I don’t bother waiting for Odette. I can’t. I need to put as much distance between us as possible.
She’s just closing her door as I pound up the steps to my house, which have certainly seen better days. Between running the farm and the cidery, I haven’t had as much time as I’d hoped to fix this place up. I could easily pay someone to get it up to date, but I decided when I bought it that I wouldn’t do that. I wanted it to be somethingIbuilt, not someone else. I’ll get to it one day.
The old screen door creaks as I pull it open and push inside. Since it’s just me out here, I don’t bother locking it up much, especially not when I’m still going to be on the property. I’ve never been more thankful for that as I barrel through the door, rush through the living room, and go straight to the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cabinet and press it against the water dispenser on the fridge. Once the glass is full, I chug the entire thing in three swallows before filling it again.
I don’t know why I’m so desperate for water, but I am.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
Oh, right. That’s why.
I close my eyes as I take another drink, slower this time, as Odette strolls into the kitchen. I should feel like a bad host for leaving her to fend for herself, but she’s been here before with Izzy. She knows her way around plenty.
She proves it by setting her purse on the scratched-up kitchen table that came with the house. Then she makes her way to the pantry, pulling out the bread and chips. She sets them on the counter and moves to the fridge. I step out of her way, my eyes darting to her purse again.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
On the counter she sets the fixings for sandwiches—mustard, mayo, turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese—then shoos me out of her way as she rolls up her sleeves and moves to the sink.
Given my history in the kitchen, I don’t argue.
I know my strengths and weaknesses, and doing anything in the kitchen definitely falls into the latter category. I tried cooking for Chelsea a few times over our six-year marriage, but it always ended poorly. I eventually gave up trying and never really got into it post-divorce either. I survive just fine on the few things I can make, so who cares?
I go around the other side of the island and stop at the fridge to refill my water. After setting it on the small two-person dining table, I grab another from the cabinet and shake it toward Odette in a silent question.
“Do you have any lemonade?”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything, and fill her glass with lemonade before returning it to the fridge. I make sure to grab the pickles from the top shelf because I love them with my lunch.
Odette finishes our sandwiches just as I pull a bag of Doritos from the pantry, and we settle at the table together.
“Thanks,” I say, focusing solely on the delicious-looking meal before me. I can’t bring myself to look at her yet.
“No problem.” She pops a chip into her mouth, her crunching filling the otherwise quiet room.
It’s awkward between us now, and we both know exactly why.
Pale-pink lace. Red hearts. A matching bow.
I close my eyes against the image that won’t leave my mind.
I don’t get why I’m reacting like this. I’ve seen plenty of women’s underwear before. It’s not my first time by a long shot.
Yet, here I am, unable to shake that damn adorable pink thong from my thoughts. Unable to stop thinking about how soft it might be. How good Odette’s ass would look in it.
My pants tighten—not for the first time—and I shuffle, trying to adjust myself inconspicuously.
Odette’s so wrapped up in her lunch that she doesn’t even notice, and thank fuck for that. The last thing I need is to be caught popping a boner.
Stop thinking about the damn underwear, Noah. Think about something else. Literally anything else. Your to-do list for the wedding. Your to-do list for your house. Your to-do list to get the business where you want it so you can use the profits for the iceplex. Count the damn scratches on the table—anything but Odette’s pink panties.
“Something wrong?”
I snap my head up to find her indigo eyes on me. “What?”
She gestures toward my untouched lunch. “You’re not eating. Did I make it wrong?”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Uh, no. Sorry, I just needed a minute to chill after all that work.”
