Chapter Seven #2
His gaze lingers before he looks away. I flop onto my back, laughing up at the sky. God, I haven’t felt like this in a while, light, flushed, a little unsteady in the best way.
My stomach growls loud enough to make us both laugh again, and we head up to the house in search of food.
“Okay, you’re in luck,” I announce, pulling a chilled bowl from the fridge. “Milly makes the best chicken salad you’ll ever have.”
Noah leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the salt-sweet trace of the ocean clinging to his skin. “I have to meet this Milly.”
“She’s a saint. And she’s a magician in the kitchen.”
I scoop generous spoonfuls onto slices of fresh bread from Arthur’s Bakery and slide a plate toward him.
One bite in, he groans, tipping his head back. “Oh, yeah. This is life changing.”
I catch a flash of movement through the front window. Jack, kneeling in the grass beside Milly, tugging at a stray vine along the fence, piling it neatly at his side. She’s chatting, hands flying the way they do, and he’s listening and nodding.
Something tightens low in my chest, followed quickly by a puzzled irritation. Why is Jack in my yard?
I look away before Noah can follow my gaze. “Told you it’s good.”
He sets the sandwich down for a moment, scanning the shelves, the bits and pieces of home that make up this kitchen. His gaze lands on a sketch hung on the side of the fridge, the ink faded around the edges.
“Did you draw this?” he asks, reaching toward it but not touching.
I study the quick line sketch I’d done many years ago. A self-portrait, laughing on the beach, sun-streaked hair flying in the wind. It’s been there for years, familiar to the point of invisibility.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “Just a doodle.”
Noah shakes his head, eyes still on it. “That’s not just anything.” And the way he says it makes me shift on my feet, embarrassed but warmed.
I glance out the window one last time and can’t help but bristle. Jack’s still there with Milly, pruning my plants like it’s his yard, like he’s always belonged here.
When I turn back around, I notice Noah’s gaze had followed mine.
“Is that Jack?” he asks. “You two…close?”
The question punches a tiny hole in my composure. I force a shrug, hoping it lands somewhere between casual and unbothered.
“We dated a long time ago,” I say lightly. “It’s…nothing.”
Nothing. Sure. If nothing is a small electric shock every time I see him.
Noah nods once, slow, watching me more than the window. He doesn’t press, but I’m suddenly furious that Jack hovering in my yard is ruining this moment. I reach for my water like I’m totally fine.
“Ready to head back down to the beach?” I ask, too brightly.
“Lead the way.”
When Noah and I settle into our beach chairs again, they’re somehow even closer than before. I swear I only scooted mine once, but now our arms could brush if either of us shifted an inch.
A little after five, Noah’s phone buzzes. “Mind if I grab this?”
“Of course not.” I stretch my legs in the sand as he answers, his voice sliding into that deeper register men save for phone calls, each word drawn out just a touch more. It’s a quick conversation, and when he hangs up, he turns back to me.
“That was Miguel. There’s an impromptu pickleball tournament happening back at their house. Apparently everyone’s been drinking, so I’m guessing the stakes are low.”
His lips curl up, playful. “Want to be my partner?”
“You mean right now?” I ask, sitting up.
“Yeah. But only if you want. I don’t mind skipping it.”
I rise, brushing sand from my legs with an exaggerated sigh. “Only if you’re prepared to win.”
Noah laughs as I take off toward the house. Upstairs, I pull out my white pleated tennis skirt and matching sports top. It’s cute. A little flirty. I catch myself smiling as I tie my hair up.
When I get back downstairs, Noah’s waiting in the doorway. His eyes sweep over me slowly, lingering just long enough that my stomach tightens.
“Damn,” he says, lips quirking. “You’re not messing around.”
I brush past him with a grin. “Hope you can keep up, Nashville.”
He falls in step beside me, laughing. “Not gonna lie, you’re a little intimidating.”
I wink, ponytail swinging. “Good.”
On the way, we swing by Noah’s rental so he can change.
While he jogs inside, I linger by the cart, eyeing the house with its teal shutters and sun-faded siding.
