by Gina Azzi
He chews another nacho, nodding slowly. Then he turns toward me and his shoulders drop, relief filling his features. “I think you may be right, Indy.”
I pat his hand and eat another nacho.
“You can bill me by the hour,” he adds and we both laugh.
“Listen, Indy,” Noah starts and I know exactly what’s coming.
I’ve spent the past few days remembering everything about last weekend. The way Noah’s hands felt on my skin, the tickle of his breath on the back of my neck, how his abs rippled—yes, rippled—when he pushed inside of me.
My face heats at the reminder and I hold up a hand. “It’s cool, Noah.”
He shakes his head. “We can’t just pretend it never happened.”
“Why?” I blurt out, smacking a hand over my mouth.
Noah chuckles but I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow and his jawline tightens. “Because, Little Indy, you’re not just some chick I’ll never see again. I care about your family and I care about you and I don’t want things to be weird.”
I shake my head. “They won’t be. Look, wasn’t today nice? This, it’s fun.”
He groans, running a hand along the edge of his jaw. It could cut freaking steel and I zero in on the movement. “That’s another part of the problem.”
“What is?” What are we even talking about? Maybe Claire was right. Noah is distracting.
“I like hanging out with you.”
I beam. Like shoot rainbows and unicorns from eyes type of beaming. “You do?”
His brow furrows and he nods.
My beaming intensifies, as much as it’s possible. “I like hanging with you too. To be honest, you’re the first guy in a long time I feel normal around. Not counting my best friend from home.”
“Normal?”
“Yeah. Like I can be my nerdy, type A self around.”
He snorts. “You’re not nerdy, Indy.”
“You don’t know me that well, then.”
“You’re the fucking cutest.” He chuckles, his expression softening. “Everyone should have some of your sunshine in their lives.”
I freeze at the sincerity in his tone even as my mind trips over itself in glee at his words. Everyone should have some of your sunshine in their lives. Jesus. What kind of man says things like that to a woman after one night together?
Noah swallows, shaking his head in amusement. “I was thinking…”
I raise an eyebrow, my heart rate ticking up.
“Since we like hanging together and we have such an easy connection, what if we…were friends.”
“Just friends?” I ask, disappointment streaking through me. That’s the scary thing. How am I disappointed about being friends with this beautiful man when I should be grateful? Or even relieved?
Noah nods. “Can’t give you any more of a commitment than that, Indy. I’m not the serious commitment, marrying, a houseful of babies kind of guy. Not anymore. Hell, I’m not even the dog kind of guy. The most long-term commitment I’ve had is to my goldfish Dorothy.”
I crack a smile, knowing he’s trying to be upfront with me. Honest. Still, his words sting and scrape even though they’re what I should want to hear. They’re the rational option. “I get it. It’s better this way. I don’t date—”
“Hockey players,” he finishes, biting his lip.
“Right,” I agree.
“So no awkwardness.”
“None at all.”
“We can hang out?”
“Anytime,” I quip, way more casual than I feel.
“Cool.”
I grin but my chest sinks a little and I’m not sure what to make of that.
10
Noah
Eating lunch with Indy is fun. It’s not awkward, even though I saw her naked just last weekend. If anything, it’s nice. Chill. The most fun I’ve had sharing a meal with a woman in a long time.
It seems most things with Indy are effortless and casual and lacking the expectations usually associated with my interactions with females. After a tough few days, her presence is soothing.
“You live around here?” I ask as I settle the bill. Indy tries one more time to slip money across the table at me but I ignore it, shaking my head as I sign the credit card slip.
“Just around the corner,” she says, tucking her folded notes back into her purse. “Thanks for lunch.”
“Thanks for eating with me. If you weren’t here, I would have ended up eating alone.” I give her my best sad puppy-dog eyes and she snorts.
“Yeah for like three seconds until any of your admiring fans ambushed you.”
I chuckle, glancing around and noting several extra-long glances in our direction. “Well, if you’re just around the corner, I can help you carry some of these takeout boxes home.”
“What? I can’t take all these,” she says, her eyes wide as they take in the five boxes.
It’s typical of Torsten to order half the menu but he usually sticks around to inhale it all. Something is going on with him and by the hints he dropped about his visa on the way here, I’m more than concerned.
“Of course you can. You’ll be organizing this big student trip all week and need breaks to eat.”
“Sushi nachos?” She raises an eyebrow.
I laugh. “No, we didn’t box those. But you have chicken enchiladas and veggie fajitas. Come on.” I stand up, stacking the boxes and picking them up.
Indy doesn’t argue again. She just shoulders her bag with her laptop and picks up an appetizer of guacamole and chips and follows me into the autumn day.
“It’s this way,” she says and I fall in step beside her as we walk toward her place.
“This is convenient. Living so close to all these restaurants and shops.” I scan the little market and coffee shop we walk past.
“I love living in the West End. Actually, I am obsessed with my place. Wait ‘til you see it.”
