29. ROXANNE
Chapter twenty-nine
My entire body tenses as his lips meet mine. Every neuron is firing, synapses sparking like a Fourth of July fireworks show shooting down my veins and pulsing in places I didn’t know could feel this alive. He could touch me anywhere and I’d explode—every part of my body is sensitive, tingling from my lips down to my damn toes.
It’s everything I’ve ever craved, and everything I’ve been running from.
Noah Jackson. The human equivalent of a ricocheting pinball, bouncing into every corner of my life whether I wanted him there or not. My fingers didn’t even have time to hit the flipper buttons to bounce him out.
I noticed him. God help me, I noticed everything. The way he glides down the street on his skateboard, headphones on as he flashes that simple smile at passing cars. The marker dot on his red jacket as he revved his dirt bike past the record store. His voice at the front and center of the microphone every Wednesday. Even his stupid smiley face graffiti tag that started to pop up everywhere around town refused to be ignored.
I noticed Noah much against my will. He's bouncy song you hate but gets stuck in your head. Annoying.
He somehow planted himself at every corner of my life, all messy hair and laughing eyes. Had me sucked into checking out the latest tee under his red jacket.
Who was I becoming? Certainly not his type of girl. I had morals and goals and a 4.0 GPA.
Not some swoony groupie.
I thought I’d escape the perfect hair once I’d manage to get underneath someone else. At first, it was a simple want for attention and he was the easiest one giving it to me—an understandable want, really.
Except, here’s the thing: I don’t want to be underneath anyone else. Something I very much realized tonight.
I was sinking into this fixation and slowly giving in. No matter how hard I tried to shut it out, my eyes betrayed me, always searching and landing on him, and feeling happier when I found him already looking back at me.
I was caving. And craving. Oh god, was I craving .
My hands cling to his leather jacket, fingers sliding up to lock around the back of his neck, holding onto this feeling for as long as humanly possible. My heart pounds fiercely against my ribs, so painful I'm sure it's trying to break my bones.
I don’t want this to end.
His mouth meets mine again with force, before moving into a gentle and sweet rhythm, but it doesn’t take long before I’m— we’re —lost in the moment and the kiss turns into something so aggressive, so hot.
His lips, still as soft as they were the first time, never leave as his grip on my waist grows stronger. Not enough to hurt, but enough for me to know he’s not messing around. Enough that I can feel the fabric of my dress stretching underneath his fingers.
Any more and it would tear.
“Open up for me,” he whispers, dark eyes seeking permission, tongue tracing the line of my lips.
“Make me,” I whisper back, breathless and trying to maintain control after giving so much of it away.
“Always so bratty. Break some more rules with me.” His lips slide past my cheek, my chin, my ear. Almost moaning as they trace the line of my collarbone. Sweet … jesus.
His goddamn words . I’m sure we’re putting on a show for her now.
“Do it, Noah. Make. It. Count.”
Without missing a beat his lips come back up and press harder against mine, the fire growing hotter, hotter and brighter and hotter, as my hands dig deep into his jacket.
No gentle kisses anymore. Just us, a pair of wild things hungry for each other.
“Let me in,” he pleads again. “ Please .”
Wanting to cross this new line, I nod ever so slightly and open for him.
A whimper escapes me the second Noah delves inside, his tongue caressing mine and tasting sweet like cold Jell-o and warmth all at once. My hands scramble to claw at his collar, digging so hard my nails indent through the leather and poke into my palms, pulling him against me as I move my lips against his, patient exploration, memorizing, worshiping.
The feuds between our instruments were always tight—our drumming and guitar work dueling forces—and now our tongues are fighting just as fast as when we slam our sticks and strings.
Our kiss is a goddamn battle of the bands. Every swipe of his tongue, every clash of teeth, we’re trying to outplay each other, pushing harder, faster. We’re not making music, but we’re sure as hell making something as powerful.
He groans, a low rumble in his chest like feedback from an overdriven amp as he kisses me with a hunger that threatens to explode my head from my shoulders. His hands are hot on my dress, his tongue darting forward and back while he pulls me even closer to him. Everything about this kiss is a dare, and it’s begging me to let him in. To give him everything and take everything in return.
Any residual anger about Harley left my mind, dashed against the rolling waves of desire swelling from between my legs and up to the hard points of my nipples rubbing against his chest. A pitiful, breathy moan is smothered against his lips at the feeling of his large hands finally— finally— touring across my body.
