Noah’s lips quirk up in a half smile and I blow out a long breath. I hate how on edge this is making me. I’m almost thirty years old for god sake. The time for school yard crushes, and boys who make me nervous, is long gone.
“Fair enough.”
As I justify it away, my mind wanders along the thread of defeat I thought I heard in his voice. Was Noah enjoying this game? No. Of course not. This may have been a mess of his own making, but it was still a mess. Noah is doing what he thinks is best for Flourish, just as I’m doing what is best for my future. My future with Nan’s.
“Do me a favor?”
His voice breaks my thought spiral and I glance his way, hating myself for how eager I am to agree already.
“After meeting my mom, try to remember I’m the Graves you liked first,” he says, fiddling with the air conditioning controls. I raise an eyebrow.
“Who says I like you?”
“I knew you liked me the night we met. You couldn’t stay away.”
I scoff, nearly choking as I throw my head back. “First of all, bumping into you in the hallway was purely coincidence, and we’ve already established you were an ass. Second, outside the bar it was Kara who approached you first. I wanted to ignore you.”
“But you didn’t.” He leans over on his elbow, and though his eyes are trained on the road, I can feel the intensity of his would-be stare. “You couldn’t stay away.”
The repeated sentiment burrows down in my belly and swirls, pulling goosebumps on my arms. He’s not wrong, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I clear my throat and tug at the hem of my skirt, smoothing it towards my knees.Keep things professional.
“I was doing my civic duty to keep my best friend out of more trouble than she could manage.” Then, deciding to use his own words against him, I continue. “If you misconstrued it, that’s on you.”
He flashes another grin and the light in his eyes dances with amusement, but he adjusts to sitting up straight again, his hands placed firmly on the wheel. His forearm flexes, and his knuckles go white. I pull my attention from him, repeating my mantra over and over until it's nothing but jumbled sounds rattling around my brain.
Keep things professional.
Driving into upper society neighborhoods brings a breath of fresh air, which is promptly stifled by a heavy dose of anticipation. The same negative voice I’ve been fighting all weekend comes rushing forward and screams about all my insecurities as we pass rows of mansions and groups of power walking L.A. county housewives. Is this skirt really what I want to be wearing when I meettheVivian Graves? Why didn’t I have my hair blown out at the spa yesterday—or spend more time taming the wild frizz monster before jumping into the car this morning?
The insecurities intensify as we turn off the main road and onto a long private drive. Tall palm trees line the perfectly manicured lawn and are broken only by the occasional decorative shrub. The car slows as we approach an impressive iron gate, and Noah rolls down his window. He pushes the call button and a voice crackles over the speaker.
“Is that the infamous Go-go?”
“Hi, Paul,” Noah says, a warm red rising on his cheeks.
The speaker buzzes and the gate swings open. With a raised eyebrow I turn to my companion.
“Go-go?”
“Paul’s been with the family for years,” Noah says, as if it explains anything.
“So, he’s who I should see about your dirty little secrets.”
“No need. You can ask me anything.”
The simplicity of the statement raises the hairs on the back of my neck and kills my next joke about his childhood nickname. So far, aside from not telling me about the misunderstanding with Tom before it was too late, and the credit card debacle, Noah has been open with me. But something about him committing to always being that way sets my skin on fire. Thankfully, the moment is stolen by the house rising up ahead of us.
While I anticipated an incredible show of finery from Hollywood’s mother, nothing could have prepared me for the home of Vivian Graves. The house, or villa as it is more appropriately deemed, is a light cream stone with arched windows and ivy covered balconies. It stretches far and wide, the grounds equally as vast. The paved drive turns to flat, red bricks and loops under a tall archway where two other cars are already parked. Noah pulls in behind them and I take a deep breath.
He rounds on the car to open my door and I’m barely out of my seat when the captivating beauty known as Vivian Graves, draped in white linen and chiffon, comes bursting out of the large doorway.
“Noah!”
The woman wraps her long arms around him and squeezes tight. She pulls back, placing her palms on his cheeks, and I turn my attention to the sweeping grounds to avoid intruding on what seems like an intimate moment between mother and son.
“And you must be Charlotte.”
I spin around fast enough to topple over, barely catching myself on the hood of the car as the woman struts forward with open arms. She sweeps me into a matronly hug, wrapping me in the scent of expensive perfume, and I stare wide eyed at Noah, who shrugs. This is the third person to welcome me like this, and the instant familiarity is still unsettling. But before I can process the incredibly warm welcome from one of my favorite actresses, she stands up straight, grabs me by the shoulders and looks me up and down. With a crinkled-nose smile, she bobs her head back towards her son.
