He cocked a brow, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it off of his forehead, standing up a little straighter now. “Ghosts?”
I narrowed my eyes. He was teasing me, which was totally unfair considering we were currently standing in a famously haunted hotel. “Well, why are you awake then?”
A hesitation, barely a second. Then a shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I didn’t believe him. Not for a second. But before I could call him out on it, he surprised me by saying?—
“Hey, do you maybe want to go downstairs? Grab a drink?”
I blinked. “A drink? Now?”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still infuriatingly unaffected by any unexplained thumping noises. “I mean, you look like you could use one.”
“What?” My hackles shot up out of nowhere. “What do you mean, I look like I could use one?” Did he think it was unreasonable to be freaked out about paranormal activity in my closet? “You think it was all just was a figment of my imagination?”
Noah’s brows lifted. “That’s not what I?—”
“I don’t need you telling me what I need.” The words came fast, clipped, like they’d been lined up, just waiting to be said.
His expression flickered, and in the wake of my declaration, neither of us spoke.
Then his mouth pressed into a thin line, his jaw flexing slightly. “Right. Forget I asked.”
And just like that, I immediately regretted my outburst.
Cheese on a biscuit.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? Just asked if I wanted to go down to the bar. And I was a little freaked out.
What is my problem?
“Wait.” I winced, and then added, “Please?”
I swallowed hard. Feeling like maybe the ghosts weren’t the only thing haunting me tonight. Like being told I’d overreacted by others…
Noah just watched me, arms still crossed but a little defensive now rather than relaxed.
Oh my God. This really wasn’t me.
Furthermore, just then, the idea of going back in my room—alone—made my stomach twist. And honestly, if Morty had, in fact, decided to visit Babs, I’d hate to interrupt…
“It’s just…I’m not dressed,” I muttered, hugging my jacket tighter around myself.
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching—like maybe, just maybe, he might smile.
And then I realized what he was thinking, “I mean…” I opened my jacket just enough for him to see my shorty shorts and tank top underneath. “I’m dressed—but I’m not dressed, dressed. I can’t go down to the bar like this.”
I motioned vaguely at myself, inadvertently noticing my legs, which I hadn’t shaved in at least a week, and crossed my legs self-consciously.
I really, really wished I’d taken the time to address that issue when I’d showered earlier.
Fine. Whatever.
Had he noticed?
Of course, he’d noticed. Part of me nearly rushed to explain that, until two days ago, I’d hardly managed to get out of bed, let alone…
But the words came to a screeching halt when I caught sight of that smirk again. Was it a sexy smirk? Yeah. I’ll give him that, but it was still a smirk.
