Chapter 01
“Noah’s calloused hands spread across Owen’s back as he pressed him forward until his chest was flush against the smooth wood of the kitchen table.
Owen took in a shuddering breath, the familiar smell of pine cleanser and spilled coffee flooding his nostrils.
There was another note beneath it now, the musky scent of arousal filling the air.
“Beautiful,” Noah’s dark voice rumbled from behind him, thick with desire. “Now, stay just like that.”
Owen shivered as he felt Noah shift. There was the soft thud of knees hitting the worn floorboards, and then—oh God, oh fuck, fuck, fuck!—the hot touch of Noah’s mouth against his—”
I scramble for the volume control when I turn onto our street, cutting off the audiobook right before the narrator’s moan would fill the interior of my car.
The tips of my ears glow bright pink when I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
No matter how often I’ve read that scene, hearing it out loud is a completely new experience.
But instead of silence, the soft tunes of a pop song, mixed with bits of chitchat and laughter, reach my ears, carried through the open window into my truck by a soft breeze.
Right.
The football party—how could I forget?
My first thought is that hopefully one of the neighbors will call the cops to shut it down, but I already regret it before it can fully form in my head.
I’ve never been one for those Friday Night Lights.
I never played football or one of the other popular sports that receive all the attention on a free weekend night.
During high school, there was always some work that needed to be done.
Even on Friday nights—or actually, especially then, when Dad was sending the workers and farmhands home early to spend time with their families.
While my friends cheered in the stands for the home team or spun bottles in the dim light of a bonfire, I hauled hay bales and led cows into the milking parlor.
Old habits die hard, so when I left for college, I purposefully picked weekend shifts—first in the diner I started at and now at the dog pound.
No one wants to work while others party, so those shifts get paid a little better and are usually much quieter.
Not today, though. A heatwave sank its claws into Vermont a few days ago, absolutely refusing to let go. Of course, this was the day the AC broke down, leaving us—and even worse, the dogs—to swelter. My shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to my back, and I can smell wet dog on my skin.
While I lugged around water containers and tried to fix the air conditioning, I was quietly fantasizing about a night in front of the TV, my feet propped up on the couch table.
Micah probably reminded my roommates and me just shy of a hundred times about the party at our place tonight, but I must have successfully pushed that information to the back of my mind.
Now, however, it hits me that I’m about to confront a house full of football players celebrating the new captaincy of my roommate with a few too many drinks.
They also took up every inch of available parking space, their expensive-ass vehicles gleaming in the setting sun.
Cool, cool.
I spend ten minutes tracking back from the far end of the street, where I wedged my beat-up truck into a space gap that technically doesn’t qualify as a parking slot.
By the time I reach the front door, I feel even worse.
My head is pounding, the inside of my mouth feels like I swallowed a glass of sand, and my feet are killing me.
I just want to get into the shower and then into bed without anyone noticing, which shouldn’t be so hard since people tend to look right past me.
The party is mostly contained in the backyard of the Nook, as we call our little townhouse with its sloped roof, allowing me to sneak in without encountering anyone.
The only evidence of their presence, other than the music and hooting outside, is a few hoodies and sweaters thrown over the back of our couch, crested with Bonham Tech’s mascot—a badger—and all sized for actual giants.
I linger a moment, the blast of the AC a welcome blessing on my clammy skin, then head straight to the stairs.
Then the kitchen tempts me. I watched Micah prepare a truckload of food yesterday, including some delicious-looking pasta salads, and my stomach is gurgling loudly at the memory.
I still approach with caution, not sure the encounter with our party guests will be worth an appeased stomach. To my delight, the kitchen is empty.
I force myself to down a glass of water first. The cool liquid runs soothingly down my scratchy throat, making me feel a bit more human while I eye the goods on the counter.
The salads must all be outside, together with most of the snacks.
I spot a few abandoned bowls with chip crumbs at the bottom—and a huge tray of brownies.
I know Micah will tell his buddies he just bought a cake mix, but the rich chocolatey smell betrays the lie.
