounds her eyes, whispers, “When did she get home?” then laughs harder before putting a hand in front of her mouth, hiding under the covers.
I settle myself on the couch and spend all night with the scent of her on my pillowcase and the sound of her breathing shooting straight to my dick.
I don’t get any sleep.
“I slept like a baby,” Willow declares the next morning as she stretches in bed, dark hair splayed on my pillow, small hands grabbing onto the headboard, full breasts pushing up. “Is that coffee?” she asks in disbelief, her sleepy eyes narrowing on the mug I just set on the nightstand.
Her tongue darts out from between her puffy lips.
I turn my back to her, pulling the drapes open. “Rise and shine.”
“Man it’s laaaate,” she says, not looking at her phone or any clock, just widening her eyes at the morning light spilling into the bedroom. “This house has such good vibes.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone say Lilyvale has “good vibes.” Wanting to ask her what she means, I turn around to see her bending over to fluff the pillow over the freshly made bed.
She frowns as she picks up her coffee mug, taking a long sip.
Her dark hair falls over her naked shoulders, leading my gaze where it shouldn’t stray, to the curve of her generous breasts testing the resistance of the too-thin fabric of her sleepwear.
“Ohmygod. You know, I would have done it just for that,” she says, her voice deep and sultry.
I turn back to look out the window. “Done what?” The hell is she even talking about?
“This whole getting married thing. Coffee in bed is enough to make it worthwhile. Are you going to do that every morning?” She chuckles. “For the sake of keeping appearances and stuff.”
My breath fogs the window. I need to get out of here.
“Don’t turn around!” she whisper-shrieks. “I’m getting dressed.”
Holy hell. Note to self: from now on, no morning chat with my fake wife. I’m setting the coffee on her nightstand and rushing out while I still can.
The door to the bathroom creaks. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute,” she says, the door clicking shut behind her.
I guess that means it’s safe to turn around. I do stay stuck in place for a beat, looking toward my bed that has to be still full of her warmth and smell, then to the bathroom where she disappeared.
Get a grip.
I get to the kitchen and find my siblings in various states of undress, hair sticking out, rumpled pajamas, Beck eating straight from a box of Froot Loops and Lane slurping Diet Coke.
“Morning!” I say, glancing at them for any sign of… something.
“Mornin’,” Lane mumbles.
“Hey, guys!” Willow singsongs as she waltzes into the kitchen.
“Um… hi?” Beck says. He runs a hand in his hair and straightens his posture. “I didn’t know Lane was having a sleepover. You could have told us,” he adds, turning to Lane.
Lane is coughing into her drink and laughing at the same time.
“What’s so funny?” Beck says, looking between me and Lane, then settling his gaze on Willow. “Good morning, Willow,” he says with his most charming smile as he stands. “How do you like your coffee?”
“She likes her coffee the way her husband brought it to her this morning,” I answer.
His jaw falls open. “You got married?” he asks Willow. “To who? Is he here?” He genuinely looks around.
I can’t help but roll my eyes while Lane laughs harder and Willow joins in the giggling.
“She married Noah, you dumbass. Might wanna read your text messages,” Lane finally says.
“Oh, so you read them?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “Duh.”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“I didn’t find anything nice to say,” she answers.
I feel Willow tense next to me and automatically get closer to her.
“I mean, you guys go to Vegas and see Phish at the Sphere and you don’t think to ask if we wanted to go?”
“You saw Phish at the Sphere?!” Beck exclaims, clearly offended.
Lane waves her phone at him. “Dude.”
“I can’t believe this shit!”
“Join the club.”
Lane goes to Willow and wraps her in a hug, which Willow reciprocates. “I’m low-key pissed that I didn’t get to wear a pretty dress and go to a bachelorette party, but I’m happy to have a sister,” she says, putting my anxiety to rest.
“Awww,” Willow coos. “I’m happy too. And I’m sure they have something like Thunder From Down Under in Montreal. Why don’t you look it up for us?”
Lane glances at me, a question in her eyes.
Good to know I still have some authority around here. “Whatever Willow wants,” I tell her.
Willow tilts her head. “I like how you trust me,” she says, smiling funny at me.
Beck hands his phone to me, a line of half naked, overly muscled men occupying his whole screen. “Your wife and our sister are going to go see that.”
“Cool,” I say, feeling my jaw clench and my heartbeat pick up.
Willow taps my chest, then pecks my cheek.
“You did good. Don’t worry, we’re not going to that.
