“But what part?” I press.
“The midpoint.”
“Which is?”
She looks up at me, then down to my lips. She takes a deep breath that sounds like a sigh, and I think I know exactly what happens at the midpoint.
“We should get coffee. I need a break,” she decides, rising from her seat and quickly shoving her notebook into her bag, leaving no room for arguments.
“We can go to my place. Izzie gave me something for you and we have a whole machine with syrups you practically need to be a barista to operate. It pairs well with the cookies you made.”
“Those were for Izzie!”
“She shares,” I defend myself.
“Last time I went to your house to pick something up…”
“Colt won’t hit on you,” I assure her.
“That wasn’t my concern, because he definitely wasn’t flirting with me,” she says like there isn’t a doubt in her mind and it kills me that she doesn’t see how amazing she is.
“He very much was.”
“He was seeing if he could goad you,” she argues.
“Believe me, if you weren’t there with me, he definitely would have tried to get into your pants.”
I realize how badly I wouldn’t want him to succeed, but before I can dwell on it, I look over at Savannah and see her cheeks are red, not because of the cold. We definitely need to have this conversation at my place.
Chapter Twenty
Savannah
Bet You I Could
Noah has me sit at the island in his kitchen, then uses a big fancy machine to make me something that smells like vanilla and sugar, with only the tiniest hint of coffee. He makes his black.
“Did you buy these yourself?” I ask of the half-eaten gift baskets on the counter.
“Colt’s parents won’t be home for Christmas, so they sent a bunch.” He shrugs without saying more, but I can’t imagine my parents not being home with us for Christmas, or sending a fruit basket to make up for it.
Rather, we will probably be spending it at random stadiums, but my parents would never travel to get away from us on Christmas.
“When do you think you’ll have something for me to read?” Noah asks, taking a sip before biting into one of my cookies, that he put on a plate in front of us.
“I can hire an editor with hockey knowledge,” I assure him.
“But I’m right here, and I’m your hockey writing coach.” He gives me a teasing smile I can’t help but mirror.
“It probably won’t be for a while, until after I’ve fixed my mom’s notes, which is way too far in the future?—”
“I’d be happy to,” he tells me, his stare fierce, and I know he won’t let up, which is fine, because it’s so far away I’m sure he’ll forget. “What are you doing about the smut scenes?”
He must be pretending to sip, because he’s the picture of calm, cool, and collected, but his ears are red. I have absolutely no fake chill, so I nearly spit my coffee into his face, and choke on it at the same time.
“What? I don’t…smut?” My voice goes up very high at the end, and I regret saying that word with every fiber of my being, because his eyes change, so he’s no longer hiding his embarrassment, he’s enjoying mine.
“I’m told it’s a staple in hockey romances.”
