17. Georgie
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GEORGIE
Noah walks me home just as he said he would, and all the while we walk in comfortable silence.
If you consider shifting glances and starts to conversations that die the moment we open our mouths to start them ‘comfortable.’ If Birdie were here, we would talk about her, her cute little booty and her hippo body and the way she looks back when you’re walking with her just to make sure you’re still there.
I feel something slip into my hand, weaving fingers between mine and the solid presence staying there.
If I stop, I might scare this moment away, scare Noah away from the confidence he built to do this, to hold my hand casually as if my heart is not pounding in my chest and in my ears and my mouth has gone dry, and my palms are possibly sweaty.
Oh god, what if my palms are sweaty? I try to gauge his reaction, but Noah just smiles and whistles as we walk around the final corner and then my building is to the right.
The six-story building looms over us, and I look up, then to Noah. “This is me.”
“Can I walk you in? Or is this as far—” He trails off, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He gives a casual, so casual shrug, “I just… I like spending time with you. I… I don’t want the day to end yet.”
“You can,” I say. “You can walk me in. I’d like that.”
I try to ignore the fact that my head is spinning, of every sign telling me that this is a bad idea.
I shove the little nagging Georgie into a closet to be forgotten about, ignoring her waggling fist, buzzing myself into the building.
For the love of God, if Franny is in my apartment right now…
How would I even begin to explain this situation?
What if he just walks me to my door and calls it a day? This was a not-a-date after all… Right?
“So that’s where it all started, huh?” Noah stills in the apartment lobby and stares at the elevator’s ominous door. The out-of-order sign has long been removed.
I glare at it and then look at him, “Yes, that’s the tin can of death I refuse to ever use again.”
“You hike the stairs, huh?” He doesn’t sound surprised by this piece of information but glances warily at the staircase in question.
“I have since that day…” I admit.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back in one?”
“When required, probably, but I might freak out. Or definitely freak out. But if I don’t have to, no. I’ll get my exercise on the stairs, thanks.”
“We could try now if you want to?” He nods in the direction of the door.
“No.” My answer is immediate, but Noah is unfazed.
He must feel the tremble in my hand at the very thought of doing it, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Okay. Then lead the way.”
“You’re only saying that so you can stare at my ass as I walk up first, aren’t you?” I’m joking, mostly, as I start to ascend the stairs.
I glance back, and can see the pink in Noah’s cheeks as he intentionally checks out my ass and then looks right at me. “Oh, absolutely I am.”
FLIRTING. HE. IS. FLIRTING WITH ME.
That’s what that is, right? It’s been too damn long since I’ve done this.
I try to make the climb look effortless, swishing my hips a little just in case he is in fact looking.
Believe me, the 5-floor hike has gotten easier to do every time, so while I’m barely winded, Noah’s panting.
“Shit.” Noah huffs, “You do that every day?”
“Sometimes more than once.”
“How do you do it?” He says with a long breath, trying to keep up. That. That right there shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but good god does it feel fantastic.
“Easy. I just tell myself, ‘I think I can, I think I can,’” I sing-song, making a chugging motion. He laughs, echoing through the corridor of the floor. I point to my apartment door. “This is me.”
“Oh.” He says softly, a little deflated. Maybe he hoped I lived at the other end of the hall.
I try to think about how tidy my house is. All things considered, it’s been a really good week. Those are rare. Welcomed and appreciated, but rare. With my place being decently clean comparatively, I feel confident when I say, “Want to come in for a coffee or something?”
His eyes shift from his feet to my face, the light returning, “Yeah?”
“Why not? The coffee is terrible; I’m more of a tea or pop person, but I have it around for weirdos who like it. And I think if you’re nice, I have some cookies from Franny I can share.”
“Sounds perfect.” He chuckles, waiting for me to unlock the door and show him inside.
Noah takes in my place like he’s only got a minute to see it all, and then he’ll be tested. He finds my bookshelf of books next to my bookshelf of yarn, tracing the spines and snorting at some of the titles. “Do I even want to know what some of these are about?”
“Probably not,” I say playfully, trying to ignore just how much I am enjoying seeing Noah in my living room.
He looks comfortable as he grazes the reading shelf and then peruses the yarn next, grabbing the threaded coils of acrylic, cotton, wool, and velvet.
There’s a moment when I see him smile and nod to himself, working to identify the material the yarn is made of or the size of the yarn itself.
