5. Hot Mess Hazel
Chapter 5
Hot Mess Hazel
“ H azel?”
I jerk my head up. One of my Saturday morning students stares at me like I’m from outer space. I haven’t been able to get Noah off my brain since I walked away from him last night, and it’s impacting my class.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, heat flaming my cheeks. “Can you repeat the question?”
I saddle up behind her, looking over her sketch. We’re focusing on drawing a bowl of fruit in the middle of the room. Not my most inspired lesson, but certainly a classic.
The man to her left leans over with a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Selma thinks her apple looks like a dead president. I’ll give you five bucks if you can guess which one.”
“Ted!” Selma exclaims, swatting him lightly. “Ignore my husband, Hazel. I just wanted to ask you about the holiday schedule.”
A smile crosses my face as they bicker back and forth. They’re pretty adorable.
My phone buzzes in my pocket so I leave them to their teasing with a promise to text the schedule over, a gentle ache in my chest.
Unknown Number: Hi, Hazel. This is Noah from yesterday.
Unknown Number: I was wondering if you’d like to grab lunch today?
Oh, well that’s surprising. I didn’t expect to hear from him again, despite him asking for my number, and certainly not so quickly. I was actually pretty damn sure I burned that bridge all the way down with my bubble butts comment.
He must be a masochist.
Hazel: Hi! I’m teaching today, so I don’t get much time for lunch. Maybe we could do something else a little later?
I need to find out why I’ve been dreaming of his eyes. I need to find out why I get that electric buzz when I touch him. And the only way I’m going to do that is by spending time with him.
And then I can run away before I inevitably embarrass myself beyond redemption.
Noah: Absolutely. Dinner?
Hazel: Let me know when and where, so long as it’s after five. I’ll meet you there.
Put the phone away, Hazel—you have a class to teach.
I wonder how obvious it is that I’m talking to a boy. A very cute boy.
Oh dear.
My cheeks almost burn my palms as I touch them. No one has ever made me blush like this.
I’m not liking the sneaky look that Selma and Ted are giving me.
You don’t know my life, cute old people.
Two hours is not enough time to get ready for the first date you’ve ever had. Twenty-five years old is also way too old to be having your first date.
Thanks, Mom. Your societal repression is really working in my favor.
I wore my only ‘good’ outfit the first time I met Noah, so what the hell am I supposed to wear now?
I could potentially call Laura, but that’s a can of worms I’m unwilling to open. Not to mention the fact I barely got the wench out of my apartment this morning. Inviting her back would be dumb.
It would be very dumb.
Damn my lack of friends.
Wait a hot damn minute. What did I wear to Laura’s high school graduation? I frantically dig through the closet and—yes! A dress! It may not be the sexiest thing that ever existed, but it’s form-fitting and black.
It’s only through the magic of a curling iron and an unused dress that I look somewhat presentable.
This may not be an absolute disaster. No, this will probably be a disaster—but I’ll look decent during said disaster.
Passable. I’ll look passable during said disaster.
Noah asked me to meet him at some Italian place I’ve never heard of before, which makes my palms sweat just a little as I clench the steering wheel of Grandma’s car. I don’t like going to new places as it is. I don’t know if it’s the lack of knowledge of where I’m going or what, but I always end up getting there at least fifteen minutes early.
Hence my arrival at—gasp—an adorable little restaurant a grand total of twenty minutes before six o’clock.
I blame the extra five minutes on my first date nervousness.
I can do this. I breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I haven’t told anyone about this date. Not Laura, not Grandma when I asked to borrow her car, and—well, there’s nobody else other than them.
I step out of the vehicle. Come on, Hazel. Get it together.
The restaurant, Georgio’s, is even cuter on the inside. It’s the epitome of a perfect date restaurant. The scent of garlic bread gently wafts through the air—mmm. The place has the air of the quaint Italian restaurants of New York City. The walls are beautiful red brick and the tables are draped in soft, cream-colored tablecloths and adorned with tea light candles. The space is open, the tables framing the giant brick oven in the back.
My mouth waters as I snap back to reality. I’m about to eat all the bread.
All. Of. The. Bread.
