Why is he even bothering me?
I deleted his photo.
I narrow my eyes, looking for clues to what he’s really after, but again, all I notice is that everything about him is handsome.
That’s not fair, either.
Of course he comes here all handsome.
That’s what flirts do.
I steel my jaw, resisting his charm, but a narration plays in my brain.
Really, very, incredibly handsome . . . like so, so very nice looking and—
“What do you think?” He interrupts my thoughts, but I’d forgotten his previous question.
“Handsome,”I blurt out as confusion bubbles in my gut and rises slowly up my chest and into my throat until I cough and then blubber out, “I think you have a handsome . . .wallbehind you.”
A snort bleeps out of his nose. Not like a growling animalistic one. It’s like the ones I sometimes emit when I think I’ve eaten the last chocolate chip cookie, but find a half broken one hiding in the bottom of the box.
He raises his palm to his chin and rubs it, his expression forgiving of my blunder and void of any sarcasm. “Should we stop wasting time and get to work?”
I want to ask him why he is helping me.
But his offer to help couldn’t have come at a better time, and he’s right. We are wasting time. “Ah, sure.” I grab a pen and note pad, positioning myself to scribble. “I’ll make a list.”Thisearns me a raised eyebrow of what seems to be respect.A very demure-looking eyebrow of respect.
Noah retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket and starts to scroll, and he starts listing names. “I got Jackson’s number.” He rolls in his bottom lip and quietly sends off a text. I write Jackson on the notepad.
He confirms once his text is sent, and he resumes scrolling. “I got Axl.” His voice drops off as he sends his text, and I add the name to my list.
“And I have Emma, Lexi, Shayla, Ashlyn, Aspen, Raleigh, Blakely, Brooklyn, and Lena—all cheerleaders,” he says, his voice monotone as if he doesn’t realize themassivelist of cheerleaders’ names he just rattled off.
My jaw practically hits the floor.“Why do you have so many cheerleaders in your phone?” I can’t help but blurt.His head jolts back, as if he’s remembering who he’s speaking to, and his eyes widen.“Answer the question.” I playfully aim my pen at him like a sword.
“Ah, I have everyone’s number because I’m on the team.” His expression stays flat, and he tacks on, “And it’s an old phone.”
I blink, not buying this excuse at all, and drop a curt, single-word reply,“Sure.”I add,The entire cheerleading squad, to my list and give him a side-eye.Under my breath, I add, “Boy, you really are the team flirt.”
“It’s not like that at all.” His cheeks flame red, and he puts his phone down.
I place my pen on the pad, and I risk a personal question. “So, you have a lot of friends, huh?”
“I guess. I mean, I live in town. It makes sense I know people.”
“Right.” I inhale the quietest breath as it burns deeply to hear how his life experience is so vastly different than mine. I get it. There are popular people, but it’s never been my experience.I’m quiet as we work through the rest of my list, adding namesand numbers that Noah has from practically every hockey fan in town. After about thirty minutes, I place my pen next to the last name on my list. “We should have what we need for game photos. I need socials though. Do you have any gala photos?”
“Ah, sure.”
“I only need a few group ones.” It’s time for my now ritualistic side-eye. “Don’t give me the whole cheerleading squad.”
“I got a bunch.” His fingers dance over his phone keyboard, and he pulls up a series of photos. Even though he’s a good three feet from me, I can see they are all group photos when he flashes the screen at me. “What phone number can I forward these to?”
I take his phone and insert my number, knowing I’ll be just another person in his personal Rolodex of every single female in town.“I guess we got everything, then.” I let out a sigh of relief as I admire my list, and then check the time on my phone. It’s time to go, so I walk over to the computer and tap on the mousepad, moving my cursor to the bottom of the screen to shut it down as I’m taking my computer back to the Airbnb to work on my page spreads. Pivoting on my heel, I head to the coat hook on the back of the door. “I, ah, can’t thank you enough, but I’m glad we are done because I’m starving.”
“You’re welcome.” He stuffs his hands back in his pocket and a gleam sparkles out of thecorner of his eye, forewarning me. “Now you have to make it up to me.”
My heart slams against my chest as I blurt, “What?”
