Chapter 20
Twenty
Caroline
The elevator in Noah’s building was lined with real wood and didn’t have buttons—just a card reader and a tiny gold “P” for the penthouse.
When the doors opened, I almost stepped back in shock. The view was panoramic, glass walls showing off the city like a lit-up movie set. The floors were smooth stone, the furniture modern but not cold.
But what I noticed most was the kitchen.
It dominated the space: a long island, hanging pots, six-burner stove. Everything gleamed, but it felt…used. Not staged or sterile.
Noah handed me an apron with a smile. “You ever make ravioli?”
I shook my head, suddenly shy. “I’m better at bCarolinena bread.”
He grinned. “That’s fine. I’ll teach you.”
We rolled dough, chopped herbs, grated cheese. At first, I tried to stay out of the way, but he kept inviting me in—letting me taste sauces, showing me how to press the pasta sheets just right.
When I dropped a spoonful of filling, he just laughed and handed me another.
Between steps, we sipped wine and traded stories. He told me about learning to cook at St. Catherine’s—how the nuns made everything from scratch, how he’d snuck into the kitchen at night just to smell the bread baking.
“I like cooking for people,” he said, setting a finished tray of ravioli on the counter. “It’s how you show them they matter.”
I looked at his hands—flour-dusted, steady. “You’re really good at it.”
He shrugged, modest. “It’s not hard. You just have to pay attention.”
After we finished, he set the table himself, lit a candle, and plated everything like we were at a fancy restaurant.
We ate side by side, looking out at the city. The food was incredible—fresh, comforting, not fussy.
When I tried to clear the dishes, he stopped me. “No guests do dishes here.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Richard would have loved you.”
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Your ex?”
“Yeah. He never set foot in a kitchen.”
Noah smiled, a little sad. “His loss.”
He washed the pans, then poured more wine, and we sat on the couch, listening to a playlist he said was “mostly Italian, but don’t judge.”
I felt so at home it made my chest ache. Like I’d landed somewhere I didn’t know I was searching for.
At some point, he reached for my hand. Just held it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
We didn’t talk much after that.
We didn’t need to.
When he finally drove me home, he walked me to the door, waited until I got inside.
And as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized I didn’t want to imagine a life where this wasn’t possible.
A life where someone cared enough to knead dough with me, just because he liked to see me happy.
It wasn’t just the food.
It was the way he made everything feel like it mattered.
And that was something I never wanted to lose.
We took our cannoli and espresso out to the terrace, a strip of glass and stone that floated over the city like a runway. The night was clear, and every window for miles reflected back at us in a million tiny flickers.
Noah set down a plate, then leaned on the railing, elbows out. He looked so at ease—barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled, the night wind pushing his hair back.
He watched me eat, laughing when I got powdered sugar on my nose. “You always eat dessert first?” he asked.
I wiped at my face, embarrassed. “It’s the only thing I never regret.”
He smiled, quiet for a moment. “This place used to be empty all the time. Just me, a bottle of wine, and the city.”
I glanced around. The space was beautiful—minimal but lived in. It felt strange that someone could live here and feel alone.
He turned toward me, face open. “Thank you for making it less empty tonight.”
I looked down, heart hammering. “I should be thanking you.”
We sat side by side on a patio sofa, the city humming below. The silence was heavy, but not awkward. More like both of us were waiting for something to happen.
He shifted closer, one leg brushing mine. “You know, you don’t have to do anything to earn being here.”
I shook my head. “That’s not how I was raised. Or married.”
He didn’t look away. “I’m not him.”
The words landed between us, soft and firm.
My hands were shaking. “I haven’t felt this safe with anyone in a long time,” I whispered.
He reached over, fingers light on my cheek, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingered, thumb tracing my jaw.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
His face was closer now, his breath warm, his eyes holding mine.
He hesitated—just for a second, giving me a chance to say no.
I didn’t.
He kissed me, slow and careful, like he was memorizing the taste of my lips. I melted into it, all my worries blurring into background static.
He deepened the kiss, one hand in my hair, the other gentle at my waist. The city could have burned down around us and I wouldn’t have noticed.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless, dizzy.
“Wow,” I said, voice hoarse.
He rested his forehead on mine, smiling. “Yeah. Wow.”
We sat like that, tangled together, for a long time.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be wanted. Not for what I could do, or how I made someone look, but for who I actually was.
We went back inside, but the mood had shifted. He took my hand, led me to the couch, and we kept talking, but it was different now. Every glance, every laugh, was loaded with the memory of his mouth on mine.
I wanted more. I wanted all of it.
He leaned in again, kissing me deeper, letting his hands roam just enough to make my head spin. My own hands found his chest, his shoulders, his hair.
The touch was electric—charged, hungry, like neither of us could believe how good it felt to finally let go.
His lips moved down my neck, slow and hot, and I shivered.
He whispered my name, and I forgot everything that had ever hurt me.
We moved to the bedroom, pulled by gravity more than anything else. He kissed me with a kind of reverence, like every inch of my skin was something to be worshipped.
He undressed me piece by piece, never rushing, never losing eye contact. I did the same, learning the shape of him with my hands.
When we were finally together, it was nothing like I remembered. There was no hurry, no desperation—just this aching need to be close.
He touched me like he already knew every scar, every secret.
He listened to every sound I made, responded to every shift and sigh.
When I came apart in his arms, I cried out, and he kissed me until the shaking stopped.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, the city still bright below.
He ran a thumb over my wrist, tracing circles on my skin.
“You’re incredible,” he said, voice raw.
I wanted to argue, to brush it off, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He pulled me closer, and I let him.
I slept better that night than I had in years, wrapped in warmth and the certainty that, for once, I was exactly where I belonged.
And in the morning, when the city was still waking up, I woke to him kissing my shoulder, his arms tight around me.
It felt like a promise, and I knew I’d never let myself forget it.
Not ever.