Also, I’ve seen him gather the ingredients around the kitchen when I left for work.
Would anyone notice if I took a teeny-tiny piece?
Probably.
But there are enough other suspects around to blame.
I quickly wash my hands in the sink, half-heartedly drying them on a dishtowel before grabbing a corner piece.
It’s definitely not the smallest, but I gobble it down in ten seconds flat, sighing with bliss when the flavors unfold on my tongue.
It’s gooey and sweet and reminds me of my mother’s recipe.
Not for the first time, I wonder when and where Micah learned to cook and bake.
Since he moved in last year, we have ordered way less food, which is wonderful, but it always makes me feel bad for contributing so little to the cooking.
Between his football training and course load, Micah must be just as busy as the rest of us, yet he still manages to whip up dinner for everyone on most nights.
To ease our consciences, the rest of us compensate by buying groceries instead. And I at least wash the dishes.
I feel halfway human again when I climb the stairs to the first floor that I occupy with Nicko and Olli.
Both their doors are firmly closed and probably locked to avoid any unwanted visitors.
I think I heard Olli’s voice outside but suspect Nicko has fled the scene together with his boyfriend, Xander—which I’m not mad about.
I’m happy for them, especially since I haven’t seen my best friend smile a lot during the past two years, but sometimes it almost hurts to look at them.
They’re freshly in love and trying to keep a low profile in public, so naturally, when inside the safety of the Nook, they touch a lot.
No outright PDA, but an arm around each other or a leg hooked over the other’s in front of the TV.
Xander’s hand on the small of Nicko’s back, guiding him away from another debate with Olli, Nicko leaning into his boyfriend when he thinks no one is looking.
It’s what I pictured a relationship would look like and what I had in mind when I set up that online dating profile and filled in my details; what I thought Colin and I could have this summer.
Instead, he left me with a deadline and a task I haven’t come any closer to completing.
By now, I’ve almost given up on it. It’s not for lack of trying—I’ve chatted with a handful of other guys, but all the conversations died at some point, like a flower you forget to water regularly.
It’s mostly my fault for keeping them on read after the first dick pic I never asked for, after failing to provide pictures of myself or answer the most basic questions about my preferences.
Top or bottom?
I don’t know—how about we start with our names first?
I would like to know at least something about the other person before getting naked together or for a picture. Not a whole life story, but there must be something else you have to offer me rather than a faceless set of abs!
Colin was different. We talked about his travel plans, and I confided in him about my parents.
Who would probably tell me that I should put that “damned phone” aside and try to meet someone in real life.
But I’ve never been big on going out, and between the additional shifts I’ve taken over the summer and the few extra courses I’m trying to complete, I have no energy left.
So, even with a party raging right in the backyard, I much prefer a cool shower and my soft bed for the rest of the night.
Fingers crossed, I’ll at least manage to finish my reread of Keeping Noah so I can return it to Olli’s bookshelf.
I grab a fresh set of clothes from my room, then dart across the hallway to the bathroom. Thankfully, since the party is outside, it's unlocked; everyone else is probably using the downstairs one. My hands are full, so I press the handle down with my elbow, then shoulder it open.
At first, I think I must have made a mistake and, however possible, barged into Nicko’s room, interrupting a tender moment between him and his boyfriend. Two men are locked in a tight embrace, their hands wandering over each other’s sides in long and lazy gestures.
It takes me an agonizingly long second to realize that, no, I’m not, in fact, facing Nicko and his boyfriend. I’m also not in the wrong place; the bathroom just holds significantly more people than I expected.
There’s a full-blown three-way make-out session unfolding right in the middle of our bathroom.
It’s like looking at an accident—the most beautiful accident where a sports magazine editor cast all participants.
I can’t avert my eyes even though it would be the right thing to do.
Mesmerized, I watch as two pairs of hands wander up and down Micah’s back.
I recognize it immediately by the broad shape, his lat opening up like an enormous fan, the thin material of his gray shirt stretching out over it.
