His name comes out as a threat, but all he does is grin.
“Odie,” he counters.
I reach for the glasses again, and I don’t know if he’s just too damn cocky for his own good or what, but this time I get them. My fingers curl around the thin piece of metal, and I yank them toward me.
My victory is short-lived because Noah snatches them right back, and we’re suddenly fighting over them like they’re the last breadstick in the basket.
I pull on them. He pulls harder.
He gives another tug, and the unmistakable sound of plastic breaking echoes through the kitchen. He holds one half of the glasses while I hold the other.
I guess there’s no hiding now.
My eyes go straight to his face, and I gasp.
“Holy shit, Noah ...” I rush toward him, my hands cupping his face. He tries to pull away from my touch, but I don’t let him. “Stop moving.”
He does.
“I ...” I wince as I take in the purple, black, and blue bruises under both of his eyes. “I can’t believe it’s that bad.”
“Yeah? I guess that’s what happens when you run nose-first into a door becausesomeonewas scared of a little spider that didn’t even exist.” His jaw tightens under my grasp.
I run my finger near the cut on the bridge, the one that’s still fresh looking, and he flinches like it hurts.Of courseit hurts. It looks terrible.
“I’m sorry, Noah,” I say, tearing my gaze away from his wounds and looking into pools of brown. “So, so sorry.”
He says nothing, only stares.
We’re standing so close that his warm breath, which smells like apples, tickles my nose. So close that I feel each breath he takes, his chest brushing lightly against mine. So close that I realize just how gorgeous his brown eyes truly are.
No, not just brown. They’re more than that. They’re russet and cinnamon and chocolate and toffee. Swirls of various shades, darker on the edges and lighter toward the pupils, which are definitely dilated.
Then those same eyes drop lower, lower, lower ... right to my lips.
I don’t know why I do it—maybe just to see his reaction—but I roll my tongue along them, even though they aren’t dry.
Noah tracks the movement with laser focus, like he’s scared that if he looks away, he’ll miss something.
So I do it again, and he watches me just as closely.
Then suddenly he’s not justwatchingclosely—he’sgettingcloser.
I don’t move. I don’t knowhowto move. I don’t even know what’s happening.
Is Noah Stevens about to ...kiss me? Am I about tolet him?
Yes.
The thought filters through my mind effortlessly.
Yes, I would let Noah kiss me. Yes, I would kiss him back. Yes, it would probably completely rock my world. And yes, it would be a colossal mistake.
But I don’t care. I’ve wanted Noah to kiss me since I was sixteen and I realized that my feelings for him were not so innocent. I may have given up the idea of him doing it years ago, but it doesn’t mean I’m about to push him away now that it’s happening.
“What the hell?”
We spring apart like we’ve been caught doing something wrong and find Izzy standing at the back door, her hand over her mouth as she takes in Noah’s face.
