“I woke up as you left the kitchen, and then you were in the bathroom, so I was just trying to slip in to grab it. I meant to be gone before you came back to bed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My heart rate slows and I melt into a laugh at his nerves. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was about to be murdered.”
He matches my chuckle, and pulls at the wet t-shirt hugging the ripple of his abs. I swallow hard, remembering I’m braless. In wet silk pajamas. Noah’s eyes fall to my chest, and I shift, tugging at the hem of my tank.
“Sorry. I only packed these because I thought I’d be in my own room, and well, I mean, I am in my own room, but I didn’t expect to be sharing a space with you . . .” My voice trails off when I notice Noah’s brow folded in a crease as he traces my form again. Heat blooms across my skin.
“You havenothingto apologize for.” He clears his throat, and straightens. “What I mean is, you were right to assume you’d have your own space. I’m sorry, again, for scaring you.”
I blink and he’s slipping out of the door, leaving me with the distinct feeling his quick exit and dismissal of my apology was a half-assed effort at disguising just how much he likes these pjs.
By the time the sun is up, casting pale yellow beams through the windows, I’ve mostly recovered from the late night run in with Noah and his damp t-shirt. Mostly. I still break into a heated flush if I think about it too long, but figure it’s no use getting worked up over it. We were disoriented; it was late, in an unfamiliar house, and for all I know he was sleepwalking or something equally as strange.
I shower and dress quickly, hanging the pjs up on a hook in the bathroom. The pale peach dress with a sweetheart neckline isn’t what I planned on wearing today, but I figure between the forecasted heat and dressing down for spa treatments, I’ll appreciate the simplicity of a dress.
Unsure Noah will be awake, I step lightly in the hallway. The smell of coffee bids me further into the rest of the house. The blankets I assume he used last night are folded neatly on one end of the couch, and the coffee maker is filtering, but Noah is nowhere to be found.
I pour myself a mug and settle onto one of the barstools to sip it and enjoy the view of the gardens from the kitchen windows. Raising the warm cup to my lips, I revel in the nutty aroma. Iced coffee is my preference, but this brew goes down smooth. However, I almost immediately regret the sip and choke on it when Noah bursts through the door in nothing but basketball shorts and running shoes. Sweat glistens on his chest, his hair curling from the humidity rising off his skin.
“Good morning,” he says, flashing a wide grin. “How’s the coffee?”
“Good,” I hiccup, raising the mug again to keep from staring at the hard lines and planes of his body.Is he trying to kill me?
He doesn’t seem to notice my averted gaze, and slinks down the hallway and into the bathroom. My phone buzzes, the screen flashing with Kara’s name.
Kara
How are things? Bang your boss yet?
Lottie
Nope. I’m pleased to report, even after a few bottles of wine, my half of the rent is still safe. As it will stay. You better start clipping coupons because next month is going to be tight for you.
Kara
Damn. Have a shot of tequila for me ;)
I roll my eyes, knowing this is her not-so-coded message to get frisky. I know we aren’t unique in this, but between the two of us, tequila means trouble. And, despite Kara’s encouragement, trouble is not what I need right now. Noah met me on one of my infamous tequila trouble nights, and while we’ve forgiven each other’s misgivings and crafted a careful, professional friendship, I’m not sure that will survive if he’s the one that ends up on the wrong side of a tequila shot.
My coffee is nearly gone by the time Noah saunters back into the kitchen. He’s sporting a baby blue golf shirt and navy slacks and I’m irritated by how well he pulls off every god damn thing he wears. Setting his mug of coffee on the counter in front of me, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his thin, dark leather wallet. He flips it open before pulling a card from one of the slots.
“It’s about time we head out, but I wanted to give this to you before I forget. Charge whatever you need for today.”
With two fingers he slides the card across the counter and I frown. “I told you, I don’t need your pity money.”
“And I told you, it’s a business expense. Take it, Charlotte.”
The way he says my name, my full name, pulls at that vulnerable place in my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed support from someone other than Kara or Nan and I’m not sure I like the territory we’re dancing in. I narrow my eyes.
“A business expense. Really? So if Amy was on this trip with you, and she was sitting here, not as your fake girlfriend, would you be offering the same thing?”
A collection of emotions play across his features, one of them a mirror of the curling tension I felt last night as we stood panting in my doorway, before he settles into a mischievous smirk.
“Yes. If it was Amy instead of you, I would still insist she take the card. But between you and me, I’m glad you’re not Amy. Fake or not, she’s not my type.”
My jaw drops open, and he shrugs before finishing his coffee and turning to put the cup into the sink.Is he flirting with me?We’ve shared the occasional quip back and forth before, sure, but this is different. For being in a fake relationship, that felt . . . alarmingly real.My stomach dances and I clear my throat as I push back from the island.
Professional. Be professional. The rules we set have a purpose.
