Chapter 11
WEBB
“It’s not the date I originally planned, but I hope you like it.”
Noelle glances at me as we walk across the hallway from her apartment to mine. Her lips curve up. “I’m sure I will, Webb. I always like our dates.” She pauses. “Actually. Like isn’t a strong enough word. I love our dates.”
My heart stutters at her mention of the L word.
With the women I’ve gone out with in the past, any reference to the word love was a giant red flag.
Even if it was said innocuously, like Noelle just did, my mind would grab hold of the word and spin it into something far more damning.
If she loves my hair, my brain would reason, it’s only a short skip to being in love with me. And I can’t let that happen.
In hindsight, that was pretty stupid. But I was so adamant that I didn’t want a relationship, even a hint of more serious feelings from a woman was enough to make me turn the other way.
Now, though? The word hits differently. There’s a rightness to it. Though I know she’s not saying she loves me, hope sparks that maybe, someday, she will.
Is it crazy to be thinking of love already?
Logic would say yes—that it’s far too soon, that given Noelle’s situation, it’s hardly the time to be thinking about such things, and that after decades of staying single, love isn’t something I should rush into.
But.
When she says love, I like the sound of it.
“So do I,” I reply. My mouth goes dry as I add, “Love our dates, I mean.”
And shit, if it doesn’t feel right saying it, too.
Noelle squeezes my hand. Her smile expands. “So, what’s this surprise, then?”
“Close your eyes,” I tell her. But as I reach for the doorknob of my front door, self doubt trickles in.
Maybe this date isn’t special enough to merit a surprise reveal.
Maybe I should have just brought her to my apartment the normal way, instead of trying to make a whole production out of it.
But while I was in the middle of planning everything, I remembered the date Rafe set up for Eden and how pleased she was when he surprised her with it.
The similarity in situations struck me—back then, Eden was hiding out at a hotel while we tried to track down her stalker, so a date out in public wouldn’t have been safe.
Now, Noelle is staying at Blade and Arrow while we investigate her piece of shit ex-boss and while I could take her to a restaurant in Williston, I don’t think she’d enjoy it.
In order to make it safe, I’d have to have some of the guys there for backup, plus she’d be looking over her shoulder for Donaldson the entire time, not to mention worrying that someone who saw that fucked up video would say something inappropriate.
So I thought—if Eden loved her surprise date at the hotel, maybe Noelle would like a surprise just as much?
In theory, it made sense. Bring all the things we would have done the other night—dinner at Angelo’s, music at the bandstand, and a movie after—to my apartment instead.
But really, what do I know about special dates and surprises?
“It’s nothing big,” I say in response to Noelle’s question. “I’m probably making it seem like more than it is.”
“Webb. I’m sure that’s not true.”
As I turn the doorknob, I try to shake off my insecurity and channel the confident Webb who never let his nerves get to him, even during the most dangerous of missions. After all, if I could fly into enemy territory to rescue a team of SEALs, surely I can handle a simple date with my girlfriend.
But if that’s the case, why is my stomach jumping?
“Well, hopefully you like it,” I reply. Then I lead Noelle into my apartment and close the door behind us. My gaze sweeps across the living room, checking to make sure everything is just how I left it.
To my relief, the candles set all around the room are still lit, the small flames adding a soft glow to the room.
Instrumental jazz is playing quietly in the background.
A large, plush blanket is spread out in front of the couch, with arrangements of colorful flowers and greenery around it.
A large wooden tray holds two wine glasses, a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, and a box of gourmet chocolates I picked up at the candy store in Newberg.
Beside the tray is a large gift bag tied with ribbon and overflowing with sparkly tissue paper.
With a deep breath and a silent plea that Noelle likes what I planned, I announce, “Okay. You can look.”
Noelle’s fingers tighten around mine. Then she opens her eyes.
At first, she doesn’t say anything. She just looks around the room.
As she does, I watch her, trying to read her expression. Wondering, Does she like it? Or did I build this up to be more than it is, and now she’s disappointed?
After a good fifteen, twenty seconds of silence, Noelle turns to me. An unreadable expression reflects in her eyes.
Before she can say anything, I hurry to explain, “Since we didn’t get to have our date the other day, I thought I’d bring it here, instead.