Music drifts faintly from somewhere inside, and through the front window I catch a glimpse of a couple guitars propped in the corner.
The whole place feels like a cross between a summer hideaway and a creative den.
When he reappears, fresh T-shirt, hair pushed back, he doesn’t hesitate to reach for my hand, and I feel it with my whole body.
By the time we pull up to White Cottage, everyone is already gathered. Light spills over the pickleball court, making the whole scene warm and cinematic.
“Oh my God, Lucy, that is the cutest pickleball outfit!” Kate shouts, practically skipping toward me.
I laugh, instantly relieved by her warmth, my nerves about crashing their group again dissolving.
“Thanks, Kate,” I grin, tightening my ponytail. “I can’t believe this house has its own court.”
“I know, right?” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Also? Just so you know, original plan was boys versus girls, but Noah insisted on being your partner.”
I poorly attempt a neutral expression. “Oh, really?”
Kate’s grin widens, all mischief.
“Hmmm, I think we girls need to stick together. Let’s do this.”
Kate squeals and spins back toward the court. “We switched up the teams,” she announces. “It’s girls versus boys.”
Noah’s eyes find mine instantly, checking for any hint of protest. I stick out my tongue, playfully, a warm rush blooming in my chest again. Miguel arrives with a tray of champagne flutes, floating across the court like a waiter in a resort ad.
“If you break a glass, you’re automatically docked two points,” he says solemnly before breaking into a grin.
I raise my glass. “It’s safe with me.”
We all toast before Kate pulls me toward the court. We’re up first against Noah and Miguel. I’m a solid player thanks to semi-regular practice with friends at home. And luckily Kate and I click easily, both quick and focused, both a little too competitive to pretend otherwise.
Noah, meanwhile, is still piecing it together. It’s honestly adorable watching him pause mid-play to double check the rules, lips quirking as he mutters, “Wait, was that in?” He’s naturally athletic, though, and it evens out his inexperience.
Miguel’s a total ringer. Apparently he played tennis in college, and the match stays tight. The vibe is rowdy and unserious, trash talk flying, Kate christening us Bahama Lobs, Noah taking dramatic dives just to make us laugh.
“Hope you boys don’t mind losing,” Kate says, bouncing the ball with a wicked grin.
She serves. The rally’s quick, sharp, relentless.
We’re zipping across the court, calling shots, slipping into a rhythm like we’ve played together for years.
My pulse hammers, sweat trickling down my neck, hair sticking to my skin.
But I don’t care. A fast return rockets straight at me.
I pivot and whip a backhand cross-court.
It zips past Noah’s paddle, landing clean.
“Game!” Kate and I shriek, paddles high, jumping into a ridiculous little victory circle. She does a spin. I nearly trip over my own feet.
Noah taps my paddle. “We’re going to need a rematch, preferably before Miguel disowns me as a partner.”
“Dang, Lucy,” Miguel says. “You’ve got a killer backhand. Remind me not to trash talk you next round.”
Noah grins at me over the net, curls damp, eyes dancing. “You’ve been holding out on me, Briland.”
I shrug, feigning innocence. “Have to keep you on your toes.”
As we step off the court, we drift toward the table where our waters wait, letting the others rotate in.
The air is thick with the humid haze of evening, sweat lingering on my skin.
I towel off, take a slow sip, and try not to notice the heat of Noah beside me, close enough that every inch of space feels charged.
When I glance up, he’s staring at me with an unnerving intensity.
“Today’s been so fun,” I say, voice soft as I lean back against the fence.
He tips his chin downward, resting his hand on top of the fence beside me. “Yeah. It has.”
I bump his shoulder lightly. “You weren’t half-bad out there.”
His grin turns sly. “Not ‘half-bad’?”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider, lips tugging into a teasing half smile. Before I can answer, he steps forward, hand reaching out to tip my chin up, a question in his eyes. I don’t even think, just nod, and he closes the distance with the softest brush of a kiss, gentle and teasing.
I melt against him, our skin damp with the salt and sun of the day. His arms are strong and certain, and the sounds of the match blur behind us. For a breathless beat I feel anchored, like the world has narrowed to this exact patch of court, this exact moment.