Love, Noah

Chapter One

There are only two people on this earth that I can count on.

Noah Calahan, and myself.

“I’m just going to give up,” I grumble, fidgeting with the strap of my purse as I step up to the curb and wait for a cab to pass so I can cross the street.

“What happened?” Noah’s gravelly voice sounds through the speaker.

“He fucking ditched me, that’s what,” I huff. “I should have seen the red flags when he tried to order for me at the start of the date. Even worse, he left me with the bill. That fucking asshole ordered a whole damn bottle of wine.”

“Shit, cricket,” My heart warms as the old high school nickname he gave me so many years ago now, slips out. “Where are you now?”

“Heading through the park. Want to grab pizza and a beer?”

“On my way,” Noah answers immediately. “Same place?”

“Where else?” I scoff, spotting the neon lights of Scotty’s up ahead.

The bar has been our regular for as long as I can remember, even back when we had shitty fake IDs and a prayer we wouldn’t get caught.

We’d get in and play snooker in the bar's back room, drinking our warm beer and snacking on stale peanuts until the doors closed. Sometimes that was one a.m., sometimes it was five. It’s a dive and there are plenty of other bars here that don’t have peeling walls and sticky floors, but we’re both far too attached to this place and the white-haired man who runs it.

“Be there in five,” Noah ends the call, and I slip my cell back into my purse, pushing open the door to Scotty’s a moment later.

“There she is,” Scotty grins from behind the bar.

His white mustache twitches with it, and the lines at the edges of his eyes deepen.

He’s older than dirt, but you would never believe it with the way he acts.

Just last week the man was on the back of a mechanical bull he’d hired, getting thrown around for a whole eight seconds.

He’s got to be pushing seventy at least. He never tells anyone his age.

‘I’m as old as I feel’ is what he would say whenever he was asked, so we’ve all just kind of decided to make guesses.

My bet is about sixty-seven or eight, but Noah thinks the man is closer to eighty.

It’s hard to judge when he has more energy than most of us and looks the same now as he did fifteen years ago.

“My favorite person,” I reply warmly, slipping onto my regular stool at the bar and pretending I don’t almost lose my heel when it gets stuck to the floor. Scotty immediately starts fixing two beers, slapping down beer mats in front of me. He knows Noah will be right behind me at any minute.

“You’ll make an old man blush with those kinds of words, Miss Sidney.”

I chuckle, “You know I don’t like to lie.”

“Don’t tell Noah.” He winks, “He might get jealous.”

“He most certainly will,” I take a sip of my beer. The fact that it’s warm doesn’t even bother me anymore.

“I most certainly will, what?” The stool beside me scrapes against the floor as my best friend since high school pulls it out and folds his big body into it.

He’s a little more unkempt than what the world sees, his usually styled hair disheveled from his fingers running through it, the white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to show a hard, smooth chest, skin tanned from his recent trip abroad.

“Be jealous,” Scotty sucks his tongue against his top teeth, a mischievous glint lighting up his blue eyes, “Miss Sidney here was just telling me how I’m her favorite person.”

Noah slaps a hand against his chest, “She did not.”

“It’s true,” I sigh, resting my head in my hand as I flutter my lashes at Scotty, “I just can’t help it. Scotty is my one true love.”

“Now come on, cricket,” Noah’s big palm slides to the nape of my neck, slipping beneath the length of my hair to give it a squeeze, “We all know no one compares to me.”

I flick my eyes to him, purposely giving him a once-over.

Tracing every feature of his, from his stern brow to the meticulously groomed beard surrounding his plump mouth.

It’s no secret that Noah Calahan is attractive.

Not just attractive, but on the list of the top twenty-five most attractive men and the most eligible bachelor in the city.

At thirty-six, he’s built himself an empire as one of the most successful tech startups of this century.

It started with an app that he put together back in college and has flourished since.

Now he either has shares in or owns half the platforms the entire world uses.

He’s a genius, and he’s beautiful. What more could a girl want?

Oh, right, of course, Noah doesn’t do commitments.

He never has, and according to my best friend, he never will.

I don’t even blame him. I have had my fair share of disappointment when it comes to the opposite sex and love.

I am a hopeless romantic; I won’t even deny it.

I dream of those meet-cutes you read about in romance novels, where you accidentally bump into the man of your dreams and it’s cute and dainty and you fall into a whirlwind but no matter how hard I search, it just isn’t meant to be.

I had high hopes for tonight’s date. It had been a meet-cute.

