“Shit, no.” It bursts out; loud enough to catch the attention of one of the guys packing up the movie screen. In a lower voice, I clarify, “Absolutely not, Noelle. I’m not interested in seeing anyone but you.”
After a few agonizing moments of silence, Noelle leans forward and kisses me. “I’m not interested in seeing anyone else, either.”
Then she climbs to her feet and holds her hand out to me. “Are you ready to go?”
I blink at her abrupt change of topic. “Um. Sure.”
“I was thinking,” she adds. “Maybe you could come back to my apartment for a while? We could have a drink, watch a movie…”
My mood, which was on its way to the ground, leaps skyward again. “I’d love to come over.”
She smiles. “Good.”
As I start putting the empty food containers back into the cooler, Noelle picks up the picnic blanket and gives it a hard shake. “I really liked the food you brought, by the way. Especially the tomato sandwiches. I’m going to be thinking about those for a while.”
I take the blanket from her and fold it into neat quarters. “I can’t take the credit, unfortunately. Bea helped. She’s the best cook of any of us. Well, except for grilling. That’s Ace’s thing. But when I told Bea about taking you to the movie in the park, she insisted on helping.”
Noelle tucks her stuffed Bigfoot under her arm. “I’ll have to thank her.” She pauses. “I really liked Bea. And Eden. They’re both so nice. All your friends are.”
Scooping up the cooler, I tuck the folded blanket inside it, then loop the handle over my arm. Just as I’m debating whether I should hold Noelle’s hand or put my free arm around her waist,she glances around and shudders. “I didn’t realize everyone else had left.”
Around her waist it is.
Noelle leans into my side as I put my arm around her. “I don’t think I’m used to how dark it gets here at night,” she says. “Where I lived in Portland, it was never completely dark. Or quiet. There was always a neighbor making noise, or a car going by. Plus the streetlights and headlights going by on the street. But in Williston, once it hits ten o’clock, it’s like the entire town shuts down.”
“It does seem that way,” I agree. “But I guess I’m used to being in places even darker than this. So I don’t really think about it.”
As we leave the park, Noelle tenses. Her gaze skitters up and down the street. A beat later, she relaxes, then says, “That makes sense.”
That slithery feeling comes over me again. The one that tells mesomething’swrong. Did something happen to Noelle in the dark? Did someone hurt her?
Or, as I’ve wondered more frequently, is she hiding from someone?
Some of her behaviors remind me of how Eden and Bea acted when they were in danger. Not glaring things, but little ones—like how Noelle tenses whenever her phone rings, or how she always scans her surroundings, not as a casual observer, but as someone searching for something. Orsomeone.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe the years I spent always watching for danger have me seeing problems where there aren’t any.
I hope I’m wrong. But if I find out someoneisbothering Noelle, I won’t stand idly by, new relationship or not.
For the first time in my life, I finally have a true understanding of how my friends must have felt when theirpartners were in trouble. Not that I was some heartless asshole before—obviously, I cared. I think of Eden and Bea as sisters, and anyone who tries to hurt one of them will have to come through me first.
But now I think I get how deep the protective instinct can go. Like I’d do pretty much anything to make sure Noelle’s safe. And shit, it’s only our third date, or fourth, if the hour we spent together in Cathy’s Confections counts. I can’t even imagine how rabidly protective I’ll feel if things between me and Noelle get even more serious.
By the time we arrive at Noelle’s apartment, I’ve managed to shove most of my concerns to the back of my mind to deal with later. Or at least, Ihad, up until we reach the stairs to her little studio above the garage and I notice that there are far too many shadows that the small light at the base of the stairs doesn’t reach.
Then I watch grimly as she has to wiggle the key in the deadbolt to get it to move, while thinking about how easily an amateur burglar could get inside.
My stomach knots as the stories I’ve heard from my friends—a knife attack in a darkened stairwell, attempted kidnappings in a parking lot, a would-be killer lurking inside—turn to horrifying scenarios where Noelle is the victim.
That’s why, as soon as Noelle shuts and locks the door behind us, I say, “It’s not safe enough here. You need more security.”
Noelle freezes with her bag halfway to the hook by the door. She turns. “What?”
“You have major safety issues,” I explain. Setting the cooler down, I gesture at the door. “The locks are old, first of all. And the latch isn’t lined up properly. Watching you turn the key, I’d bet the locks are stripped, too. You need a new doorknobanda new deadbolt.”
Noelle blinks. Then she bites her lower lip. “I thought they seemed okay.”