“Hazel?”
I turn to Noah, who is standing up from one of the more isolated tables.
Oh, my memory didn’t do his lanky gorgeousness any justice. Tonight he’s wrapped up in a forest-green sweater that does terribly beautiful things to his dark brown eyes, and crisp slacks.
“Hi Noah.” I smile, walking toward him slowly. I’m not about to move too fast and fall on my ass.
Which totally hasn’t happened before. Multiple times.
“You look beautiful,” he says once I’m closer, pulling out my chair. I didn’t realize guys who pull out chairs for their date still exist.
“Thank you. You look very handsome,” I reply because I have no filter. And it’s true.
I try to cover the dark blush on my cheeks by hiding behind my menu, but I can still see the grin that breaks on his face.
So maybe I don’t regret saying that too much.
“I’m glad we get to do this. Thank you for coming to dinner with me,” he continues after a couple seconds of menu perusing.
I’m looking for the most carb-loaded item on this menu, and the fact that I’m at an Italian restaurant means I’m in heaven.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
My cheeks—my cheeks are burning.
“How was your class today?” he asks, relaxing his lanky limbs into his wooden chair.
It’s like he’s an octopus or something. But, like, a sexy octopus.
I place my menu down. “I teach two classes on Saturdays, a shorter morning class and then a longer afternoon class after lunch. They both went well. The Saturday classes are my favorite.”
“Why’s that?”
I smile. “You’re going to judge me, but it’s because those classes tend to be filled with couples. Specifically, older couples. You can tell they’re there because they want to spend time with each other. They aren’t there to make the best work in the class, or to lord their prowess over other people. They just want to enjoy their time together.”
When did I become such a sap?
“That’s sweet,” he says with a smile so earnest I actually believe he means it. “What’s different about your other classes?”
“Wednesday is aspiring art students day,” I reply with an over-dramatic shudder.
He laughs, the sound tickling along my skin. I could quickly get addicted to it. “It’s like you just said Frankenstein’s monster or something. Are they really that bad?”
“Yes, they are completely and totally that bad.”
“Maybe you’ll let me come by sometime. It sounds like this is something I have to see.”
“Oh!” He wants to come to my class? No one has ever been interested in my classes. Or my art in general, if I’m honest. A little ball of emotion wedges in the back of my throat despite how I try to swallow it away. “I can’t imagine you’d have much fun. But, of course, you’re welcome to come by.”
“Good evening. May I get you something to drink?” The waiter saves me from my awkwardness. Thank you, generic young man with white shirt and black tie.
Noah gestures for me to go first.
“Water and a Coke, please,” I reply. Still no drinking for this lady.
“Make that two.”
“Fantastic. Would you enjoy bread on the table while you peruse your menus?”
It’s almost insulting that he has to ask.
“Yes, please!” I say, possibly too enthusiastically. The waiter nods politely and departs while Noah chuckles.
Yep, I definitely asked for bread too enthusiastically. Although, really, is there such a thing as too much enthusiasm for bread?
Especially garlic bread.
Noah shifts in his chair, a hint of nervousness showing through. “Okay, I have a serious question for you.”
Uh oh.
“Shoot.”
“Pineapple on pizza. Delicious or sin against God?” The corner of his mouth ticks upward and warmth fills my chest. He smiles in this easy way that speaks of a purity I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced. Not since Dad died, at least.
“I wouldn’t say it’s a sin against God, but it’s definitely not my first choice. And you? Delicious or sin against God?”
He shrugs. “Trick question. It’s only okay if you pair it with jalapenos for that sweet and spicy kick.”
A small, genuine laugh escapes me. “Noted.”
“Have we looked at our menus?” The waiter returns, turning our attention from each other. I miss the way his gaze feels on me. I miss the eyes that have haunted me for months.
I watch him as he orders, not paying attention to what he’s saying. I’m surprised by how easy it is to be with him. I’m awkward as usual, sure, but there’s something comforting about being around Noah. Something safe. Familiar.
I order too, and the waiter leaves with a smile.
“Tell me a story,” I blurt out. There are all these little pieces that make Noah who he is, and for some reason I want to collect all of them.