It’s overrated.” She stays tucked against me, her hand lingering where it has no business being, then turns her back to my front to talk with Lane, clasping my hand so it wraps on her shoulder and ends dangerously close to her breast. “We’ll go on a shopping spree.
We can have fun with all the money we saved on a wedding. ”
Beck snorts. “And… another reason never to get married.”
“Dude, I don’t see a line out the door to marry you,” Lane says as she sits back at the counter.
“I didn’t see a line for No-no either. Matter of fact—”
Lane swats him behind the head.
“No-no?” Willow asks, turning her face at me, playing the loving wife a little too much to a T. She has my arm clasped so tight around her I wonder if she’s using it as a shield.
“It’s what I used to call him when I was little,” Lane says.
“Uh-nope,” Beck says. “It’s because he always says no to everything.”
If I didn’t say no to their crazy ideas, we’d probably all be dead by now.
“Like what?” Willow asks.
I free myself enough from her to refill my coffee, and give it three more minutes before heading out.
“Like hiking Mount Mansfield in the winter—”
“No! You were twelve.”
Willow looks at me weirdly, and I know she’s doing the math in her head.
“Having hot air balloons on The Green.”
“That was your idea?” Willow laughs, looking at Beck.
“No, are you nuts? You need open fields.”
“Or reopening the underground passage between the house and the shop,” Lane says.
Willow gasps. “Shut up! There’s an underground passage?
I have to say something before she falls for that. “No! No, that’s a myth.”
“No-no! No no no no,” they both repeat.
“Alright, assholes, I got work to do.”
“After breakfast,” Willow says.
Heat hits my cheekbones. “I’m good.” I try to round her, but she blocks my exit and sets her hand on my chest again, making it feel warm and tingly.
“No one goes out until they’ve had a hot breakfast in them. It’ll just be a minute.” She pushes me firmly back to a stool next to Beck. “Sit.” She opens the fridge, pulls out milk, bangs cupboards open and closed, then sets a saucepan on the stove. “Anyone have any allergies?”
Beck raises his hand. “I’m allergic to orders,” he says, standing.
“Beck, sit your ass down,” I growl. “It’s Willow’s first morning here, give her a break.”
“A break from what?” Willow asks, stirring oatmeal on the stove. Somehow she managed to find cinnamon and walnuts, which she sets on the table. “Where d’you keep your maple syrup?”
Lane pulls it out from the cupboard.
Willow frowns. “Maple syrup goes in the fridge,” she says, and I’m bracing for Beck to lose it.
“That doesn’t have time to go bad here. Be gone in two days,” he says of the quarter gallon bottle.
Willow frowns. “Really? What d’you do with it?”
“Glaze vegetables.”
“Marinate ribs.”
“Marinate salmon.”
Willow’s eyes dance between Beck and Lane while they continue to show off.
“Rice pudding.”
“Brownies.”
“Skin mask.”
“Pre-workout energy drink.”
“Yogurt.”
Now they’re pushing it. “Really, when was the last time you made yogurt?” I ask.
“You make your own yogurt?” Willow marvels.
Lane shrugs. “Used to,” she says while Beck continues, “Lemonade. Ice cream. Maple taffy.”
“What happened to breakfast?” Willow asks, hands on her hips as if she’s about to scold them.
I suppress a chuckle, but at the same time… “You seem disappointed,” I say, realizing it’s me who’s disappointed. I guess I wanted to impress Willow.
“Not at all. I’m gonna slide right into my role of breakfast maker. And cleaner,” she adds, looking around.
But we won’t give her time to do that. If there’s one thing growing up without parents really present for the last ten years taught us, it’s to not be pigs.
“Here,” she says, setting piping hot bowls of oatmeal in front of each of us and sliding next to me.
“You like it?” she whispers just for me, while Beck and Lane bicker loudly about maple syrup grade.
I’m still not quite over the fact that they had virtually nothing to say about our getting married.
I don’t know what reaction I was expecting but… something.
Instead, it looks like Willow is… sliding right in, like she said.
And I’m already getting uncomfortably attached to my wife. First it was all this sexiness driving me crazy, but I could rationalize that. Attribute it to hormones and proximity.
But now? She’s taking care of me—of us—and I don’t know that I can rationalize exactly what that does to me.
I dig into my oatmeal, which she’s sprinkled with nuts without asking me. And yes, I like it. I like it a little too much.
A day away from Willow should help me gain perspective.