I barely stifle an eye roll at her blatant sexism while she turns her face up towards the sun, like a lizard on a rock. Swallowing my offense with a gulp of riesling, I twist towards the view of the lavender fields. Large sprinklers shoot long arcs of water over the rows, the dusty purple and sage a playful swatch against the bright blue sky.
After the mimosa and little more than snack crackers on the plane, the riesling I’m gulping down as a social lubricant hits harder than I expect. The sun is too hot, my clothes are sticking uncomfortably to my skin, and the booze is making everything soft and fuzzy.
Cheryl refills my glass as Noah and Tom break into a riot of laughter. I tune in to their dynamic, curious to see how Noah is when he’s schmoozing. He’s standing with a glass of wine in his hand and a genuine smile at whatever Tom is saying. It summons a swirl of tipsy arousal and I jump when Cheryl interrupts with a clap.
“Alright, you boys. That’s enough shop talk for now.” She turns back to me. “You two should get some rest before lunch. I’llfind Gayle to see you to the guest house,” she says, slipping into the open terrace doors.
In what I assume is an effort at comfort, Noah smiles. I offer a sheepish one in response before finishing off the second glass of riesling. The sweet acidic bite—floral with a hint of something smooth, like pear—gives me something to focus on and I take the distraction. However, before I can mentally list each piece of the flavor profile, Tom’s voice barks out and interrupts my grounding study of the wine’s essence.
“The guest house was just redone last summer, so the two of you are the first to break it in,” he says, taking a long sip of his wine. He turns to Noah and waggles his eyebrows and chuckles. “Don’t go breaking too much.”
My smile is frozen on my face as Cheryl comes back with who I can only assume is Gayle—a small woman with a gray pixie cut and sun kissed cheeks.
There is no way I heard that—whatever that was—correctly. It’s the wine. Or the sun. I replay the moment trying to decipher what he wastryingto say. Perhaps they have valuable breakables, or antique furniture. I know I’m curvy, but surely there is no way he was commenting onthat.He’s also sporting a round belly and thick arms. However, the alternative seems even more unlikely. What the hell?
“I hope Tom isn’t giving you a hard time, now.”
“Not at all,” Noah says, his voice tighter than I’m used to. His barely hidden discomfort brings me a smidge of relief. At least it’s not just me. I’m ready to move past it all, until Cheryl pipes up again, her rosy cheeks beaming as she takes us in.
“I’m just so glad the two of you could make it down. And while I know business is your primary focus, I do hope you will take some time to relax and enjoy each other. There’s no place like Scented Acres.” She slides her arm behind Tom and pulls him for an intimate side hug.
My cheeks burn against the smile I’m forcing. Enjoy each other? What the actual fuck is she talking about? I look at Noah, who stands next to me, one hand in his pocket while the other is still wrapped around his wine glass. His nonchalant stance deepens my anxious spiral.
My ability to write off the strange vibes is dissipating by the second and I curse Noah and his apparent ability to remain unbothered in even the most awkward circumstances. How can he be so fucking chill right now? Tom just alluded to usbreaking furnituretogether, and Cheryl is ready to send us off on a honeymoon.
Gayle leads us back through the house and across the side yard to a quaint cottage set against its own plot of garden. Rose bushes line the rough cut pavers making the walkway, and an archway of lilacs hang over the porch. The floral aroma is as intoxicating as the wine, wrapping us in a blanket of sweet fragrance as we pass in through the front door.
The woman’s tour is as short as she is, but I’m only half listening; my only thought is that the house is small.Toosmall. Even without hearing, there is no way there is more than one bedroom in this place. I eye the couch as Gayle continues her instructions, wondering if it is a secret pull out. Surely they wouldn’t have assumed that we are—no. Definitely not.
“There’s a phone on the counter that connects to the main house. If you need anything at all while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to call.”
I nod mindlessly, still stuck on the weirdness with Cheryl and Tom while Noah sees her to the door.
“Thank you so much, Gayle.”
The door is barely shut when I launch into demanding answers, even if I’m not sure Noah can give them.
“Is something weird with those two?”
Noah frowns. “What do you mean?”
My stomach is in my throat. Maybe I am way off.
“It’s been a long day and honestly I don’t think I really understand these people, but I got the distinct feeling our hosts think . . .” I hesitate, logic screaming that I’m talking to my employer. After everything else that’s happened between us, if I’m wrong, I face an HR violation from which even I won’t recover. Noah waits and I can’t help it.
“I think they think we’re a couple.” I whisper the last word like the curse it is, and my cheeks burn, the wine coming back with a vengeance. I was definitely making it up. I had to have been. “Never mind. I’m sorry I said anything. Forget it. I think I just need a glass of water and to sit down for a moment.”
Ignoring the fact we’ve been sitting for most of the morning, and shoving down the other questions I have about where the hell we are going to sleep if there is only one bedroom, I cross the impeccably decorated living room and sink into the plush white couch. Noah crosses into the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard. His silence as he fills the glass from a pitcher confirms my overstep and I grit my teeth and cover my face with my hands as I try to think of a way to recover.
I just accused our hosts of thinking we’re a couple. Not to mention the awkward position this puts Noah in—to have to figure out how to tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong I am. There is no recovery from that.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Noah approaches and sets the water on the coffee table in front of me, before he too sinks into a chair. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to give me another lecture, like the day I accused him of giving me the promotion as a form of pity, and I rush to stop him.
“Forget it. I’m so sorry. I crossed a line, and I promise it won’t happen again. Of course they don’t think we’re a . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence, the fact that I thought it in thefirst place too shameful. Instead, I take a big gulp of water, willing the chill of it to wash away my humiliation.
“Except they do,” Noah says.