He quirks one of his bushy eyebrows. “A story?”
“A story.” I push my hair behind my ear. “Something about you.”
He sighs, scrubbing at his stubble. “Okay. This isn’t a story, but, I don’t like bars. I realize we met in one, but I was basically forced out. I much prefer being a homebody.”
“I hate them, too. My sister, Laura, forced me into it using familial guilt. I would much rather be home sketching.” Or would I? Maybe that’s just what I’ve been conditioned to think. I cough. “What do you do when you’re being a homebody?”
“No judgment?” He asks, nervous smile wavering just a touch.
“Never.” I pause. “Well, unless you torture people or something. Then I’ll judge you a little.”
He levels me with a mock glare, brown eyes flashing with mischief. “No torturing. I’m a bit of a nerd, actually. I collect and build minis for Warhammer .”
I have quite literally no idea what that means, and it must be obvious because Noah chuckles a bit. His curls bounce with the laughter.
“It’s okay if you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he continues. “It’s a relatively niche hobby.”
I prop my chin on the palms of my hands. “Tell me all about it.”
The surprise in his eyes makes my chest tighten. Maybe no one has ever expressed interest in his hobbies either. Maybe we have more in common than I expected.
“Okay.” His smile is bright, almost overpowering his face. “Yeah, I can do that.”
It’s not that I doubt sex could ever be as good as this pasta, but how good could sex really be? Sex wishes it was as good as pasta. This pasta specifically. Creamy alfredo, moist chicken, and perfectly tender noodles. I’m in heaven.
“I’m glad you like it,” Noah says, breaking the comfortable silence. Both of us were far too enraptured by dinner arriving to continue the pleasant conversation.
I lift a brow at him as I finish chewing my food. “What makes you think I like it?”
“I like to think I can tell when a woman is enjoying herself...” he trails off and wow, was I unprepared for that. “You’re also making pretty positive noises.”
“Whoops.” I smile sheepishly. My heart beats unevenly with every second of uninterrupted eye contact.
“No, it’s nice. Too many people are scared nowadays to show actual emotion. I like knowing that you’re enjoying the food.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is that a weird thing to say?”
If only you could hear my inner monologue, BEBE. You don’t know weird.
“Not at all. Are you enjoying yours?”
“Yeah, of course! Nonna Ricci’s recipes are always the best.”
“Nonna Ricci?”
“Oh, yeah.” He swallows a forkful of pasta. “My friend from last night, Benji, his Grandma owns this place. I basically grew up here.”
He brought me somewhere this special? For a first date? My heart clenches just a tad.
“Does that mean you’re going to get a big hug from an Italian woman at some point?”
His eyes flit toward the kitchen. “Uh, that’s actually entirely possible. I don’t think she’s working tonight, or I would’ve already seen her.”
“I’ll try not to get jealous.”
He smiles cautiously. Wait. He has a little dimple in his chin that comes out when he smiles. Swoon.
“You’ve got nothing to be jealous about.”
At this point I may just melt.
“So, when you say that you grew up here. What do you mean?”
“My parents worked a lot when I was younger—they both had demanding careers. So I would often get dropped off here with Benji, and Nonna Ricci would make us an after-school snack. We’d help her clean off tables and play boardgames in the back room.”
“That’s so sweet. It sounds like she means a lot to you.”
His eyes go soft as he smiles down at his plate. “She does. I didn’t have any grandparents, so she basically adopted me as her own. She’s an amazing woman.”
I reach for his hand and the moment I touch his skin, the electric pulse shoots up my arm. I can’t hide the gasp this time.
“Do you slide your feet on the floor before you touch me?” He chuckles. “You’re always shocking me.”
He feels it, too? I gotta figure out what this is. I’ve never had this with anyone else. Maybe there’s something about this in the books at the shop?
“I guess I’m just a little staticky.” I shrug. “Um, you mentioned you work at a publishing house last night. Does that come from a love of books?”
Look at me forming legitimate sentences like an adult while changing the subject. I’m so proud of me!
“Yes, but I’m a writer, actually. I’m not anywhere as good as the people we publish, but it’s something I enjoy doing.”
