“No,” I muttered, heat blooming in my cheeks. “Well, maybe.”
He smoothed a hand slowly down the center of his chest, toward the waistband of those low-slung sweats. “Just maybe?”
“You’re horrible,” I managed, flustered and dying.
“You’re lucky I have pants on,” he called, already halfway out the door.
“Barely,” I mumbled, recalling how low they hung on his hips, but the door had already clicked shut behind him.
But then I glanced around, smiling.
He’d said to make myself comfortable. I could do that. Sort of.
I kicked off my sandals and perched on the edge of the bed, then thought, screw it, and pulled my legs up, hitching my skirt up so I could sit cross-legged as I grabbed the remote.
By the time he returned, I had the TV on and was scrolling through channels. And when I glanced up, there it was again.
That gaze...dropping, just briefly, to my legs before snapping back to my face like he hadn’t been caught. But he definitely saw me, watching him watching me.
He didn’t look embarrassed.
My stomach flipped.
He crossed the room and set the bucket of ice down on the dresser, then reached for the wine bottle, giving it a thoughtful look.
“If you don’t want to wait,” he said, “we could just pour it over the ice.”
There was a tiny flicker of hesitation behind his words, like he knew it wasn’t the right way to serve wine, but was offering anyway because he didn’t want to make me wait. He was overthinking. Trying to make it easy. Or maybe…trying to impress me?
Which was ridiculous. He didn’t need to try.
My smile curled before I could stop it. “Isn’t that sort of…sacrilege?” The words slipped out before I could catch them.
Leo would’ve said so. With a whole lecture about water melting ice and diluting the taste profile. But…Leo wasn’t here. “Works for me. It’s sweet enough to be a spritzer.”
Noah flashed a smile, but then, holding up two plastic-wrapped coffee cups, grimaced. “No wine glasses. Let me call downstairs.”
The idea that he actually cared? That he wanted to do this right?
It hit me unexpectedly.
“Paper cups are fine,” I said, a little softer now.
He met my eyes over the bottle. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. Having opened the door to an uninvited guest, Noah Grady was doing a pretty good job making me feel special.
Wanted.
“Good thing it’s a twist-off,” Noah murmured, cracking the bottle open before scooping ice into the paper cups. He poured the wine with a little flourish—nothing too showy, just enough wrist flair to make it feel intentional, flashing me a grin that I couldn’t help returning.
It was ridiculous how much I loved watching him.
He handed me a cup but then held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t drink yet.” He poured the second cup and joined me on the edge of the bed. “We need a toast.”
I liked that.
“To…?” I asked.
