Oh, duh. Concerned parent, and all that.
“Sutton,” I whisper back without looking at her. “Bye.”
We walk out, and behind me I hear the lock slide into place. Noah’s hand slips in mine, and we take our time going down the treacherous stairs to the ground level.
After we get buckled into his car, he turns to me. “Your mom is…warm.”
“Warm?”
“You’ll understand when you meet my mom.”
“She’s…cold?”
“She doesn't like to show emotion, and she doesn't like when others show it. She likes to be strong all the time. Stoic, my dad calls her. He loves her, though. That counts for something, right?”
“I guess so. Tell me about your dad.”
“He runs Sutton Vineyards. He loves it.” Noah’s mouth turns down as he says it.
“Why does that make you frown?”
Noah is quiet as he turns out of the apartment complex and onto the street. He taps the fingers of his free hand against his lips.
“It’s what I’ll probably end up doing.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” I arch an eyebrow and cock my head to the side.
“If I work for the family business, it means my soccer career is over. It means it never even started.” His whole body deflates, like he’s melting into the driver’s seat.
My heart twists at the sight of his vulnerability. “You’re scared?” My voice is soft. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have a passion with a stop sign. As though reaching a certain time in life signifies the ending of a dedication and devotion that has ruled all your years until that point.
Noah lifts his shoulders and drops them quickly. “I guess so. I’ve never told anybody that.”
I place a hand on his upper arm, wanting more than anything to be able to wipe the look of fear from his face. “Everything will be okay.”
“Do you know that for certain?” The hope in his voice tells me he wants me to answer in the affirmative.
I can’t help the sad feeling that comes over me. For a guy with a seemingly solid future, he’s very unsettled. “No. But things have a way of working out.”
“I like your apartment.” His subject change is anything but subtle.
I move my hand back from his arm. “You only saw the living room.” Not that he needed that pointed out to him.
“I know. But I like it. It felt…home-ish.”
“Now who’s the one making up words?”
Noah tips back his head and laughs. He takes my hands from where they lay intertwined on my lap, slips his fingers through mine, and gives me a squeeze.
“Ass-y and home-ish.” He barks a laugh. “We’re quite a pair.”
“We could switch the words around, and it would be ass-ish and homey.” Though homey isn’t a word that could ever be used to describe Noah.
“You’re ass-ish,” he says, his eyebrows wiggling.
I scrunch my nose. “False.”
“Your ass looks pretty good to me.”