They’re heading for the small of my back, moving slowly down, down, down until they’re sliding over the swell of my ass, gripping and pulling me tighter to him. His fingers claw into me when another one of my pitiful whimpers reaches his ears.
From the number of times I've played this out in my head, I can barely believe this isn’t the beginning of a very vivid sex dream starring Noah Jackson. But the bite of the zipper snagging my sleeve, the scrape of Noah's jeans sliding off the counter, my hands exploring the smooth warmth of his back under his shirt where I’ve discovered those little back dimples, it’s all too intense to be fantasy.
It’s real when it quickly turns into a mess of open mouths, clashing teeth, spit-slick lips, and biting kisses. No thoughts, only sensation and the taste of melon and menthol consuming me wholly.
Holy shit.
The spill of something reminds me we’re mid-party, with at least twenty onlookers in the kitchen. My body stills against him and after a few beats, Noah makes the first move, slowly pulling back, breathless but smiling like the shithead he is.
My lips ache from the power of his kisses, wet and swollen. My heart pounds violently in the side of my neck. My cheeks are pink with heat. This really happened. With Noah. Here. Now. Holy shit.
Holy shit.
“Um, did it work?” I slowly unwind my arms from his waist and take a huge step back. His pupils are wider than I’ve ever seen before, almost taking over his eyes.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs at me, that manic grin growing as he leans back up against the counter. “Wasn’t looking.”
Of course he wasn’t. So typical. I press my palms to my face, looking around the kitchen and noticing the room full of strangers staring back at us before they return to their conversations. How much did they see?
My head hangs low, but there’s nothing to really be ashamed about. It felt amazing and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“How was it?” I ask him, biting my lip and hoping he gets I mean how was my performance?
“Perfect.” His response is instantaneous, no pause to consider the comment. “You deserve an A+.”
I raise my eyes to his. “Really? I’d say my act was more of a B at best. I think you’re grading on a curve.”
“On the contrary, I’m a very strict grader. But your performance exceeded expectations, really.” His ankles cross and he reaches out for his beer, takes a sip from it while his gaze drops to my mouth. “You were almost enough to make me forget all about that hideous face of yours.”
I scoff. “Why you little—”
Noah is back to standing right in front of me, close enough to where I can make out the freckle above the corner of his lip. It’s as if a magnet pulled him to me, and the moments so charged, so potent, my lips are vibrating.
“Trust me,” he whispers, the sweetness of his breath making my senses spin. “Ever since you opened that door, I’ve wanted to kiss the soul out of you. And fuck, I want to keep doing it. I want to kiss you so much I cavity transfer.”
Shit, that was a hot thing to say. Too soon, he retreats back to the counter, eyes never leaving mine as he smiles down at me and slides his hand in his jacket pocket.
My panic, however, kicks into overdrive—brain sounding more alarms than a super buff dude taking a mallet to the high striker bell at the Bellpond Blast. How can he look all relaxed and smoothed out now after saying—doing all that? I’m an absolute mess internally as he tucks in his shirt with that lazy confidence before tipping the bottle back to his lips.
It was a full sixty seconds of nothing but heaven and I want him to see it that way too.
My chin turns up to study his face, searching for anything that shows me he felt the same. The sweat on his face glows like cut diamonds in the low light, and his eyes are a deeper shade of blue now. Those blues always have a way of pinning me in place with no restraints required.
I open my mouth to say something— anything —but Noah stops me with a single word: “Tyler.”
Tyler? What does he have to do with anything? He says it so calmly, too, like whatever the fuck happened didn’t happen. I’m still rattled over here, grappling for solid ground.
I’m about to ask when Noah soon frowns, his grin disappearing when Princes Of The Universe starts playing, and he steps forward in a quick motion, both hands disappearing inside his jacket pockets.
The questions can wait, I guess. For now, I wipe off the spit from around my lips, and quickly migrate from the kitchen.
When we both emerge, and I follow him into the crowded living room where the twister mat still lays, the party slams back into focus. The people falling might have made me laugh any other night, but any happy feeling has been abruptly doused by the scene unfolding across the room.
Tyler’s backed against the wall, accosted by a tall guy dressed up in an all black outfit with his face painted like a skull, the black and white mask stretched into a cruel grin. Even behind the paint, I can recognize the sharp facial features and black hair constantly in disarray around his face.