We can imagine we’re listening to the jazz musicians at the bandstand.
” I angle my chin at one of the arrangements of flowers.
“I thought all the flowers would make it feel like we were outside. Plus, we can sit on the blanket like we did for the movie in the park.”
“Webb. You did all this?”
“Takeout from Angelo’s is in the oven,” I continue. “We can have it picnic style here, or at the table, if you’d prefer. And after dinner, I thought we could watch Phantom of the Opera, like we talked about.”
Noelle’s eyebrows arch up. “Phantom, too?”
“Yeah.” I head into the living room and swipe the remote from the coffee table, then flick on the TV to display Phantom of the Opera, all ready to play. “Assuming you want to watch it, of course. If you’d rather watch something else, or not at all—”
“Of course I want to watch it.” She gives me a brilliant smile; the biggest I’ve seen from her since the incident at the diner two days ago. “This is amazing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Webb.” Her voice takes on an are you serious tone. “You set all this up, with the flowers and the candles and the food…” Pausing, she glances at the bottle of wine. “How did you know that’s my favorite?”
“I didn’t know for sure. But you had a bottle of it in your fridge. So I was hoping.”
“It is,” Noelle replies. “I actually bought the bottle with the intent of opening it once things with Ken—” Her mouth clamps shut. “Anyway. It’s great. All of this is.”
The reminder of her ex-boss is an unwelcome dose of reality.
And just like each time I hear his name, I have to work to tamp down the burst of anger that comes with it.
I have to remind myself that showing up at Ken fucking Donaldson’s apartment in Portland to beat the shit out of him might make me feel better in the short term, but it won’t solve the issue of the videos and would probably result in me getting sent to jail for assault.
Although… I bet with a little creative interrogation, I could convince him to leave Noelle alone.
I could search his apartment and take all his devices to bring back to Tyler, who I’m sure could find those damned videos.
I could make sure the evidence gets to the police, so that asshole goes to jail for what he did to Noelle.
Would it be legal? No.
Do I care? Not really. Not when the memories of Noelle crying in the employee bathroom at Doug’s Diner are still so fresh. Not when I know the extent of the harassment she’s been through. Not when I think about how that piece of garbage broke into her apartment to mess with her.
Except according to the police report, there was no proof of an intruder.
No sign of the lock being tampered with, no windows pried open—nothing.
But our best guess is Donaldson took Noelle’s key from her office while she was busy working in another part of the theater, made a copy, and then he could just waltz right into her apartment whenever he wanted.
That makes me even more furious when I think about it. Donaldson sneaking into Noelle’s apartment, looking at her things, fuck, he could have gone in there at night and watched her as she slept…
Shit. Now I want to beat the shit out of him more than ever.
That’s why Indy’s headed to Portland right now, so he can search Noelle’s apartment. Because we’re worried he might not have stopped at cameras just in the theater. If he had access to her apartment, what’s to stop him from planting some there, as well?
“Webb?”
Slamming the door shut on an all too satisfying image of my fist crashing into Donaldson’s smug face—I’ve seen photos of him, and his face definitely meets the definition of punchable—I turn my attention back to Noelle. “Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Well.” Noelle pauses. “You look upset. And your hand—” She pulls her hand away from mine and flexes it. “You were holding on a little tight.”
Remorse slams into me with breath-stealing intensity. “Shit, Noelle.” I lift her hand to inspect it, cradling it as I search for any sign of injury. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine.” She touches my cheek. “I could just feel you getting tense, is all.”
I lead her over to the blanket and pull her down onto my lap. Then I peer at her hand again, my stomach plummeting as I spot a tiny red mark on one knuckle. I lightly graze my thumb across it. “Did I do this to you?”
“Webb, I’m really okay,” she replies. “And no. That was from earlier. While I was getting ready, I whacked my hand on the dresser. It’s nothing.”
I glare at the reddening bruise. “Did you put ice on it?”
“No, I didn’t. And I’m not going to.” As I start to argue, Noelle cuts me off, smiling as she says, “I bump into things sometimes, Webb. And I get bruises. It happens. I’m okay. And you didn’t hurt me. I promise.”
“Still.” I bring her injured knuckle to my lips and kiss it gently. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt. And if I ever hurt you...”