Chapter 3
NOELLE
“I still think you should put some ice on it.”
Webb frowns at my arm, which is now freshly cleaned and dotted with three small Band-aids, his expression more fitting for a life-threatening injury than minor road rash. “Maybe we should head to urgent care,” he adds gravely, “to make sure you didn’t sprain something.”
I cover my wounded arm with my other hand, hiding my wince as pain flares. “It’s fine, Webb.”
He ignores me in favor of catching the attention of a passing server. “Could we get some ice?” he asks her. “Wrapped up in a clean towel, preferably.” Then he flashes her a winning smile. “We would really appreciate it.”
The server blushes before nodding quickly. “Of course. I’ll get some ice right away.” Then she hurries off, pausing just long enough to cast a longing look over her shoulder at Webb before disappearing into the kitchen.
Webb seems oblivious to her interest as he says to me, “Anyway, it can’t hurt to ice it for ten minutes or so. It’ll keep the bruising down, if nothing else.”
While I think he’s overreacting to the nth degree—I’ve had worse injuries during strike and kept going without a blink—I have to admit his concern feels like a warm balm soothing my raw and frazzled nerves.
And the way he looks at me, like I’m the most important person in the world?
Well, I know it can’t be true, considering he barely knows me, but that feels nice, too.
Plus, it’s obvious Webb feels bad about my very minor injury, though he absolutely shouldn’t. If not for him, I’d probably be in the hospital right now, rather than sitting across from him as the aroma of freshly baked cookies winds around us.
It still feels surreal what happened back there. One second, I was looking at Webb, feeling absurdly pleased to see him outside of work, and the next…
I shouldn’t have looked at my phone. After nearly a month and a half of Ken’s harassment, I should be used to it by now.
But when my phone signaled an incoming text, it was like a compulsion to check it.
Even though the logical voice in the back of my head commanded me to ignore it, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know.
Maybe it’s Jaz, I reasoned. This is a new number, and the only people who have it are Jaz and my new landlord. I’ll read the message and realize I’m worrying over nothing.
Except it wasn’t Jaz. And it wasn’t my new landlord.
It was from an anonymous number, just like the dozens of others I’ve received. But unlike the first few weeks of texts, which only consisted of warnings and vague threats, it contained a photo. Of me.
That alone would have been enough to throw me off balance.
But it wasn’t just a regular photo of me working at my computer or backstage.
Because, as I learned as I received more unwelcome messages featuring pictures of me from all around the theater, there were more cameras than just the one in my office.
But in this photo, I was changing. My shirt was off, revealing my pink bra and a small bruise I remember getting when I was helping hang twinkle lights for our May performance.
I remember the day the photo was taken. It was a Friday evening, and I was headed to the bar down the street to get drinks with some of the crew as an end-of-the-week celebration.
I’d brought a new shirt to change into, a cute wraparound top that Jaz pressured me into buying the last time I visited her.
“You have a great body,” she told me as she held the aforementioned shirt up for display. “You should show it off. Let the girls out for a change, instead of hiding them under shapeless T-shirts and sweaters.”
Maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. As soon as I saw myself in the photo, shock warred with shame. It threw me back to the first weeks after my terrible discovery, when I kept wondering if I’d done something to give Ken the wrong idea.
Stupid, I know. No matter what I wore, even if I showed up to work in a freaking see-through top and shorts that barely covered my butt, it wouldn’t make what Ken did okay.
But logic and emotion are fierce enemies at times. And as many times as I told myself I didn’t do anything wrong, it didn’t stop the shameful thoughts from sneaking back in.
So as I stared at that horrible photo, my brain sort of… short-circuited. It was just too much to take in—the humiliation, the anger, the feeling of utter helplessness—and it took nearly getting hit by an oncoming motorcycle to snap me out of it.
“Noelle?” Webb lightly touches the back of my hand. “Are you really sure you’re okay?”
Dragging my thoughts back to the present, I force a wan smile as I reply, “I really am. A little shaken and embarrassed,” I admit, “but okay.”
“Embarrassed?” His brow furrows. “Why would you be embarrassed? That fu—stupid kid nearly ran you over. Because he was trying so hard to be cool with his damn music, he wasn’t paying attention to the road.”
“He had the right of way, though. I shouldn’t have been standing there like some kind of idiot.
