21. Noelle #2
The bathroom light is harsh, too white, but I need to wash my face, brush my teeth, and start to get myself together so that maybe I can figure out how to fix the situation I handled all wrong.
But that, to me, feels a lot like laying under a bus and deciding now’s the time to look both ways. Still, I need to push forward.
I take a quick, lukewarm shower, rinsing away enough of the ache to stand.
I change into my oldest Hayward T-shirt, threadbare from years of washing, and Dash’s boxers, tying them with a hair tie, hoping to feel him like his text said.
Stupid on my part because it makes my chest crack open all over again.
My eyes sting, and my throat tightens. I sniff back the pending tears, forbidding myself from giving in to another breakdown so soon.
I need tea—something gentle, something to lull me back to sleep. Chamomile, lavender, something cozy and safe. But when I open my cupboard, it’s empty. Of course. So I pad downstairs to the bookstore kitchen, bare feet against cool wood.
And that’s when I see him.
Dash is crammed onto one of the love seats, all six feet plus of him folded awkwardly, like someone dropped a giant into a dollhouse.
His long legs are bent, one arm dangling off the side, the other curved protectively around his chest. A Harry Potter book rests against him, pages bent where it’s fallen open.
I wonder if it’s his comfort book. That thought makes my eyes burn, too.
His lashes are dark crescents against his cheeks, his mouth soft in sleep. He looks … young like this. Unburdened. Breakable.
I have to look away, or I will cry.
I warm water enough for two cups of tea, just in case he wants some, and grab the chamomile lavender decaf. I make the tea quietly, careful not to disturb the moment.
Watching him breathe, watching the rise and fall of his chest, it hits me with full force again. I love him. I love him, and I don’t just want him. I want us. A team. A we.
When the kettle clicks off, I finally move toward him, crouching down so my face is level with his. I brush a stray curl off his forehead, whisper-soft, and his eyes blink open—hazy, confused, then locked right on me.
“You can’t sleep like this,” I murmur, trying to smile even though my throat is thick. “You’ve got practice in the morning. You’ll be sore.”
His eyes plead with me before his voice even comes, so raw I nearly cry again.
“Please don’t make me leave.”
I swallow hard, nodding once. “Okay. Then come upstairs.”
He follows, still sleepy, still folded into himself, but when we reach my room and I crawl into bed, he doesn’t hesitate.
He slides in behind me, one arm around my waist, the other curling under my pillow.
No sex, no expectations, just warmth. Just him and me, fitting together like maybe we always should have.
And for the first time in forever, I fall asleep wrapped in something that feels safe. Something that feels like home.
The first thing I feel is his warmth—his arm slung heavy over my waist, his breath slow against the back of my neck.
The second thing I feel is grateful. Grateful to my girls for being who they are and unknowingly pulling me out of a downward spiral.
Grateful for Dash because he left but didn’t leave.
Grateful for timing because had he pursued me in college, I would never have been ready.
I’m barely there now. Dash Sterling is in my bed.
Not because we had sex, but because he stayed. Because I let him.
I turn carefully, blinking in the early light sneaking past my curtains. His hair is a mess, his mouth parted just enough to look boyish, his lashes still fanned dark against his cheeks. For a second, I just watch him. Commit it to memory.
When his eyes finally flutter open, I whisper, “You need breakfast. Protein bowls. Across the street at Crosby’s Bean.”
He groans softly and tries to fall back asleep, but I don’t let him burrow back down.
“Nope. Don’t even try. You’ve got practice, and I’ve got a week to get back on track. Crosby’s Bean now, Sterling.”
His sleepy smile is worth the exertion of my bossiness this early on a Sunday morning.
After just the appropriate amount of kitty cuddles, we both tug on clothes. He pulls on the sweats he changed into after the trot, but before brunch. Me, joggers over the boxers.
We brush our teeth. I have a spare for impromptu sleepovers with Sofie’s occasional crash when she needs to smell books and not whatever billionaires’ homes smell like.
We walk through the shop, and he looks around at all the shelves, eyes smiling, and I love that he loves books. I remind myself to ask him if Sorcerer’s Stone is his comfort read.
Hand in hand, we cross the street to the coffee shop and walk in.
I inhale the scent of espresso and cinnamon sugar, the kind that seeps into your bones and whispers’ good morning,’ soothing the screaming sound of your alarm that wakes you and makes you hate mornings, but instead allows you to feel joy about a new day, a new chapter .
We wait in line with him behind me, in the same position we were during the awards at the trot—his arm loosely stretched across my shoulders, one hand on the other, chin on my Yankees hat, and not that … thing Mom had us wearing, me leaning into him.
“Hey, Noelle,” Elliot says when we finally get to the front of the line, offering an easy smile. “Long time.”
“Happy Sunday, Elliot.”
Dash’s body stiffens behind me, and I look over my shoulder. His brows knit, his jaw sets, and I can see it happen—the instant recognition. He knows. Somehow, he knows this is the one. The man I turned into words. The muse for my book.
Shhhiiiittttt.
Elliot draws my attention back to him, asking, “How was the wedding?”
I feel Dash’s hand tighten just a bit, steady but also … claiming. Protective. And all I can think is, How do I explain this without unraveling everything?
Think, think, think …
“It was a wedding.” I laugh lightly. “But we had fun, regardless.”
Elliot finally looks up at Dash, and then his head snaps in recognition. “You’re Dash?—”
“Noelle’s boyfriend.”
Swoooooon.