Jonathan fucking Moon, the bully who lives to torment Tyler.
“I can’t believe you can wear something like this in public,” he laughs, rubbing the frills of his shirt between his fingers over and over.
A flare of rage ignites in my belly. I open my mouth, forcing myself through the crowd, but Noah has already wedged himself between them, using his six-foot frame to partially shield Tyler while keeping his eyes sharp and trained on Jonathan.
This close together, it’s obvious Jonathan is a couple of inches shorter and he shrinks back as Noah places one hand on each of their shoulders, somehow managing to look down at him in one of those friendly yet threatening ways. His face falls dramatically at Noah’s tight jaw and those blue eyes darkening like gathering storm clouds.
“You were saying something to my friend?” Noah asks quietly, an edge beneath the calm—the first grumbles of distant thunder. “Sounded like you might be picking on him for his costume.”
His eyes slide sideways to Tyler, offering him a slight nod. It’s a simple gesture, but speaks volumes. One that says he’s got backup, that he doesn’t have to face this punk alone anymore. Damn does it make those wings in my stomach flap harder.
I’ve seen many surprising sides of Noah, but this protective one is new.
What I should be doing is writing off this whole display as another arrogant flex of toxic masculinity. But it’s the genuine concern etched around the tense set of Noah’s eyes that reads as so achingly sincere that I can’t even be cynical about it.
People are looking now and aren’t making it subtle either. Everyone is starting to circle around like vultures, but they’re probably as surprised as I was.
Not that I think Noah’s, like, a horrible person who would never defend someone getting bullied. He’s a lot of things—bold, a smartass, definitely more brooding heartthrob than Golden Retriever puppy. But a completely irredeemable asshole isn’t one of them.
What's throwing me is how he seemed to have a sixth sense about Tyler getting picked on.
Noah takes a half-step forward, using his full height to glower down at Jonathan, and heat rushes to my cheeks as I feel the blood drain from my face and redirect its way down south. I subtly cross my arms and press my thighs together tightly, a little stunned by my body’s reaction.
Yeah. This man keeps getting better and better.
“Yeah, I was, Noah,” Jonathan slurs, obviously drunk. He sways on his feet, holding his cup out in a mocking cheers gesture. “Is he your boy toy? Don’t you have better taste than that?”
A muscle ticks in Noah’s jaw as his arms fold across his chest.
“His name is Tyler.” Noah leans forward slightly, the storm brewing behind his eyes inches away from Jonathan’s. “Maybe you should pick on someone else. It’d be easier to swallow your teeth than that snide, little mouth.”
Jonathan stills, but he isn’t intimidated in the slightest. While Noah’s all sharp angles and wiry strength, Jonathan’s more compact and muscular. It’s not from sweating it out in some gym or chasing a ball around a field—just one of those annoying genetic gifts that some people luck into. His shoulders are broad, his waist trim, with muscle definition that the smug bastard’s done fuck-all to earn.
There’s something unhinged flapping in his heavy eyes too, and he seems to get some sort of perverse pleasure from pissing Noah off. “You’re so tough, Jackson. It’s almost adorable.”
“Is this what you came to do tonight? Be a dick?”
Jonathan seems even more deeply unimpressed as he crosses his arms over his chest. “If by ‘be a dick’ you mean have a good time like everyone else, then yeah. Mine just comes with extra expense.” He tilts his head and smiles in Tyler’s direction before turning back to Noah. “What about you? Here to stand up for your boy toy?”
My teeth worry my lip, but Noah laughs, shaking his head.
“Nah, I’ve got no obligation to Tyler. Or to you, Johnny boy. But you?” He leans closer, the pulsing vein in his neck betraying his calm facade. “You’re pissing off everyone here. Nobody’s forcing you to act the way you are right now, yet you’re choosing to be a dick to him because you want attention, because you want to prove how tough you are…” Noah pauses, steel edging his tone. “But you’re not fucking tough at all.”
Lub dub. Lub dub.
Jonathan doesn’t say anything, only stands there silently, his arms tightening around his puffed up chest. Something sour spreads across his painted face, and I think he might take a swing.
But then his lips peel back in a sneer.
“Don’t fucking pretend you know me. You’re right. I am choosing this. I could be anywhere, doing anything, but I chose this. And why? Because I fucking can. Because I want to.” He lets out a huff, all traces of his earlier dark amusement evaporating. “Who the hell are you to tell me how to act? If he’s got an issue, let him say it.”
