“How civic of you.”
“And then,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at me, “as I was being the neighborhood emotional support human, I looked up and saw you crouched like a Navy SEAL in a flower bed that I know is bark mulch on top of aplastic Home Depot screen.”
“This is espionage,” I say with mock seriousness, gesturing at my mud-free gloves. “I am surveilling a date in progress.”
“Ah. Spycraft. Of course.”
“High stakes. Very classified.”
Before he can retort, Viv steps onto the porch dramatically, draping an arm across her stomach like a Victorian ghost. “Birdie, darling, I hate to interrupt your leaf patrol, but I’m suddenly not feeling so great. A touch of the vapors. Possibly food poisoning. Or moon allergies.”
Harper follows, gently rubbing Viv’s back with all the sincerity of a kid who helped stage the crime scene. “She really doesn’t look well. And Marin’s out with your dentist, so I think I should stay home and nurse her back to health.”
I turn, slowly, already feeling my eyebrows knit into suspicion.
“Viv, we both know you ate two slices of gluten-free pizza and a mango La Croix.”
Viv puts a hand to her forehead. “And now I feel faint.”
“Wasn’t tonight the poetry reading? At that little art boutique you love so much?” Harper chimes in innocently. “Mom’s been talking about it all week. But she can’t go alone, right?”
I glare daggers at them both.
Noah straightens up, interested. “Poetry reading?”
Harper’s eyes go wide with weaponized sweetness. “It’s local. Downtown. Very cool, very angsty. She was so excited. I would hate for her to have to experience it by herself now that Viv is sick. Art and poetry truly pair beautifully together, you know.”
“I can absolutely go al?—”
“No,” Harper cuts in brightly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “No one should go listen to sad poems by themselves. That’s how people end up writing their own sad poems at a coffee shop while it rains.”
Viv nods solemnly, still clutching her chest like she’s seconds from swooning. “She needs a date.”
My brain short-circuits for a second and then reboots mid-panic. “I’m sure Noah has far better things to do with his evening.Like saving more neighbors or reorganizing his spice rack alphabetically.”
But Noah gives a slow, amused shrug. “Actually, I’m pretty free tonight.”
I freeze. Like, full-body, statuary-level freeze. This was not on my dare docket for the week.
He smiles, the kind that feels like a challenge. “Let me go change, and I’ll pick you up around eight?”
Before I can answer, Harper jumps in. “She’ll be ready!”
Viv coughs delicately. “By eight-oh-five, max.”
I’m still trying to form words as Viv yanks me by the elbow toward the porch, and Harper makes a show of waving goodbye.
Noah walks off toward his truck, tossing a wink over his shoulder like he’s got all the time in the world. Like this isn’t a trap sprung by a meddling houseguest and a daughter with dangerous matchmaking tendencies.
Chapter Twenty
I’m standing in front of the mirror, smudging liner under my eyes like I’m twenty again and about to fall in love to some pop song in someone’s old Chevy. I haven’t worn eyeliner this dark since Owen died. I haven’t worn it on a date since, well. Let’s just say my mascara hasn’t flirted in a very long time.
There’s a knock at the door. Not a knock, exactly, a rhythmic tap, like someone trying not to seem eager but failing.
I glance at the clock. 8:00 PM on the dot.
Of course. Noah would be punctual. The man probably sets alarms to water his plants. In college, he used to show up to study groups five minutes early with color-coded notes and a mechanical pencil he referred to as “Old Reliable.” Meanwhile, I once showed up to a final exam wearing two different shoes and a shirt that may have been inside out.
