“Fuck!”
Noah lifts his head and chuckles. “You’re a dirty little liar.”
“And you’re a tease.”
“I have no intention of teasing you,” he says, leaning down to continue his work.
But in what can only be described as a cruel stroke of fate, before he gets going again, the landline trills, reminding us of the Barker’s and their lavender festival.
I groan a frustrated half laugh as Noah sighs and slips out from under the covers. As he disappears out of the door, leaving me to writhe in bed alone, parts of last night come filtering back. It hits me like a flash of ice water and I pull the comforter tight against my body.
Noah turned me down.
Politely and with a level of kindness that makes my chest ache thinking about it, but he still stopped himself from taking advantage of my practical begging. My cheeks flush and my head throbs remembering how brazen I was.
I’m not sure whether to be touched or annoyed by his refusal; he was clearly working within the bounds of healthy consent. But his trying to comfort me in the parking lot at dinner and then not wanting to drunkenly fool around runs acidic under my skin.
And yet, he was clearly wanting to engage this morning. I’m ready to brush off what is clearly my overreaction to him being a decent sexual partner when I roll over and see the glass of water and bottle of Tylenol on the nightstand. My heart sinks.
He’s not supposed to care this much.
Mid spiral, Noah pads back into the room and his frustration is clear on his face before he voices it.
“We’re needed at the main house.”
“I can shower and be ready in ten.”
I wish I was as put out as he seems to be, but given my recent recollection all I am is grateful for Cheryl’s timely interruption. At least keeping busy will distract me from the way I want to break against his care. I can’t afford to let him in again. I have to mark these boundaries and figure out how I’m going to tell him I can’t honor our sex olympics anymore.
It should be easy. Noah will respect me if I say we have to stop. But there’s also a chance he might see through my reasoning. Because as much as I want to say it’s logistics, orbecause of our professional roles—the truth is far more sinister. The truth is I’m scared of what is blossoming and the lines are now too blurry for me to see clearly.
His assurance during my breakdown, that just sex is all this ever was, should bring me comfort, but as I feared it might, it only brings a fresh sting to the old hurt our pretend play has unveiled.
Fresh from our separate showers and under a noticeable cloud of silence, Noah and I cross towards the main house and meet a frazzled Cheryl, who is clutching a clipboard as if it is an additional appendage. Her face breaks into a relieved grin as we approach.
“Oh thank god. I am so sorry to ask for your help but my usual volunteers got their wires crossed and won’t be here until nine at the earliest. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“It’s not a problem. We are happy to help.”
“Yes,” Noah agrees, stepping up and standing close enough that the back of my hip brushes his. “Put us to work. We woke up energized and ready to jump in head first.”
I snort, choking on the double meaning of his words and step away from his touch. “Where would you like us?”
“The front gate needs someone to hand out the festival schedules and maps, and I’m sure Tom . . . oh god, where the hell is Tom?”
She scours the driveway looking for her husband, and I note the golf carts lined up and fitted with walkie-talkies and clipboards. A few people I recognize from our first afternoon here are milling around, hauling boxes and busy with tasks. The year I spent helping Kara with her community theater troupecomes rushing back and I step forward to touch Cheryl on the shoulder.
“How about we head down towards the gate, just to make sure there is someone there, and if we see Tom on the way we’ll have him call and check in with you. If he needs anything from us we can help.”
“Right,” she answers, her face still pinched into a frown. Then, as if my words had to climb over the mountain of anxiety in her mind, she relaxes. “Yes. Thank you, that would be wonderful. Take one of the carts—the walkies are already programmed to the right channel and let me know if you need anything. Trinity and her boyfriend, Carver, have already been through. They dropped the boxes of maps at the lower farm gate this morning and the tent people should have started there. Let me know if you run into any issues. I’ll try to have reinforcements for you soon so you two can enjoy the day.”
“Don’t worry about us,” I say, patting her elbow.
The sentiment seems to calm her more than it does me, but in the interest of making sure we make it through this trip with our lies still intact enough to seal this contract, I follow Noah across the driveway to the nearest cart. He slides in and the seat is small enough that I’m pressed up against his side.
Ignoring the urge to clear the air now, I pull the waiting clipboard from the dash and hand him one of the walkies. Clipping mine to the top of my shorts, I reach for the support bar as Noah backs us up and turns towards the path leading to the lower levels of the farm.
The vague spoken tour Cheryl gave me from the balcony our first night here comes whispering back as we rock down the dusty dirt road. Noah relaxes into the seat, his one arm dropping to rest on my thigh. His fingers trace a light pattern on my kneecap and it takes everything I have not to pinch my legs together at the sensation.