His pride is obvious when he realizes that he was correct after looking at the wrapper.
“You’re getting better at that…” I note, slipping away to grab coffee-making materials.
My electric kettle turns on, the sad instant coffee comes off its hiding shelf, and I grab creamer from the fridge. I only notice he’s come over to watch me in the kitchen when I turn to ask him what he takes in his coffee, and he’s there, staring at me with soft honey brown eyes.
“So, what do you do for fun?” He says with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe.
“Stunt driving for pink slips, obviously. The Audi in the parking lot is mine, don't you know.”
“Really?” His eyebrows raise.
“No, I couldn’t afford a car right now even if I wanted to.” I snort.
I hand him the coffee and he takes a casual sip. I can see his face trying not to wince. Did the sugar hit him in the back teeth? Or is it the really sad excuse for coffee? Either way, Noah says nothing, sipping again to make a show of trying, moving closer and leaning against the countertop.
I point to the cup, “You don't have to drink it if it’s bad. I did warn you,”
“You did, but it’s okay.” He shrugs. “So which of those books would you start with for a person with time on his hands and a need to keep his mind active.”
“Well,” I sip my tea, “It depends on the level of spice you want.”
“Spice?”
“How hot do you want it to be?” I ask.
“Still not following. Aren’t they just books? How can they be hot or spicy?” He’s so cute when he’s innocent, but oh my god. I am going to have to spell this out for him.
I scoff, “They’re not just books, they’re romance. And some of those are too hot to handle in broad daylight. Like, curl up in bed naked with your right hand at the ready kind of hot… Are you following now?”
How I ended up standing in front of him, hand on his chest and whispering low is beyond me. But I can see his visible swallow, the lick of his lips as he listens to my every word. Did I overstep? Did I read into it too much earlier?
“Following.” He blinks, releasing a breath that has me wickedly grinning.
I hum, “Good.”
I pat his chest and pull my hand away, watching him gauging my every move. I bring him back over to the bookshelf in question.
It’s a tall, black flatpack build-it-yourself 5-tiered shelf that houses the books that don’t fit on my bedroom bookshelf.
Those are not suitable for the public and match the copies on my e-reader and audiobook app that never see the light of day.
But these ones are tamer, in theory. I place a hand on the top shelf.
“Light, sweet, contemporary romance to make you blush and feel like you’ve just watched a Hallmark movie.” I move my hand down to the next shelf, a delicate finger tracing the spines. “Introduction to spice. Sex scenes that aren’t so explicit but get the job done.”
He focuses on me and only me, it makes me feel all tingly and warm inside as I clear my throat and move to the next shelf, “Spicy reads. Sex scenes that are explicit, sometimes kinky, and they continue onto shelf four, and then shelf five is the ghost pepper level of spice. There’s more in my bedroom.
These are just the ones that didn’t fit in there. ”
“Was that an invitation into your bedroom, Georgie?” Noah grins when I gawk.
Recovering quickly, I scoff again, “You wish.”
He hums, a low rumble in his chest. Is he agreeing with me? He pulls a book off the shelf and glances at the back without actually reading it, “I’ll bet you have a stuffed animal collection in there hiding somewhere.”
I make a pfft sound, flicking a hand to brush the idea aside. He doesn’t need to know about the small box of childhood memories, stuffed animals included, hiding in my storage room. He also doesn’t need to know about Sleepy Time Bear wedged between my pillows for safekeeping.
“This one.” He says, holding out the book. “What’s it about?”
He’s pulled from the fourth shelf down, the first book in the series I am currently reading, about badass boss ladies and the men that would fall to their knees for them without hesitation.
“I’m not sure that’s what you’re looking for as a first-time reader.” I warn.
“Oh?” He knits his eyebrows and reads the back again, confused. “Why is that?”
“I mean, hey, maybe it is. I’m not one to judge. It has dominant boss ladies, more submissive men, spice, the works.” I shrug.
“Can I?” He wiggles the book and I nod.
“You may. I’m on book three, so it’ll be like our own little book club.”
“Bet I’ll catch up quicker than you can say spicy,” He grins, proud of himself. He starts to walk toward my door, and I realize he’s intending on leaving. I’m not ready for him to do that yet.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, “What do I win if you lose?”
He glances over a shoulder, hand still poised on my front door handle, “What do you want to win?”