Chapter 12
Chiara
The next morning he shows up early.
Again.
Which should not surprise me, except somehow it still does.
Because most men—most athletes especially—would have taken the hint by now.
We had our night.
One reckless, incredible, dangerous night that I absolutely should not think about as often as I do.
And yet Noah Walker keeps showing up like he missed the memo.
This morning he’s holding two coffees.
I look at the cup like it might explode.
“What’s this?”
“Peace offering,” he says, holding it out.
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“Still good coffee. Shame to waste it.”
I hesitate.
This is how it starts, I tell myself.
Accept one small thing and suddenly you’re smiling at him again, and suddenly you’re remembering how he looks when he laughs, and suddenly you’re taking off your clothes—stop.
But the coffee does smell amazing.
And I did skip breakfast.
I sigh and take it.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
He grins like he just scored a try.
Like it’s progress.
It’s not. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
And I ignore the fact that he looks sexy as hell in his practice shorts and tank top.
The next day, I schedule his appointment for a different time.
Later in the afternoon.
No coffee surprises that way.
I have fifteen minutes between appointments normally, but Noah shows up early again.
This time he drops a pack of gum on my desk.
“You chew this brand.”
I frown.
“How do you know that?”
“Saw the wrappers in the bin after our session yesterday.”
“You notice strange things.”
“Occupational hazard,” he says with a shrug.
I shake my head and tuck the gum into my drawer before I can think too much about how attentive that was.
Since it doesn’t matter what time I schedule, Noah is going to do what he does, I go ahead and switch back to mornings.
He’s already there, stretching, when I walk into the treatment room the next day.
Music is playing softly from his phone.
I drop my bag on the floor beside my desk and place my phone and work tablet on top.
“That’s The Germs.”
“Yeah.”
“My pop loves punk rock. This song, especially.”
“So does my Da.”
That catches me off guard.
I glance at him again.
Really look this time.
Noah’s focused on the stretch I gave him yesterday, broad shoulders flexing as he rotates his arm carefully.
It’s unexpectedly endearing.
And that’s when he starts pointing things out.
Little things.
Music we both like.
Books he’s read that I’ve mentioned.
Places we’ve both been.
It’s annoying.
Because every time he does it, I feel something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest.
So I shut it down.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Noah.”
Every.
Single.
Time.
And every time he just looks at me like he knows I’m lying.
Today I’m working through shoulder mobility with him again, standing close enough that I can smell the citrus soap he uses.
“This is improving,” I tell him, guiding his arm gently through the motion.
“Good.”
“You’ll be back in full contact soon.”
“Shame.”
I blink.
“Why? It’s like your whole point of being,” I say and I’m sort of teasing.
He shrugs casually.
“It’s a shame because it means I won’t have an excuse to see you every day. And just so we’re clear, rugby is my job. I love it. But it’s not my reason, Chiara.”
I roll my eyes, though my lips betray me by almost smiling.
“Look, um, you don’t need an excuse to see me.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah. No injury required to come in for treatment like everyone else.”
He grins.
“What if I don’t want to come in for treatment? What if I want something else?”
“Noah, we agreed to one night.”
“You agreed, Love. But where’s the fun in that?”
I step back immediately, crossing my arms before I do something foolish like laugh.
“Noah.”
“Chiara.”
“We can’t.”
He glances down at the noticeable bulge in his shorts.
“I beg to differ.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
He leans forward slightly, meeting my gaze.
“Are you sure about that, Love? Because I’d say this means a lot.”
For a moment, the room goes very still.
“I-I’m sure.”
I swallow.
Maybe I believe what I just said.
Maybe I need to believe it.
But the truth?
The truth is written all over the way my pulse jumps when he looks at me like that.
And the worst part is, I can see the cracks forming in my resolve.
The way my eyes linger on him longer than they should.
The way I forget to be annoyed when he calls me Love.
The way my body remembers exactly how good he felt that night.
Which makes it very hard to focus on being professional.
Especially when a physical therapist gets a little too comfortable being physical with her rugby player client.
And people do notice.
I see the looks sometimes.
Finley’s raised eyebrow.
Dani’s knowing smirk.
Even Tank is sometimes watching us like he’s waiting for something to explode.
“We—we work together,” I say finally, pulling my hands back from Noah’s shoulder like I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be maintaining boundaries. “Everyone will notice.”
Noah doesn’t even hesitate.
“So what?” he says flatly. “I don’t give a bloody fuck about anyone else.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I argue, crossing my arms. “You’re the team’s prize hooker. I’m just the physical therapist. That means I’m replaceable. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Knight frowns on fraternizing at work.”
Noah huffs out a quiet laugh.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Love, but half the team is married to someone who works for Mitchell Knight.”
He gestures vaguely toward the hallway.
“Tank and Dani. Luca and Annabeth. Koa and Finley. Hell, if you listen to the lads long enough you’d think the Rovers are basically one big matchmaking service.”
“That’s different,” I insist weakly.
“How?”
“They’re them.”
“And we’re us. If you’d just give us a chance.”
His voice is softer now.
Steadier.
And somehow that’s worse.
Because when Noah Walker decides something matters, the whole world seems to tilt around it.
I try to look away.
Try to cling to my logic.
But he steps closer.
Not touching me.
Just standing there.
Waiting.
“Chiara,” he says quietly.
My stomach flips.
“You keep pretending that night didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You’re hiding.”
“I’m being smart.”
“You’re being scared.”
That lands like a punch.
“I am not scared.”
“Then why are you fighting this so hard?”
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
Because I don’t actually have a good answer.
And Noah watches the entire internal battle play out on my face.
“You felt it too. I know you did,” he says.
My pulse jumps.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“What are you talking about? It means everything.”
I shake my head stubbornly.
“It was one night. Just sex.”
He studies me for a long moment.
Then sighs.
“Alright.”
The sudden surrender catches me off guard.
“Alright?” I repeat.
“If sex is all you’re willing to admit to,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “then we’ll call it that.”
I blink.
“We’ll call what that exactly?”
“To the fact that you and I aren’t through, and if you want to give it a label and call it just sex, then that is what we’ll call it.”
“So you’re agreeing?”
He leans in.
“Yeah, I’m agreeing to this being called just sex for now.”
His eyes bore into mine.
“But you’re not fooling anyone, Chiara.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is more. You know it and I know it.”
Heat rushes straight to my face.
“That is extremely presumptuous.”
“And yet you’re blushing. Your pulse is racing. And I bet if I checked, your panties would be soaked, wouldn’t they?”
I groan.
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he says quietly, stepping closer again, “here we are.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
The air between us is thick with tension.
Dangerous.
Familiar.
And my heart starts pounding again.
Because maybe—just maybe—one more night wouldn’t hurt.
Right?
Just enough to get him out of my system.
That’s all.
“I suppose,” I start slowly.
His eyebrow lifts.
“I suppose,” I continue, trying very hard to sound calm and rational, “one more night wouldn’t violate my personal code too badly.”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Only because you agreed,” I add quickly. “And only because I’m willing to admit this ridiculous attraction clearly isn’t going away yet.”
His grin widens.
“So that’s a yes?”
“It’s a limited agreement.”
“Sure,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “but that sounds an awful lot like a yes.”
I roll my eyes.
But before I can come up with another argument—I step forward.
Grab the front of his shirt.
And kiss him.
Because apparently my self-control has officially left the building.