“Uh huh. I’m an artist. I know impostor syndrome when I hear it. You’re probably better than you think.”
He chuckles, a light flush staining his cheeks. “I try.”
“Can I read something of yours sometime? I figure it’s only fair if you plan on crashing one of my classes.” Who is this bold bitch and where has she been my whole life? I could’ve used her around.
The bushy eyebrows raise. My dear BEBE. “I guess that’s fair, yeah. Are you sure? It’s fantasy and the world-building is a bit excessive, and I’m pretty sure I just info-dump at the beginning for thirty pages.”
Shit. He’s adorable.
“Painting for writing. That’s the only deal I’ll take.”
“Noah!” An older feminine voice with a touch of an Italian accent calls.
I turn toward the sound.
Approaching us is a tiny woman who must be Nonna Ricci. I’d bet all the money I don’t have on it. She’s wearing a white chef’s coat slathered in old red sauce stains and her gray hair is up in a hairnet. Her arms are open, already anticipating a hug.
Noah shoots me a smile as if to say “whoops” and scrambles his long limbs out of his chair to stand and embrace her. I suppress a chuckle at their height difference. In paying attention to his lankiness—what up, Octopus Daddy—I’ve accidentally ignored his height. I can’t even guesstimate, but he seems to clear six feet with inches to spare.
“Who is this?” The question from Nonna Ricci is accompanied by an elbow nudge into Noah’s side.
I stand, because I’m apparently meeting Noah’s surrogate grandmother now. I’m prepared for this. Totally.
“I’m Hazel, it’s nice to meet you.” Before I can stick a hand out, I’m swept into a bone-crushing hug. I’m much closer to her height, so I’m not breaking my back in half like Noah was.
“I’m Nonna Ricci—and I am so pleased to meet you, Hazel. Noah hasn’t brought anyone home before.”
“Nonna!” Noah’s face is bright-ass red.
Is it bad that I’m okay with it? Considering how red I’ve been in the two interactions we’ve had, it’s about damn time he gets embarrassed. Plus, he’s somehow even more attractive when he’s embarrassed.
Nonna just grins at me, patting my shoulder. “I hope you enjoy the food. I’ll talk to you later, Angelo.”
“Angelo?” I ask as Noah and I sit back down.
“Angel. She calls Benji and I that.”
If anything cuter happens on this date, I think I’m actually going to self combust. I’m a witch, I could probably do it.
Noah insists on paying the bill, despite me trying to pay for myself. It’s only after that I remember I haven’t been paid yet.
Thank God chivalry isn’t dead.
With a wave to Nonna Ricci—plus at least five to-go boxes for her “Angelo”—Noah escorts me out with a hand on the small of my back.
“I had a really nice time, Hazel,” Noah says as we walk to my car.
“I did, too. Thank you for inviting me. I think I may be full for days.” That’s such a lie. I’ll be craving ice cream by the time I get home.
“Nonna Ricci’s pasta can’t be beat. Everyone should experience it at least once.”
I laugh, rubbing my arms. I wish I’d brought a light jacket. “It better not be the last time I get her food. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at alfredo the same way again.”
His eyes—almost midnight-black in the autumn evening—regard me as if I’ve said something momentous. “I hope it’s not. I hope you come back.”
I stop in front of my car and turn to him. The air grows thicker with each breath until it’s like I’m suffocating in his gaze. He’s pulled in by invisible strings, until my back is against the vehicle and his body is so close a buzz simmers underneath my skin like a gentle tickle.
“I’ll come back.” The words seem so much louder in the quiet bubble we’ve fallen into.
Noah’s hand grasps mine, the electric current almost familiar—comforting—now, and brings it to his lips. The gentle rasp of his stubble contrasts the smoothness of his lips as they press against my skin.
Legs? I don’t have legs. I just have jelly. Thank God I’m pressed against this car or I would’ve fallen down.
“I’ll call you?” he asks, keeping my hand in his.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Goodnight, Hazel. Let me know you got home safely, okay?”
I nod again, vigorously. Embarrassingly vigorously. Just like I do everything. Just call me Hot Mess Hazel.