” My cheeks heat as I remember the crowd of people gathering on the street in the aftermath, all buzzing with curiosity at the spectacle I made.
So much for keeping a low profile in town, not when what seemed like half of Williston was there to witness my humiliation.
“You weren’t an idiot,” he retorts. “It looked like—”
“Here’s the ice,” a chipper voice trills.
The server Webb spoke to minutes earlier is back, this time with a folded-up towel in hand.
She gives me a cursory glance before turning her attention to Webb.
“I made sure the towel was fresh from the cleaners. And I put the ice in a plastic bag so it wouldn’t drip all over when it melts. ”
“Thank you,” he replies. Then he takes the towel-wrapped ice and gently sets it on my arm. I suck in a sharp breath at the sensation of cold against my sensitive skin, and he grimaces. “Sorry, Noelle. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t. It’s just cold,” I assure him. Then I look up at the server. “Thanks for getting this.”
She nods without looking at me. “So,” she continues, her eyes still on Webb, “is there anything else I can get you? Coffee? Something sweet, like our cinnamon rolls or shortbread? Or we have more savory items, too. There’s a cheese and bacon muffin on special today.”
The mention of muffins reminds me of the bag Webb tossed aside in his rush to reach me. I saw it later, a sad, smooshed mess of paper and crumbs that looked like it had been stepped on a few times for good measure.
“Muffins,” I blurt. “Can I buy some muffins?”
The server turns to me. “How many would you like?”
“I don’t know.” To Webb, I ask, “How many did you have in that bag? I want to replace them, since it’s my fault they were ruined.”
“Noelle, that’s not necessary,” he replies.
“But I want to.” After a moment’s thought, I ask the server, “Could I get a dozen? Not just the bacon and cheese, but sweet ones, too? Please?”
She jots my order in her notebook, then lifts her gaze. “Will there be anything else?”
“No,” I start.
“Yes,” Webb interrupts. Then he looks at me.
“I promised you something with sugar. And I never go back on my promises. Do you want fancy coffee? A slice of one of the cakes I saw when we came in?” He casts a quick glance at the bakery counter nearby.
“Those cinnamon buns look good. How about one of those?”
From his expression, it’s clear he’s not backing down.
And I did agree to come to Cathy’s Confections to get something sweet, so it would be rude at this point to refuse.
Even though I really just want to go home and hide in my bedroom for the next week with only episodes of Maine Cabin Masters for company.
“Could I have a caramel latte?” I ask. “And a slice of carrot cake?”
“I’ll have the same,” Webb adds. “Please.”
“You like carrot cake?” I’m surprised, since most guys I’ve known prefer vanilla or chocolate.
Or, in the case of my failed date with Greg Masters, a guy I agreed to go out with because Jaz kept nagging me about trying online dating, he actually argued with me that carrot cake couldn’t be a real dessert because it was made with vegetables.
“Why would you want to eat vegetables for dessert?” he asked with a look of disgust. Then he had the nerve to poke my cake with his fork. “And are those actual pieces of carrot in there? Gross.”
By that point in the night, I knew we weren’t a match.
So I didn’t hesitate to parry back, “Did you know the red velvet cake you’re eating was originally made with beets?
And given that this place is all organic, I bet they still use beets instead of red food coloring.
So you’re eating vegetables for dessert, too. ”
Suffice it to say, we didn’t schedule a second date.
Webb makes a sheepish face. “Actually, I’ve never tried it. I’m not much of a sweets person, myself. I prefer salty stuff like chips and pretzels.”
My arm is starting to go numb, so I set my ice to the side. “This might be a stupid question, then, but why did you order a caramel latte, which probably has a thousand grams of sugar in it, and a piece of carrot cake?”
He rakes his hand through his hair. Streaks of bronze and gold catch the light. His cheeks turn a cute shade of pink. “I don’t know. It just sounded good once you ordered it.”
Despite the warnings I’ve given myself that now is definitely not the time to think about dating anyone, even someone as nice and handsome as Webb, my heart flutters.
Webb from afar, tall and blonde and lean, with those striking blue eyes and enigmatic smile, is already hard to ignore.
But when he’s sitting across from me, close enough for me to see the green and silver flecks in his eyes and the dimple in his cheek?
When his usually confident demeanor slips to show a hint of vulnerability?
Phew. I can hardly blame our server for flirting with him.