I glance at her, surprised by the statement. Indy seems a little removed from all the luxury and highbrow lifestyle that easily impressed Courtney. We round another corner and Indy walks faster, pointing to an old, lone building. “That’s it,” she squeaks.
The second I see her apartment building, I know immediately why she loves it so much.
“You live in a tenement building?” We cross the street.
“Not just any tenement building. The Last Tenement! This is literally the last one standing even though these streets were once filled with them. The West End is rich with history, with the story of how many immigrant families got their start in Boston; it sucks that they knocked them all down.”
I stop outside of Indy’s door and stare up at the four-story apartment building. She’s right, a throwback to an earlier time, it is an overlooked piece of history of Boston’s West End tenements and immigrant roots. Indy’s place sticks out like a sore thumb amid the newer high-rises and ongoing construction.
A billboard plasters one side of the lone apartment building advertising a new exhibit at the Museum of Science. Behind me, dust kicks up as construction rages on, and across the street, the rich sounds of a saxophone pierce the air, the musician lost to the music, his eyes closed.
This place is a hidden, glittering treasure in a sea of normal. “I can see why you love it so much,” I tell her truthfully. Courtney would have scoffed if I ever proposed living in a place like this. Hell, I probably would have overlooked it too. But seeing the way Indy stares at her apartment building and sees beyond the old brick and narrow windows makes me realize just how much Courtney and I were missing.
I follow Indy inside. The apartment building, although clean and well-maintained, still holds on to the scent of a bygone era. Small black and white tiles cover the ground as refurbished mahogany curves over the entryway. Glancing up at the narrow stairs, I like that there isn’t an elevator.
Accustomed to my teammates’ and my luxury apartments, Indy’s place is a reminder that sometimes, less is more. Steeped in history and simplicity, I feel we
lcomed before we even push into her apartment door on the second floor.
She holds her arms out wide, as if to show off her space. Grinning at me, she announces, “I know it’s not much, but it’s home. Welcome.”
The ceilings are low, the space is cramped, but stepping into her space is like diving into her personality. Neat bookshelves line the walls with artfully placed knickknacks serving as separators and bookends. A simple leather couch sits in the living room and the decorative pillows are all in varying shades of beige and tan with a throw tossed over the back. Artwork hangs on the walls in perfectly spaced frames. While her apartment is neat and orderly, it’s welcoming. Her kitchen doubles as a workstation and I grin when I note her stacked piles of folders and notebooks as well as a little cup with pens and highlighters.
She shifts from one foot to the other before removing the takeout boxes from my hand and placing them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Sure,” I agree, not wanting to leave. “I like your place,” I add truthfully, my gaze landing on the window that overlooks the street, allowing a beam of natural light to stream inside.
She gives me a disbelieving look.
“I’m serious,” I say, gesturing to her living room. “You live in a living piece of history.”
“That’s my favorite part.” She prepares her French press.
“There’s something to be said for simplicity. For using the space you have,” I tack on, suddenly very aware that my 2,000-square-foot-plus Beacon Hill brownstone is ridiculously wasteful for a bachelor who currently lives alone and spends weeks at a time not sleeping there.
“I couldn’t believe it when it went on the market for rent,” Indy says, her eyes dancing with excitement, like she’s reliving the moment. “I know it’s not glamorous. Or high-end. I know I could get something newer for the rent I pay here but I saw it and…” she trails off, shrugging. “I just fell in love. It’s cozy. Feels like home.”
I clear my throat. “That’s more than I can say about my place.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your place is gorgeous.”
“Do your parents live close by?”
“Not too far. They’re in Back Bay. Dad was mortified when he saw my little walk-up.” She laughs and I can tell she’s not even remotely offended by it. Passing me a coffee cup, she gestures that we can take a seat on the couch.
I drop into an easy chair and she sits on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her, both hands gripping the coffee mug as she blows across the hot coffee.
“But my mom loved it. She’s a lot like me. When my parents first moved up, Mom and I spent the whole first month being quintessential tourists. We must have gone to Paul Revere’s house three times. We went on this whole Revolutionary spree. I re-read Common Sense and The Federalist Papers and Mom dragged me to the cemetery to see Samuel Adams’ tombstone.” She laughs, the sound musical.
I like seeing her like this. Comfortable and at ease, surrounded by her books and holding her coffee mug. Something in my chest stirs. Memories from summers ago and moments from this past year, mixing together to fill me with a strange sense of nostalgia. But for what?
She takes a sip of her coffee and grins at me. “Did you and Easton do all the touristy things when you first moved here?”
It’s an innocent question. A normal one. Suddenly, it bothers me that I never appreciated the enormously important piece of history I live in. I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t.”
Her mouth falls open. “You’ve never been to Paul Revere’s house, have you?”
I shake my head again.
“Oh my God!” she declares, looking truly aghast. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you. I’m going to give you the best tour of Boston you’ve ever had.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You haven’t even been here a year,” I point out.
“True.” She nods. “I’ll take you around all the historical sites and—”
“I’ll introduce you to the modern city.”
