Noah sets his glass next to mine and stands, offering a hand to help me up. He turns to Tom as I adjust my dress, pulling it down and focusing on smoothing the wrinkles instead of the tingles left by his palm against mine.
“I’d better get some rest too. I’m afraid I’ll need every advantage I can claim if I have any chance of keeping up with you on the course. My golf game is more than a bit rusty.”
Tom slaps his knee and stands. “Right. Well, have a good evening. Let Gayle know if you need anything, and we’ll see you tomorrow—say around eight?”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Noah says, his hand finding the small of my back as if it’s second nature already.
He guides me through the terrace doors, and though his hand drops once we’re inside, he remains close. I curse myself for being put out and mentally review our rules.When it’s just the two of us the act is off.He’s following the rules I set. I should be grateful. Instead, I’m desperate to gauge what he’s thinking. There hasn’t been a chance to make sure he wasn’t bothered too much by our spiny spar about tomorrow, and while I have no intention of apologizing for making my own unease known, I don’t relish the flavor of bickering with him.
“I think that went well.”
“I agree,” he says, his eyes trained forward.
His body language is saying he’s less than comfortable, and I swallow another wave of frustration. Of course this is uncomfortable. Itshouldbe. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about his hands burning through the fabric of my dress, practically branded into my skin, and how I’m wishing he hadn’t stopped.
Damn that wine.
The cottage is cool, the air conditioner working hard to drop the temperature a few degrees, even as the sun dips below the horizon. Once we’re closed off to the world, Noah wordlessly migrates to the living room and I pad down the hallway and into the bedroom. My duffle is still thrown open from when I changed before lunch and I rummage through it looking for more comfortable clothes.
Staring at the only thing I have to sleep in, a crimson blush works its way down from the top of my scalp and warms my belly. Upon Kara’s insistence that I would want something more luxurious, and under the impression I’d have my own room in a hotel, I opted to leave my usual oversized t-shirt and bike shorts at home. Instead, I packed a pair of thin, navy blue silk shorts and a matching tank top. I bought them on a whim a few months ago when Kara and I were shopping at an overpriced boutique. We were surprised to find anything in my size—the supple curve of my hips doesn’t bode well for boutique clothing lines—and she claimed they made my ass look “juicy as a peach in July.”
Luxurious or not, they are not what I would have packed had I known Noah and I would be sharing this house. I suppose they are better than going nude . . .
I run my finger along the stitched hem, my wine drunk brain forming a fantasy: Noah’s face, his eyes drinking me in as I strut past him with the slinky excuse for shorts. His hands finding that spot on my thigh again, or the curve of my hip, his fingers trailing the hem and slipping up.
A soft knock at the door sends my heart racing, and I shove the silk pjs back into my duffle.
“Charlotte?”
“Yeah?” My voice is high and squeaky, suffocated by the embarrassment of fantasizing.
Noah’s head appears in the crack between the door and the frame. “I figure if Gayle stops in to do any housekeeping tomorrow, she might think it’s weird if my suitcase is in the living room. Would you mind if I leave it in here? I left my toiletries in the bathroom and hung my clothes for tomorrow on the back of the door so I won’t bother you when it’s time to get dressed.”
“No,” I say, my heart pounding against my chest. “I don’t mind.”
One glance and I’m cursing the wine drunk devil on my shoulder. He’s in a pair of dark sweatpants, hung low on his hips, and his thin white t-shirt sends a tingling sensation into my pelvis. His arms flex under the weight of his suitcase as he swings it up onto the chair in the corner, and suddenly every thought I’ve ever had of asserting my independence is gone. Fuck that wine indeed, though the wine is definitely not what I’m thinking about fucking. Retreating back towards the door, he pulls it shut with a quiet, “Good night, Charlotte.”
Alone again, and overwhelmed, I flop back onto the bed and bring my hands up to cover my flushed face. Fantasizing on my own, far away from all of this—and him—is one thing. But here in this house with only a wall and far too sensual almost-lingerie between us? It’s too much. I can’t be teasing the thought of a one night stand now. Not when there is a fake relationship, and my dignity, to maintain.
I wake with a start, not remembering how or when I fell asleep. The room is dark, and the house quiet. The only sound is the click of the air conditioner as it comes on, blasting cold air up from the floor vents. My head throbs, reminding me of the wine and I try to wet my tongue, but everything is dry and shriveled.
Stumbling out of bed, I flick on the bedroom light and scan for a water bottle. No luck. I’m going to have to venture out into the kitchen and past Noah if I want the drink I desperately need. I glance down at the pjs I managed to slip into before passing out. The fantasy he nearly caught me in is less than stimulating now that I’m fighting a hang-over. No one feels sexy when they are as dehydrated as a raisin.
He’s probably asleep though, right? All I have to do is tiptoe to the cupboard and grab a glass and then get to the bathroom. Easy peasy.
The bedroom door opens smoothly and I step into the pitch dark. A tiny blue light on the refrigerator water filter is the only thing illuminated, all the furniture looking like shapeless blobs. The rush of my own heart beating loud in my ears camouflages any sound that may be coming from Noah, but I take my not being able to hear him as a sure sign that he’s asleep.
Keeping as far away from what I think is the couch, I pass into the kitchen. What I thought would be an easy feat leaves me cursing silently as I open cupboards and feel for glassware. On my third try, my fingers close around what has to be a tallboy glass and I celebrate with a silent fist bump.
My steps towards the bathroom are easier, and once my hand reaches the wall of the hallway, I practically dance onto the tiled floor. But the joy is short lived, lasting only until I’m in the light again where my head resumes her throbbing.
It takes a few glasses to quench my thirst. Three until my body doesn’t feel as much like a wrung out rag. Filling it one last time, I flick the light off and open the door. But when I step back into the bedroom, my eyes still adjusting to the dark, I collide with a solid form. I scream and the full glass of water flies up out of my hand, drenching me before it lands on my foot.
“Ah! Ouch! Fuck! Please-don’t-hurt-me.”
“Charlotte!” Noah cries, his hands closing in around my arms. “Charlotte, it’s me. I’m sorry, I was just grabbing my charger from my bag.”
I stumble back and the light flicks on, illuminating Noah standing with wide eyes, his t-shirt drenched and a white charger clutched in his fist. The adrenaline pumping in my veins fades as he continues.