The room fills with oooh’s at the call out.
I roll my eyes. Jesus. What an asshole.
“I don’t have to be anyone special,” Noah says evenly. “I see a dick being a dick to someone smaller than him, and I’m tired of it. So, yeah, I think I’m going to chime in now.”
Everyone is unblinking and refusing to move. My own nerves remain on a knife’s edge as Noah takes another step, bringing his face inches from Jonathan’s. They’re nearly nose-to-nose, angry breaths hitting each other’s faces and bristling hair.
All around, everyone can feel it. It’s dead silent aside from Queen still pulsing over the speakers. They’re all rapt and waiting to see what happens next, some draping over the sofa, cups frozen enroute to their mouths. Over by the punch bowl in the middle of the coffee table, a guy dressed as Wayne from Wayne’s World abandons filling his neon squiggle cup. But all I’m thinking is that Noah is starting to look really damn hot right now.
I shuffle closer. I guess that ancestral cave-woman side of me is alive and kicking because I want to see how far Noah will take this. Is it weird that I hope they throw down right here? Noah’s jaw twitching, Jonathan’s lips parting to grin as he angles his face up towards Noah’s height—it’s something.
“Okay, hero,” Jonathan purrs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You might be able to talk big, but I don’t have the patience for this tonight.”
Noah doesn’t even blink. “Neither do I,” he says so quietly. “Go ahead and throw your punch, or tuck tail and walk.”
Oh shit, oh shit , my brain repeats. A few gasps sound. Noah looks totally relaxed, comfortable even. Like he could do this in his sleep. And wow do I need a cigarette right now.
Is it his stepdad that gives him this scary calm? Why else is he so okay to let him throw a punch? Would he really rather take a punch than to de-escalate it?
“Noah, it’s fine,” Tyler peps up, reaching out to touch the back of his arm.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd at the same time Jonathan’s hand clenches around his cup when Tyler’s fingers tug at Noah’s jacket. His knuckles bloom white for a brief second.
“No,” Jonathan snaps at Tyler, tone surprisingly raw as he tries to step around Noah to get a little closer. “Let your boyfriend say what he has to.”
My feet take another step forward. I need to say something and stand up for my friend, but Noah looks so much better doing it.
I could stare at the tense set of his shoulders, the lock of hair dangling over his hardened eyes, the tendons standing out in his neck all night. I bet the veins in his hand are even bulging.
With one finger, he guides Jonathan back, away from Tyler, nostrils almost brushing as he moves in close again. His lips shut tightly, eyes dead set on his. For a white-hot second, I think Noah might be the one to take the swing.
Instead, his lips crack. The faintest hint of a grin.
“So, you’re going to be a dick all night then,” he murmurs.
Jonathan looks like he wants to spit in Noah’s face, his skin turning an angry red underneath the white makeup. I can tell Noah is ready to jump off the cliff. He’s waiting for Jonathan to give him a reason to.
“Noah, seriously, let’s go,” Tyler begs again, sounding anxious now.
“Yeah, you should run back home with him. Go hide under each other’s skirts so you can give him another makeup tutorial.” Jonathan’s eyes flick to Tyler, down to the delicate sparkles on his eyelids and cheekbones. His Adam’s apple bobs briefly before settling back on Noah as he adds, “Maybe he can make you even prettier.”
“I suggest choosing your next words carefully,” Noah replies, his voice softer and more dangerous than I’ve ever heard it.
“Or what? Gonna have your fairy dust up my plea for mercy when you beat me with your purse?”
I suck in a breath, holding it. Christ, forget diplomacy. I want Noah to punch him. I want him to throw that punch into that skeletal grin that he held back after all.
And that’s exactly what happens.
He curls his fingers, the black ring under his knuckle glinting as he raises his right arm up, and uses every bit of force to thrust his hand right into Jonathan’s nose. Muscles ripple as his closed fist connects squarely with his face, followed by a sickening crunch, and then Jonathan flings back, clutching at his gushing nose while trying to keep his balance.
His arm shoots out as he stumbles into a group of people, drinks splashing everywhere, photo frames rattling, until the one dressed as a witch sitting on the edge of the coffee table shoves him out of the way.
He goes sprawling to the twister mat, his head and eyes reeling.
Our classmates start cheering.
My whole face drops.