“What does that entail?” She wrinkles her nose, skeptical.
“Restaurants, clubs, shopping. Have you dined at The Ivy yet? Or had margaritas at Jolene’s? They have a great happy hour.”
She shakes her head.
“Then you’re missing out too, Little Indy. We’ll each pick a day. One day, we do your Boston and one day, we do mine.”
She grins, nodding. “Okay, I like this plan.”
I take a sip of my coffee and smile back. “Not as much as me.”
Indy rolls her eyes but her cheeks pink and she looks adorable. I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed flirting so much but with Indy, it’s effortless. She blushes easily but is playful and engaging and doesn’t just agree with everything I say because of my public persona.
“When do you want to do this?” she asks.
I pause, thinking over my training schedule. “We have our season opener next week.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming to the game?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
She gives me a strange look. “Yes, my cousin is the captain.”
“Oh yeah.” I laugh, feeling like an idiot. Of course her entire family will show up to support Austin. The Merricks are nothing if not a tight family unit. “Well, training before the game is pretty intense but we will definitely have Sunday off.”
“Are you sure you want to spend it with me? It’s your only day off.”
I shrug. “I’m sure it will be better than playing Xbox.”
She wrinkles her nose but then her expression smooths out and her eyes glitter. “You may be singing a different tune once you’re sitting on a Duck Tour.”
I grimace, recalling the strange-looking tanks that turn into boats for tours around the city. If East could see me in this moment, he’d junk punch me and ask where the hell my manhood went. These are the types of things you do for your girl. Not for the girl you’re desperately craving but never going to make yours. “We’re going all in?”
“All in, Scotch,” she taunts, her gaze meeting mine over the rim of her coffee mug.
I’d be lying if I said the challenge in it didn’t entice me.
11
Indy
“You were serious about the Duck Tour?” he accuses as I hold up two tickets for Boston’s famous Duck Tour and fan myself with them.
“You’re going to thank me later when we drink a pint at Cheers and chuckle over our favorite memories from this must-do city attraction.”
Noah tosses his head back and laughs. He’s glorious when he does that. Like a Roman emperor meets a modern-day Casanova meets a supreme athlete. Okay, rein it in, Indiana.
“Come on. Pretend, for one day, that you’re visiting Boston for the first time. Try and see it as an outsider would. It really is beautiful and brimming with so much history, so much character and charm, just,” I sigh, more dreamily than I intend, “life.”
Noah snickers but agrees to take it all in stride. Even though it’s early October and a winter chill hangs in the air, it isn’t unbearable. In fact, the lineup for my favorite city tour is intense. In front of us, a family of six waits with kids jumping up and down and spilling popcorn along the curb. Noah smiles at one of the little girls. She sticks her tongue out at him and I crack up. “First female immune to your charms,” I joke.
“My demographic is considerably older,” he agrees.
The massive tank pulls up to the side of the curb and people begin singling on, pausing for the obligatory tourist photo.
“Yay!” I point, gripping his forearm with both of mine. I usher Noah to the front. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I try not to lean too much into him, which is tough since it’s pretty much the number one thing I want to do. That and have sex with him again, which is so not happening.
“Smile,” the photographer orders. I cheese hard.
Once we climb up on
to the tank, the breeze kicks up and I shiver, tucking my hands into my scarf.
“You warm enough?” Noah asks, placing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.
Now I am. Thank God those words don’t fall from my desperate-for-his-touch mouth. Instead, I look up and nod, trying my best not to make star beams at him with my eyes.
Noah Scotch is off-limits. He’s a hockey player. A man who wants none of the same things as me. A guy whose career and ambitions will always come before mine.
If I constantly remind myself of these important facts, I may be able to get through this day date without throwing myself at him. Maybe.
“All right, ladies, gentlemen, and families of all sizes. We’re about to get this party started. Welcome to the Duck Tour!” the guide calls out into his microphone and everyone claps and cheers. We roll through downtown Boston with our guide pointing out historical landmarks and explaining their backstories.
Noah leans toward me and whispers, “Your mouth is hanging open.”
I snap it closed and turn to look at him.
He’s grinning. “I thought you’ve been on this tour before.”
“This is my third one.”
He snickers. “Okay, you are a nerd.”
I smile back, nodding in agreement.
“But a hot nerd.” He bites his bottom lip.
“Teacher’s pet.” I pat his hand. Surprise zips through me as he clasps my fingers in his and holds on to them for a beat too long.
“I bet all the guys in your class have the hots for you,” he says, his tone more serious than a moment ago.
“The guys in my class are barely legal.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not crushing on you.”
I shrug. “It’s more the TA’s than the students in my classes.”
His brow furrows. “TA’s?”
“Teaching assistants. They’re usually grad school students who pick up the TA gig as a work-study or a way to reduce their tuition costs.”
“And you have one?”
“Two actually.”
“And he hits on you?” Noah’s lips press together and I can’t tell if he’s simply curious or a little jealous.