And Noah was actually a great guy. Not that I intended to have one.
So, finally, I knocked.
And I didn’t have to wait long for him to answer.
He stood there barefoot, in gray sweatpants and, uh… nothing else. Had I already seen him bare-chested? Yes. Was I tired of seeing him bare-chested?
As if.
His eyes dropped to the bag in my hands.
“I forgot to give this to you,” I said, my voice too bright. I held it out like a peace offering. Or maybe a distraction.
He didn’t take it. Didn’t move. Just looked at me in that Noah Grady way that made the air feel tighter. Like the space between us was already shifting.
“Want to come in?” he asked, almost carefully.
I nodded before I could overthink it. When I’d decided to bring the bag, I hadn’t exactly figured out what would happen after I knocked. It had felt spontaneous at the time. Brave. But now, standing at the edge of his room, with that memory of his mouth on mine, I suddenly felt exposed.
The room was quiet. Dim. Just the soft hum of the AC and the quiet click of the door closing behind me. I hovered awkwardly at the foot of the king-sized bed, still holding the bag like it was a shield.
“What is it?” he asked, nodding toward it.
He didn’t reach for it, just watched me. His posture was easy, but something about his eyes told me he was feeling at least some of this—whatever it was.
I crossed the space slowly and handed it over. He pulled out the shirt first—soft, familiar—and then the bottle of peach rosé.
When his eyes met mine again, I caught pleasure, but also, a hint of…uncertainty?
“You said you’d have what I was drinking,” I reminded him. “Last night. When you texted me. This is what I was drinking. I meant to give it to you this morning, but…”
There was no but. Only a feeling of not knowing where we were now.
Or what we were.
He looked back down at the bottle, turning it slowly in his hands.
“It’s not much,” I added. “Just a souvenir. Since you missed the tour.”
A long beat passed. Long enough that I almost said, okay, well, enjoy it—goodnight. But then he tilted his head, and his gaze kind of…flickered. Like he’d decided something.
“If we put it on ice,” he said, “we could drink it tonight.”
Oh! My pulse jumped.
“Here?”
He gave a soft, almost rueful laugh. “Yeah. I mean…we could watch a movie or something. Unless?—”
“No,” I cut in quickly, my voice coming out squeaky sounding. “I mean, sure. Yeah.”
He nodded. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, then added more softly, “I’ll go find some ice.”
I was about to say thank you, or maybe offer to help, but then I blurted, “Like that?”
His steps slowed. He looked back at me, a grin spreading across his. “What? Afraid all this…deliciousness might give someone heart palpitations?”
Cheese on a biscuit. So he’d heard that after all.