The room erupts—some people rushing to Jonathan’s aid, others cheering the fight on. Over by the couch, a dude wearing Hammer pants hoots while a girl next to him claps delightedly, but all I see is Noah standing over his crumbled form.
He looks powerful. Dangerous. Sexy as hell . A warrior who slayed a dragon, or a high school bully, same difference.
I have to reach my hand up to lightly clasp my throat at the shock that barks through me.
I did NOT expect him to pull a Cobra Kai punch to the face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jonathan yells loud enough to draw the attention of every single person at the party. He pushes the hair out of his face and wipes the blood off his nose.
Noah squats down next to him, eyes twin propane flames. “What the fuck is wrong with you ?”
Jonathan grunts something through the blood, though I can’t understand what because I continue to stare at him looking like a smashed pumpkin when Noah stands up, adjusts his jacket, then spins away from everyone and their wild faces to face Tyler.
Jonathan slowly rises to his feet, cupping his dripping nose. As Noah steers Tyler out toward the hallway, he tosses one last warning look over his shoulder and holds up a single finger with a grin on his face.
The message is clear: try something again and you’ll get more than a bloody nose.
He drops his middle finger and scans the wide, excited faces around the living room. His gaze lands on me last, and fiery tingles erupt across my skin everywhere his eyes touch.
My wings pound.
Clasping at my necklace, I forget how to breathe. Noah cracks his bloody knuckles, eyes still probing mine, making me feel like I’m the next thing on his list.
He turns back around when Tyler throws himself at him, pinning Noah’s arms to his side. “Dude!” he screams, my eyebrows rising up at the explosion of emotion. “That was fucking awesome!”
What the fresh hell is this? I should be appalled at violence, but I’m imagining those strong hands on my body instead of Jonathan’s face.
Mouth bone-dry, I gape for a moment longer before managing to attach my lips together, and force my feet to carry me over to them. I tilt my head up to stare at Noah, my warm neck thankfully covered by my hair.
He looks down at me briefly, smiling over his rabid cheerleader tucked underneath his arm, but mostly watches Jonathan retreat out of the living room. He gives his knuckles a cursory wipe on his pants, leaving behind a streak of blood, and I immediately take his hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask, turning his fingers over to inspect his reddened knuckles.
He laughs. “Damn, that felt good. I’ve always wanted to punch somebody.”
“You’ve wanted to punch someone your entire life? I didn’t realize you had a hit list.” I lift an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good he looks. I’ve never seen him smile like this before and it makes him even more appealing, unfortunately for my composure. Though maybe it’s totally worth the mini-existential crisis that the punch made me enter.
“Maybe a small one.” He glances down at his bruised hand in mine. One knuckle is bloody and the other has a hairline cut across it where it must have hit his nose ring. “I’ve never really wanted to punch somebody. I just wanted to know what the sensation was like.”
“The sensation of what? Pain ?”
“No,” he chuckles. “The sensation of inflicting pain .”
“Oh, you’re a sadist, too?” My eyes dart back to his thoughtful ones and my throat swells. He really did enjoy that, didn’t he?
Noah’s smile vanishes when he notices my eyes wandering to his lips. At least, I think he notices, since he drags his tongue across them as he blows out a tight breath. So I keep staring. I’m busted anyway, and it’s impossible not to gawk when I can see my red lipstick stains tinting them
Maybe I’m a sadist too.
“Not sure I’d call it sadism,” he says. The tiniest wince flashes across his face, hinting at the pain he’s trying to brush off. “More like… curiosity.”
He yanks his hand from my grip, shaking it like he’s trying to fling off the pain. Those knuckles are an angry red now, the skin starting to swell and bruise. I can make out every ridge and vein in detail, splattered in someone else’s red flecks.
He looks down and flexes his fingers, assessing the damage. “Jonathan is the first person I’ve ever hit.”
“And how did it feel?” Tyler demands, starstruck.
“It felt incredible,” he answers. “I mean, my hand hurts like hell. But it was worth it.”
“At least you can check it off your bucket list now,” I add, attempting to calm my hummingbird pulse. I can’t believe witnessing Noah’s explosive defense of Tyler managed to turn me on.
“Yeah, definitely won’t lose sleep over it,” he laughs, but it quickly fades. His eyes shift from Tyler to settle on me and the dress on my body tightens, the fabric rubbing against my nipples as I breathe. “Are you mad at me?”
