Noah’s eyes track quickly across my features as if he’s trying to figure out what I want him to say.
“Yes.”
“Then, yes. I believe you.”
The lie slips between us and slithers tight around my throat, a serpentine reminder of my insecurities. Even in our short time together, I’ve never lied like this, and I’m not sure I like the flavor of it. But if there is anything I know, it’s that pretending like we have more than a few stolen moments ahead of us is begging for trouble. The kind of trouble I’m not sure I’ll survive.
“I need another drink.”
“Lottie.”
“Please, don’t.”
The plea is little more than a whisper, weak after everything else. He could fight me on it, push further and demand I give him answers, and I probably would. The wounds throbbing beneath my hardened exterior are desperate to break free and bleed over every bit of my life and everyone in it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he takes a deep breath and stands up straight before letting his hand find mine. I try to ignore the way it’s like deception against my palm, and lean into the boundary we’ve set in keeping things physical. Just sex, nothing more.
However, as we settle in at the table and I drain my wine glass, and then another, the wall I’m hiding behind is more like a burden than it ever has been before.
Getting back to the Barker’s after dinner is a blur of wine drunk giggles and laughter, at least for three of us.
After my parking lot sideshow, I spent the rest of our meal sipping as much wine as the faceless waiters would bring me, and ignoring the way Noah kept looking in my direction. Concern continued to ripple off his shoulders with each glass I downed, but by the time I finished off the chocolate cake course, I’d tucked my fears back into their box and fully committed to the boundaries of this weekend.
When we stumble from the car, Noah, who seems infuriatingly sober, makes sure to say goodbye for both of us before our hosts disappear into their front door. I take a few clumsy stumbles towards the cottage, my ankle rolling as one of the pinprick heels wedges in the space between two uneven pavers. Noah appears at my side, everything about him supportive and stable.
“Fuck,” I whine, gripping his arm so I can balance on one foot and slip out of the shoes. “I fucking hate these.”
“That’s a shame,” he hums, taking it from my hand. “I quite like them.”
I giggle, slipping out of the other. “You just like the way my ass looks when my body is propped up for show.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like the way your ass looks all the time.”
My giggle deepens, the words he whispered tracing warmth along the base of my neck and down my spine. This is what I need; dirty compliments that would make my adopted grandma blush.
“But more than that,” he continues, squeezing my arm tighter against him. “Is they give you an excuse to be close.”
I stop, the unexpected jolt putting space between us as he continues forward. My first thought is to chide him for being too sweet, to remind him of the way this is supposed to be about chasing gold medal orgasms, and nothing more, but what pops out is the result of too much wine and not enough tact.
“Are you real?”
He chuckles and pats his torso with his free hand. “As far as I’m aware.”
I frown, and shove against his chest, my hand catching on the edge of his jacket. “Seriously. You’re like . . .” I search for the right description. “Like the entire essence of every steamy romance novel hero stashed away on Nan’s secret bookshelf.”
“Secret bookshelf?”
“Not the point.”
“Which was?”
I frown, trying to remember. “That you’re tooperfect.”
Noah closes the distance between us, his arm slipping around my waist to prompt me towards the house. “I’m not sure if that was meant as a compliment, but I assure you it is far from the truth. Now, let’s get you to bed.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