We bumped into each other at the coffee shop, I spilled my iced caramel latte all over his shirt, and in my panic, I’d practically tried to strip the guy as I offered to launder his clothes.

He’d laughed and stopped me, told me to make it up to him by letting him take me to dinner.

I’d agreed immediately, of course, and then took his number.

We texted all week, and he was so damn sweet, but then he went and ran out on me before the bill even came.

Asshole.

Noah’s hand slips away from my neck to go to his beer so he can take a sip and grimace, just like he always does.

“Scotty,” he groans, “this shit is warm.”

“Don’t like it, go somewhere else,” Scotty throws back.

We all know we won’t go anywhere else.

Noah rolls his eyes. “Talk to me.” He turns his attention back to me, “How bad was it?”

“Terrible.” I groan, “I’m pretty sure he climbed out the bathroom window. Am I really that awful to be around?”

His gray eyes soften, and he turns to me, resting his elbow on the bar. “You’re not awful to be around, Sid. I love being around you.”

“You’re obligated to say that. That’s your duty as my best friend.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he laughs, dimples sinking into his cheeks, “That guy was just a moron.”

“I just want to find love, Noah.” I sigh, “Is that too much to ask for?”

“You’re not going to settle,” he says sternly, running his fingers through his almost black hair to push it back, but that one strand that constantly falls over his brow doesn’t stay put. “You deserve more than that.”

I nod, but maybe I do need to settle. Lower my expectations so I don’t keep being disappointed.

They can’t all be like Noah, can they? Kind and smart, and funny.

I won’t lie and say I don’t compare all my dates to my best friend, but how can I not?

Noah is the perfect guy for me. He cares about me, knows what I like and don’t like, he makes me laugh, and he loves me.

We have never been anything more than friends, and sure, I’ve imagined us as a couple.

We fit together and have done since high school, but we’re only destined to be friends.

I have high standards and I always thought that was okay, but maybe they are just too high.

Maybe that has been my problem all along.

So what if he’s not six foot three with dark hair and stormy eyes?

I’m thirty-five; I’ve never had a relationship that’s lasted over three months, which is not what I had planned for myself. I had a whole scrapbook, an actual roadmap for my future, and where I wanted to be at this age. I wanted marriage and children.

God, I want kids.

And while thirty-five is not old by any means, time is running out for me.

I want babies. I have always dreamed of being a mother, and I truly believe I’d be good at it.

I have spent countless nights dreaming of Saturday mornings cooking breakfast as a family, evenings spent reading fairy tales, and day trips filled with laughter.

Of course, I know having children isn’t all puppies and rainbows all the time, but I think that also has its charm.

I don’t want a neat, tidy life; I want the chaos and mess.

A heavy sigh parts my lips, and I down half my beer.

Scotty, being the absolute gem he is, slides a pizza onto the bar in front of us, one half pepperoni, the other a chicken supreme that we never have to order because the man just knows us.

I’ve already eaten tonight, but I need the comfort only pizza will bring; I can regret my decisions in the morning.

It’s Friday after all, and I don’t have to open up shop until noon.

That gives me time to sleep in and wallow in my self-pity.

Noah grabs a slice from his pepperoni side, his stormy eyes on mine, “I knew I didn’t like the guy.” He grumbles and takes a bite.

“You didn’t even meet him.” I roll my eyes.

“Didn’t need to.” He says past a mouthful of food, “He signed off every single message with his initials.”

He did do that. On every single text message, even if we were in a whole back-and-forth conversation. He signed off each one with the letters of his name.

“It’s weird, Sid,” he rolls his eyes.

“I just want to meet someone, Noah.” I pull my own slice of pizza from the plate. “I’m getting older and I haven’t accomplished half the things I want to.”

“You ever thought about not living life by a to-do list?” He quirks one dark brow, “You know? Live a little.”

“But what about my scrapbook?” I blink at him. Despite not ticking off any of my goals, well, except one, I couldn’t even imagine not at least trying to follow the plan.

He picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth. “Sidney, you made that back in senior year.”

“So?” My shoulders droop, “Is it so bad I want to have control over my life? I’ve ticked one goal off with my shop, why can’t I have the others?”

“It’s not bad to want control,” he tosses his head from side to side, contemplating his next words. “Just a tad unreasonable.”

A laugh bursts out of me, “That’s my middle name.”

“No, your middle name is Summer,” he deadpans.

He’s right. I know he’s right, just like he always is, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I just feel like there’s something wrong with me at this point. Am I just unlovable?