I’ve had this exact view a hundred times when entering the kitchen in the morning, and it never fails to do something mildly catastrophic to my thinking abilities.
The smaller pair of hands settles on his hips, dotted with freckles and ending in perfectly manicured French nails; the only hint that there’s a girl sandwiched between the two big bodies.
Another set of tattooed hands hovers over hers, then grabs Micah’s sides instead, pulling him closer, squeezing all of them together.
A deep moan fills the bathroom.
I’ve heard that sound before, muffled through my ceiling on the nights Micah leads a visitor up the narrow stairs to his room.
I’ve always managed to locate my headphones fast enough to cut out the rest, but right now, there’s nothing to filter it out.
The sound moves directly through me, echoing in my cells, vibrating in my bones.
My face is burning, and my hands have gone very still at my sides, the change of clothes dropping from them with a soft thud.
The small hands wander from his narrow hips to Micah’s ass. I’ve gotten very good at pretending not to notice it; the perfect roundness of it, the firmness. But it’s right in my field of vision now, and I can’t look away when the flawless set of French nails digs into it.
Micah moans again, and I gasp, our voices becoming one for the smallest fraction of a moment—until I realize what the fuck I’m doing and hurry to clap a hand over my mouth.
But it’s too late.
The tattooed hands release Micah’s sides, the third body drawing back from their knot of limbs, dark eyes snapping open to glare at me.
“What the fuck?!” Sebastian Davenport growls, the anger in his voice sending me back a step.
The girl detaches herself from Micah’s chest, offering me a better view.
She’s drop-dead gorgeous—light freckles dusting her creamy skin, not detracting from her beauty but enhancing it with a hint of cheekiness, a slender frame, and long auburn waves that cascade down her back.
She looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t place where I’ve seen her before. Her eyes are unfocused, but once they settle on me, a flirty smile curls the corners of her full lips.
“Oh, are we expanding into a foursome?” she coos, and it sounds like she might actually be open to it.
“Definitely not,” Davenport answers, his eyes moving over me with open contempt, slowly taking in the dog hair on my shirt, the cold sweat on my forehead. His nose scrunches up in the most uncharitable gesture, as if he can smell me all the way to where he’s standing.
I involuntarily shrink into my oversized shirt.
“Seb.” Micah’s voice is low but sharp, clearly used to being heard and obeyed. It also makes the fine hairs at the back of my neck stand up—if he told me to leave in that tone, I probably would. I would do a lot of things.
“I’m sorry, but I need the shower,” I tell them quickly, even though I’ve already made another step backward, standing in the middle of the hallway now.
“There’s another bathroom downstairs,” Davenport very unkindly informs me, like he lives here and I’m the intruder.
“We’ll be out in a second, Lind. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had work today,” Micah promises at the same time. He has turned to face me, and only now do I realize his belt is undone, the zipper of his pants halfway down, trapping an impressive bulge.
I yank my gaze up to his broad shoulders, to the back of his neck, the stretch of skin above his collar where I could probably feel his pulse.
None of these options seems safe right now, so I settle on his face instead, that stupidly handsome face with its perfect jawline and slightly kiss-swollen lips.
I shiver when his heterochromatic eyes land on me—one blue, one hazel.
Fuck.
I have to physically refrain from pressing my hands against my cheeks when I can feel them flushing. Not only from the eyeful I just caught, but also because that comment stung. We talked this morning in the kitchen! But obviously, there were other things on his mind.
I can’t blame him.
Why care about your lame roommate’s job when you’re looking forward to a house party with beautiful people crowning you captain of the football team?
“I…uhm, I’ll give you a second,” I announce and turn around to retreat to my room across the hallway.
Leaning against the closed door, I release a deep breath.
I can hear giggles, then the soft murmur of voices.
For an awful moment, I fear they’ll just close the door again and get right back to it, but finally, three sets of steps retreat down the stairs, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts.
I wonder what Colin would say if I told him about this—how I haven’t managed to get even a tiny step closer to losing my virginity while my straight roommate is about to have a threesome with his teammate.