What? I blink, confused when my focus stays glued to the carnage of his hand. “Why would I be mad at you?”
Aside from the fact that your protective instincts make you even hotter.
“For causing a scene. Getting violent.”
He looks down at his hand again, flexing it gingerly while the skin pulls taut over his swollen knuckles. My eyes trace over the damage, the abraded skin, purpling bruises. Marks of the ferocity he unleashed to defend my best friend.
“Does it hurt?” I whisper to him, carefully taking his hand in both of mine. I ghost my fingertips over the discolored skin that’s deepened to an eggplant color.
He nods. “It feels like my knuckles are non-existent right now. Like they have been smashed to a pulp.”
Sliding his jacket sleeve up, I check to make sure nothing else is damaged. Jesus, how hard did he hit him? That strong, capable hand now looks sad and beaten. I bet he wouldn’t be able to play guitar for a while.
Seeing it up close, imagining the pain he has to be in, makes my stomach twist. The high from the night is starting to fade, leaving behind a shaky and exhausted emptiness. All I can think about is getting him home and holding a frozen bag of peas to his hand.
Kissing them better.
“We should leave right?” I turn up to meet his eyes, the ones shadowed with the pain he’s trying not to show. “I think I’m done with parties for tonight.”
“I kinda want to stay now that Noay-bear here scared everyone off,” Tyler says, fake twirling a lock of hair around his ear.
I hesitate, eyeing him. “Are you sure?”
“Roxanne.” He clamps both of his hands on my shoulders, and I know a drunk I love you, man speech when I see one. “I literally love you, but this is my first real rager and we’ve only been here for like… a little over an hour so, yes. Go rest. You should go be boring and sleep.” He waves me off, already disappearing through the teenage horde.
I turn back to Noah. I want him to ask me to stay or to ditch the party with me, but his face looks troubled, thoughts distant as he works his jaw. The silence of him staring down at me, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip…
I shrink.
What’s holding him back? Scared Jonathan might try something else? Discomfort from his hand? Or is he regretting our stupidly hot makeout session?
I’m not sure whether I want to head back home and pretend nothing happened myself, or be pissed off and head out of here without ever having a clue what the hell that was in the kitchen. I was still deciding when I felt his hand flex against mine.
“Okay, well... I’ll see you on Monday then?” I ask, trying not to sound disappointed. I give his hand a final glance before dropping it, watching as he cradles it like a forlorn Victorian orphan.
I turn toward the front door, my clipped wings already dragging.
The hair on my body can feel him watching my exit through the crowd, and I’m willing him to stop me. To call out that he’ll share a ride home or something. But he doesn’t.
An avalanche of emotions I’d been suppressing from the moment he saw me in my costume starts crashing down on me as hard as the ocean presses down on a boat not built for its wrath, the same way Noah Jackson’s deep, ocean eyes will never make room for my flimsy, little boat in its limitless waters of blue.
Is my response to let it out in a healthy way? Have a cry? Scream out how badly I wanted his hands to touch me?
Ha . Of course not.
I want him to chase me down like some romance novel hero. Like us reading about Heathcliff pursuing Cathy’s ghost in English.
I wrap my disappointment tighter as the night air swallows me uninterrupted and make it all the way to my car, irrationally hoping he’ll come running out any second.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I press my fingertips to my lips and lean my head back against the headrest, heaving a sigh while I stare outside the foggy windows.
Hot kitchen kisses feel like eons ago now.
Groaning, and done feeling dramatic, I stick the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life underneath my thighs and I flip on the headlights, illuminating the dark street ahead. Just as I’m about to pull the gear shift into drive, the passenger door flies open.
I startle, reaching for my drumstick in the back to stab it into whoever’s ear until Noah folds his tall frame into the seat next to me. He pulls the door shut with a loud thud and grins over at me while he flicks his sunglasses back down to his nose.
It wasn’t any kind of grin. It was the kind of grin that makes you want him so much that you can taste it, as tempting as the smell of fresh bread that fills the room when you haven’t eaten all day.
“Where are we headed?” he asks, as if we’d planned this all along.
I stare at him, half tempted to kick him out of the car for the last two minutes of agony he’d put me through. When he wipes his palms down his thighs, then slowly circles his knees, my common sense floats away as easy as dust particles.
I put the car in drive. “It’s a surprise.”
“Good.” Noah settles back in his seat, looking perfectly at ease. “I’m all about surprises.”