The word ‘crave’ curls out of his mouth and warms me through to my core. I drop my eyes to his lips and then trace my way back up to his eyes, the desire to close the distance palpable. A shaky inhale and the panic grips my chest.
“I have to pee.”
Whatever Noah was expecting to hear as my response, this was certainly not it. He clears his throat and straightens as I spin and walk towards the bathroom, my cue still gripped tight in my fist. Cursing myself and what could be one of the least sexy interruptions in the history of stalling, I push into the bathroom.
I pace the floor, back and forth, trying to reason my way through whatever is waiting for me back there. Thirty minutes ago I had convinced myself of the importance of keeping things professional, and while it might be the beer, Noah doesn’t seem so keen on keeping the same boundaries. Whether he’s mourning a family drama that’s still playing itself out, or checked out of our real life roles is unclear. But he’s teasing the line I had drawn between us, and out of nowhere I’m scared of what it means if I let him over it. Before this afternoon I could have argued a fling, but sharing a taste of our vulnerabilities brings the risk too close. Despite my best efforts, the whisper of wanting more is calling and a one night stand will make it worse.
I lean the cue stick against the paper towel dispenser and flick the tap on, letting cold water run over my hands. Splashing some of it on the back of my neck, in an effort to chill the growing want, I remind myself of the unfortunate reality.
Pursuing Noah can only lead to trouble—particularly for me. I can’t lose this job and sleeping with my boss on a business trip seems like a really good way to do that. And even if I didn’t lose my job, starting something with Noah is too big and too real for my life.
Swiping the cue stick and stuffing my paper towel into the trash, I take a deep breath and push back out into the bar. Noah is standing with my purse and reaches for the stick in my hand as I approach.
“Sadly, this massacre you’re delivering will have to wait for another day. Lance is here,” he says, placing the stick in the holder on the wall.
“Lucky for you,” I say, taking my purse.
“Lucky indeed. I was starting to think I’d be licking my wounds for days after the annihilation.”
Ignoring the ale-soaked desire to respond with other things I’d lick for him, we stop at the bar so I can close my tab. Noah leans on the counter.
“Thank you,” he says as I stick the receipt into my bag. “I needed this.”
“You’re welcome.”
As his hand finds the small of my back again, not even the pep talk in the bathroom or the cooling evening air can bring logic into my brain. His touch erases all sense of the real world and somehow assures me everything is going to be fine.
The rain starts about five minutes into the drive; a mystical deluge of water wrapping the car in a rowdy roar. I’m following a fat stream as it traces along the outside of my window and trying to pull myself back into the bounds of propriety, when Noah’s hand lands on my shoulder. He leans over, glancing quickly towards the front as if to confirm Lance isn’t paying us any attention.
“I think I should apologize for pushing the limits of our rules.”
Rules. Limits. My brain reels trying to catch up, a half-assed effort under the weight of his touch.
“Back at the bar,” he continues. “You listened and showed up for me like a friend, and I fear I might have misconstrued it or overstepped.”
I blink and the image of him whispering about cravings forms and melts back into this moment, the tension tasting the same. The edge of a challenge he extended at the bar—dangling the opportunity to pursue him like a fat carrot—should sit in contrast with his apology, but it doesn’t. Whether he means it to or not, this also translates like a dare, a way of reopening the door I’ve been trying to slam shut.
It’s not that I don’t want it; it’s what comes after that scares the hell out of me. But right now, surrounded by a mythical early summer rain with Noah half admitting his teasing might mean more, I’m finding it hard to remember why. While accepting his apology and pretending none of this ever happened is what I should do, the beer running wild in my veins has other ideas.
“I can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself—breaking the rules.”
The words fall out before I know what I’ve said, but there they sit. A challenge to meet his own. As if illustrating his thoughts, knuckles brush the side of my neck and along my jaw, my blood turning to fire.
But he doesn’t say anything, and in the pause I grasp for a way to back track.Stupid stupid stupid.He apologized and I twisted it back on him. What am I thinking?
“Lottie . . .”
His whisper of my name is pained and tastes of restraint. My stomach fizzes and everything outside of us blurs again. Momentum from the car turning into the driveway pushes us closer together but not close enough.
“Yes?”
“Would you like an umbrella, sir?” Lance asks, his voice bright and unbothered by the intensity growing in the back seat.
Noah barely breaks his gaze and shakes his head. “No, we’ll make it just fine.”
Unsure of the truth in those words when it comes to whatever this is becoming, I lean down to grab my purse. Noah’s eyes track my movements, his hand moving to unclick my seatbelt. Nerves bubble up and I panic again. What am I thinking?I’m not. It’s the beer. And hormones. And god, he smells good.
Sliding over, I shove my shoulder against the door, falling out into the rain where fat drops chill me and squash the careful bubble of want as clarity comes rushing back.We can’t do this.I can’t do this.
