Chapter 18
Eighteen
Caroline
The next morning, my apartment was so cold.
I shivered through two sweaters before calling the landlord, who answered with a groan. “It’s the boiler. City’s on it. Might be a couple days.”
I hung up, teeth chattering, and debated whether it was too early to go to Massimo’s just to get warm.
A text pinged: “Morning. You okay?”
It was Noah, of course.
I replied: “No heat. Apparently I live in an icebox.”
Five minutes later, he showed up at my door with a box of pastries and two giant coffees.
He stood in my kitchen, assessing the situation. “You have a space heater?”
I shook my head. “I have a hair dryer and a cat who hates me.”
He laughed, then rummaged through a cabinet, found a towel, and showed me how to block the draft under the window. It was oddly domestic, the way he moved around my tiny kitchen, fixing things.
After an hour, we’d eaten half the pastries and finished both coffees. I’d almost stopped noticing the cold.
He checked his watch. “I’ll be back,” he said, and left.
Forty minutes later, a white van pulled up in front of the building. Two guys in coveralls carried a massive box downstairs. Ten minutes after that, the heat sputtered back to life, and I could hear water rushing through the pipes.
The landlord called, baffled. “Somebody got the part hand-delivered from Jersey. Never seen it happen so fast.”
I texted Noah: “You didn’t.”
He texted back: “Everyone deserves to come home to a warm place.”
I smiled, pulled the blankets off the windows, and let the radiator do its thing.
That night, as the apartment steamed up with glorious heat, I lay in bed and thought about Noah.
All the ways he kept showing up for me.
I wondered if there was anyone else in the world who did that just because he wanted to.
I doubted it.
And as I drifted off, I wondered what would happen if I ever let myself fall for someone like him.
The answer came before I was ready.
The next day, I showed up at Massimo’s with a batch of brownies and a thank-you card.
Noah barely let me get through the door before he took them, but when I tried to press a twenty-dollar bill into his hand, he held up both palms and shook his head.
“I told you—no payment. I wanted to help.”
I blushed, embarrassed by how desperate I must have seemed. “You can’t just do nice things for people and not expect anything.”
He leaned in over the counter, his voice gentle. “Why not?”
I tried to answer, but nothing came out.
He nodded at the brownies. “We’ll trade. Sweets for heat.”
He poured two coffees, gestured to a back table, and we sat in the little alcove behind the espresso machine, out of sight from the morning crowd.
We talked about nothing and everything—favorite music, weird customers, what it was like to grow up here versus somewhere else.
He asked, “Did you always want to be a mom?”
I thought about it. “I liked being a mom. I think I was good at it. But before that…” I trailed off, not sure I wanted to say the rest.
He waited.
I stared at my hands, embarrassed. “I wanted to open a bakery. Just a tiny place, maybe with a garden in the back. I even had a name for it.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What was the name?”
“Caroline’s Kitchen,” I said, feeling ridiculous. “Richard said it was a waste of money, and I guess I believed him.”
Noah’s gaze went soft. “You should do it.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. I don’t have the cash, or the skills, or the—”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to have everything. You just have to start.”
The words sank in, heavy and warm.
I looked up, and for the first time noticed how close we were sitting. His hand brushed mine, just for a second.
“I don’t think I know how to start over,” I admitted.
He reached for my hand, covered it with his. “Most people never do. But if anyone can, it’s you.”
We sat like that for a long minute, the air between us so charged I thought the lights might flicker.
He didn’t kiss me, or say anything cheesy. He just held my hand, steady and sure.
When I finally left, I could still feel his touch, like an electric current running up my arm.
I walked home in a daze, not sure what to do with the possibility of something new.
But for the first time in years, it didn’t scare me.
It made me hungry for more.
Caroline
Noah walked me all the way up to my door, even though it was barely five and the sun was still out. He stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t want to leave.
“Text me if you need anything,” he said.
I nodded, feeling a flutter in my stomach I hadn’t felt since college.
He waited for me to unlock the door and step inside. Then, and only then, did he head back down the stairs.
I peeked through the window and watched as he got into a matte-black SUV parked at the curb. The glass was too tinted to see inside, but I could imagine him sitting there, maybe listening to jazz, maybe just thinking.
The moment the SUV rolled away, everything about him changed.
He didn’t look back at my window. He didn’t smile. He just leaned into the front seat and said something to the driver, who nodded and made a call.
Three blocks later, they parked in front of a deli. One of Noah’s men—a broad-shouldered guy with a nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice—got in the backseat and handed him a folder.
“Boss,” the guy said, “we got a problem. Carter’s sniffing around.”
Noah flipped the folder open, scanned the top page, and closed it again.
“Keep watching him,” Noah said, voice flat and cold. “If he comes near Caroline, I want to know before she does.”
The man nodded, disappeared back into the night.
Noah stared out the window for a long time, the street lights flashing over his face.
Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled to my contact, and typed: “You okay?”
I answered right away: “Yes. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, but I saw the dot blink in the chat window, then vanish.
I had no idea what kind of man I’d let into my life.
But somewhere, deep down, I knew I could trust him.
Even if I didn’t know why.