The shower stream, not overly pressurized, spews water over our faces, and I can’t help but trace the drops seeping into his dark eyebrows and watch as they splash over his laden and weighted eyelids.
Both my hands find their way to his biceps, the waffle shirt he’s wearing also soaked with water and defining each curve, each ridge of muscle. I watch as they flex and tighten as he fights himself and his grip on me. He’s slowly losing the battle—and so am I.
My mouth floats closer to his, and instead of being bombarded with fear by the crippling anxiety that’s haunted me for years, I focus on his overpowering scent, like the water unleashed a potent musk and it’s doing something to me.
Or maybe I’m less afraid because I know we aren’t alone in the house and that at any second the moment will end.
Urgency, my body screams at me. This will end, and I want his lips on mine. Noah is different from all the rest. Kind. Selfless. One of the good ones.
Noah’s eyes soften and again there’s an urgent tic in his jaw. His breath is warm on my face as he moves closer, and finally, when I’m worried it may never happen, I whisper his name.
“Noah,” I croak. It sounds pathetic really, but he doesn’t hesitate after that.
He tilts his head and presses into me, strangling a moan as his lips meet mine and something explodes inside me. Heat, hotter than any of the water sputtering over us, gushes through me and sends a pulsing deep into my core.
Naturally, I respond to him, my wet mouth opening enough for him to sweep his tongue inside. The passion grows as he nips and tugs at my lower lip and, with my eyes closed, every brush of him is heightened.
I squeeze his arms, unable to dig my fingers in enough, so I end up fisting his waterlogged shirt, and water pushes out, streams winding their way into the cracks of my knuckles.
One of Noah’s hands reaches up, palm cradling my head, while his fingers thread through my wet hair. He drags themdown my neck and allows a single fingertip to trace the lacy V on the trim of my outfit.
I whimper when my body responds to his simple touch. Tongue tangling with his, my hands explore, working down his chest and over his abdomen. Despite the hot water he shudders, and my skin prickles at my effect on him.
My whole person trembles with need, but in the dark shadows of my mind there’s a lurking monster and added comfort this won’t go any further. I abruptly rip away from him.
Damn it, my heart screams at me. I’m falling for Noah, and I want to tell him.
But I’m a homeless nomad, too damaged by her past to hold a job and location for more than six months. I can’t compare to Morgan. Who, by the way, texted three times today—I didn’t mean to look, but when his phone buzzed on the counter while I was rolling out pie crust, I couldn’t help it.
I’m pretty positive I’m the last type of girl people expect Noah to be with. He’s loved by Pinebrook, respected, and I’m the wash-up who people call law enforcement, like Noah, on.
My eyes pop open, my hands drop from him instantly, and my gaze shoots to the open bathroom door. Luckily, no one is standing in the doorframe.
“Noah,” I plead. What do I say? Sorry I jumped your bones, but thank God this didn’t go further, or I might have had an epic panic attack and scared you away forever.
Noah hovers in front of me, the look of pain on his face palpable. Words tumble around in my head that claw at me to be put on paper. I always thought writing my feelings, allowing them to manifest as poetry would help the hurt grinding through me, and in ways it has. I’ve always pictured it as me taking my life back, pulling the darkness from me and splattering it on paper where it can permanently stay inked.
“Lily, I’m sorry, I?—”
Max barks once, then follows up with three more sharply curated ones that bring unease skating through me.
Noah must sense it too, and he bolts from the shower, wet clothes and all. I turn off the water in time to hear him yell, “Mom? Mom! Lily, call 911!”
Chapter 20
Noah
My wet socks squish in my sneakers, and I’m sure my toes are pruned beyond recognition. It doesn’t matter though. I continue to pace the scant waiting room, waiting for the second update of the night.
I’d found my mom shriveled up on the floor, barely able to breathe after I rushed toward the bark I know from Max means danger. Lily followed behind me, her phone in her hand and already speaking with the emergency line. An ambulance came quickly, and I rode with my mom to the hospital, while Lily followed in my truck.
Initially, they ran some tests, and eventually we were moved to a smaller, more private waiting room. The doctors came out shortly after explaining how the advanced stage of lung cancer can cause breathing problems—which I know—because fluid builds up around the lungs and obstructs the airways. They have to go in and drain the fluid, which they are doing now.
She’s stabilized so that’s good, but that feeling—that stomach dropping, heart in vise, constricting feeling when I saw her lying there. Knowing someday, perhaps sooner than later, it won’t be fluid or obstruction in her lungs. They will fail completely. Her bodywillshut down.
I can’t think of that right now. Right now, I need to be here for her when she’s done with her procedure and oxygen therapy.
I count the uneven tiles, scuffed and dull, on the linoleum. Lily sits in one of the handful of plastic chairs lined against the wall. Most unoccupied, leaving the whole place feeling barren and heavy.
