“I expected too much from her.”
My breath catches again, almost like a hiccup, and I hold it, wondering if he’ll continue.
“I suppose, I expect too much from everyone. My little tic about only finding the best extends to more than just pizza, you know.” There’s a forced lightness in his words as he continues. “It got to the point where we were on two fundamentally different paths. She was constantly begging me to enjoy my money and the status it brings, and I was always nagging her about her future, asking what was next. The simple fact is that she felt like she had already made it and didn’t want anything more. But I . . .” he trails off.
“You wanted Italy while she was happy with Dominos.”
Noah huffs. “Yeah, I suppose that’s about it.”
The ease in which Noah’s explained these pieces of himself, the parts that hurt and built him turns my insides over. After growing up with the specific brand of uncertainty I did, I learned to keep those pieces hidden where no one can use them againstme. I slipped up when I met Axel, foolishly tried to prove that not everyone is capable of that kind of damage. I was wrong.
There’s a precarious awareness between us, a warm bubble of vulnerability wrapped around our shoulders and blurring the outside world. There is no music, or smelly, dingy carpet; there is only Noah and I, held together with the frailties of our past now bobbing between us. Blooming from that shared connection is the craving formore. Here in this moment, two beers deep on a barstool in god knows where, is a moment I want to live in for the rest of my life.
The door behind us bursts open, letting in a gust of warm air and a group of cackling women sporting ‘divorce force’ t-shirts, all of it reminding me of who and where I am. We are not Lottie and Noah in some random bar. We are Flourish CFO, Noah Graves, and Accounts Manager, Charlotte Wilde, and we have a job to do. He seems to have the same realization and sits up, clearing his throat and finishing the last of his beer in a robotic string of movements.
Breaking the moment further, he excuses himself to the bathroom, and I wave at the bartender for another round.
It’s time to get a grip.
No matter how much I might want to stay in this moment or tease the potential for sharing more, all that waits for me on the other side of breaking my rules is the embarrassment of rejection, or worse the heartache of a temporary pass. Assuming he’s even in the same place of being tempted, there is no future for someone like me with someone like Noah. Issues with his father aside, he is a whole person—full of life and warmth and free from the weight of a broken past. His future is as bright and sunny as his last zip code, and his chase for the best certainly doesn’t end with someone like me.
By the time Noah returns from the bathroom, the group of middle aged women celebrating their friend’s divorce have madethemselves comfortable at the bar just a few stools down. He notes the fresh beer at his place and quirks his lip up in a halfway grin.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk, Lottie Wilde.”
Ignoring the thrill this brings, and not missing how he’s slowly transitioned to using my nickname, I raise my glass with a wink. “Never claimed otherwise.”
Tipping it back, I take a large gulp and let the light carbonation wash away any thought of opening up further. “But,” I continue, “This might be my last one. Someone has to get us home in one piece, and as you witnessed, the odds are stacked against me with that car.”
When I look back at him, with a stupid grin plastered on my face, his is serious. In the next breath—the one I nearly choke on catching—his hand is on my cheek, his thumb running along my top lip. Heat pools in my belly, my inhibitions ready to slip away. And then, his hand is gone and he holds his thumb up to show a smear of foam before wiping it on one of the cocktail napkins.
Sweet mother of god.
“I already called Lance,” he says, breaking the spell. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
Thank the good Lord Himself. Drinking while turned on and still fantasizing about Noah’s fingers tracing my lip might not be the best idea, but it sure beats sitting here and fighting it sober. Still, we’ll need another kind of distraction. I jerk my head towards the pool tables in the back.
“Perfect. That’s just enough time for me to kick your ass through a few games.”
“I think you’re underestimating my skills.”
“AndIthink you're overestimating my willingness to go easy on you. Your family earned you a beer or two, but when it comes to this you’re on your own.”
We add a few dollars worth of quarters to the tab, and make our way to the table furthest from the front door. The lights are dimmer back here, the music louder. Noah racks the balls while I pick out a cue and chalk the tip.
“Stripes or solids?”
“Stripes.”
He nods and waves his hand towards the neat triangle on his end of the table. “Ladies first.”
I sway past, acutely aware of how he does not step back and lets my hip brush against him, before leaning over and setting up my strike. I break the group and sink the first ball, shooting Noah a playful grin. He shrugs and I scope out my next target. Pulling my arm back, I snap it forward and sink the next one too.
“You weren’t kidding,” Noah mumbles, bringing his beer up to take a consolation sip.
“Let me guess, every woman you’ve ever played has faked her way through a tutorial, pulled the ‘oh I’ve never done this before, please teach me.’”
He smirks. “Noteveryone.”
