by Sarah White
Touch
By Sarah White
TOUCH
Copyright © 2014 Sarah L. White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This is for all the readers who encouraged me to tell this story.
To Jessica, Cheryl, Rebecca, Emily, Linda, and Jamie. Thank you for your encouragement and careful review of Noah and Leah’s story…I knew I could trust you with it!
To Ketti, for helping me with the amazing cover for this book.
To Dan, Jake, and Josh, for understanding when I needed a little time to write. I love you guys.
About the Book
Leah’s dreams of a happy ever after with her college boyfriend came crashing down when he left her to pursue his graduate studies on the other side of the state, far away from the school she has chosen. She moves into her new apartment alone, still holding on to the hope that he will realize his mistake and come back to her. She may have a broken heart, but she still believes in love that lasts.
Noah, Leah’s new neighbor, has spent the last three years studying the dissolution of couples for his doctoral thesis. He learned firsthand that love doesn’t always work out, and hopes to prove that touch is a predictor of success in relationships: when couples stop touching, they also stop loving. So far, his data supports his theory that it’s better to have a few nights of fun than to try to capture forever.
When one of Noah’s assistants drops out of his dissertation project, Leah agrees to fill in. She and Noah do their best to ignore their growing attraction—after all, she doesn’t do casual sex and he doesn’t do long-term relationships—but when a flood in Leah’s apartment puts them under the same roof for several weeks, they find it harder and harder to resist the physical connection they crave. Will the clinical evidence from Noah’s study convince Leah to stop believing in fairytale endings or will Noah come around to the idea that love is worth taking a chance? Can the two of them beat the odds and build a foundation for forever with each tender touch?
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with Sarah White
Also by Sarah White
Chapter 1
Leah
I knew I was going to hate these stairs. I take a minute to readjust the box I’m holding, resting it on my knee so my arms can recover. Moving day is not turning out to be a joyous occasion—it’s been a long ten hours of hauling boxes from the old apartment I shared with my best friends. I blow out a big breath and remind myself that we had to move on, and that the three of us getting into our various graduate programs was, in fact, a wonderful thing.
My arms are beginning to feel like wet noodles from all of the lifting. I hike the box up into them again and continue my journey upward, counting the stairs in my head since I can’t see them over my armload. When I reach the last step, I am startled by the sound of a door slamming above me. A clearly pissed-off woman rounds the corner, walking backward and giving someone the finger.
“Watch out!” I warn, but it’s too late. She backs right into me and we stumble, scrambling to regain our footing before we tumble down the stairs. Pain shoots up my leg as my ankle twists, and I have no choice but to drop the box and grab hold of the railing, barely catching myself before my butt slams down onto the hard wooden steps.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she rights herself. She runs the rest of the way down the stairs, quickly but carefully avoiding the pens, pencils and textbooks from my box that are now scattered all around.
“No problem,” I say sarcastically, more to myself than to her. I close my eyes and lean back on my elbows. Thank goodness this was my last trip for the day. I lift my leg up and cringe at the horrible throbbing in my ankle. Damn it! A few of the scattered items are within reach so I begin to collect them.
“I’ll get those.” I turn to look toward the strong, masculine voice and can’t help but watch appreciatively as the tall stranger bends to pick up the overturned box and retrieves the items that have rolled down the stairs.
I know I’m staring but I can’t help it. His tousled light-blond hair is wet, as if he has just stepped out of a shower, and he is barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. It’s impossible not to notice his broad chest, and the way his abs taper into an intriguing V that dips into his low-slung waistband. I force my eyes back to his face and I’m entranced by his blue eyes and crooked smile.
“Sorry about that. You okay there, Crash? I didn’t mean for my drama to become yours.” He reaches out a hand. “I’m Noah. I live in number 23.”
“Leah. I guess I’m your new neighbor.” I shake his hand and then lean back on my elbows. “I guess you can send your friend over when she gets back so I can properly introduce myself.” He chuckles and shakes his head.
“Won’t be necessary. She’s not coming back.” Noah stands up and puts his hands on his hips. “I’ll help you up; that ankle looks pretty swollen. Let’s get some ice on it.”
I nod my head and he picks up the box. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
“Let me put this in your apartment first. Number 24, right? Everyone in the building is pretty cool but I still wouldn’t trust a few of them not to help themselves to your office supplies. Stay right there.”
He takes the stairs easily two at a time. I try to put some weight on my ankle but there is no way I can get up on my own. Noah returns a few minutes later, slipping a t-shirt over his head. He hesitates for a minute and then flashes me his crooked smile before bending down to slip his arms under my legs and behind my back.
“Noah, you don’t have to carry me!”
“It’s quicker this way,” he answers. I hold on loosely to his neck, blushing fiercely as he carries me down the hallway. Being this close to him causes my heart to flutter. He smells like soap and shaving cream and his skin is warm against mine. He passes my apartment and uses his back to push open the door of his own, right next door.
“You can leave me at my place. I’ll be fine,” I protest.
“I’d feel like an asshole leaving you alone in there. You have boxes everywhere and if your ankle isn’t hurt too badly now, it will be when you trip over or kick one. It’s the least I can do since that fall was sort of my fault.” The look on his face tells me this is not negotiable.
“All right. But just for a few minutes,” I concede. He sets me down gently on the couch and tucks a few throw cushions under my foot. I suck a sharp breath in through my teeth as my ankle makes contact with the pillows.
“Sorry, it’s best to raise it for a little while,”
he says. “I’ll get the ice and a little something to help dull the pain.” I nod my head in agreement. Some ibuprofen would be welcome right about now. I close my eyes to will away the waves of pain that continue to radiate up my leg. I can hear Noah rummaging around in the kitchen and soon he’s back at my side, a bag of ice and a towel in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I crinkle my brow at him and he shrugs.
“It’s all I’ve got to help with the pain.” His smile is apologetic as he puts the bottle down on the coffee table and makes his way back to the kitchen to fetch some glasses. When he returns, he sets the wine glasses down and softly puts the towel and ice over my ankle. The coolness begins to take the edge off of the throbbing. When he is satisfied that the ice is going to stay put, he begins working the corkscrew into the wine bottle.
“So, are you going to be all alone over there or do you have a roommate?” he asks as he frees the cork and pours me a glass.
“It’s just me. It’s a lot smaller than your place. What about you? Any roommates?” I need to know if I can expect to be run over again anytime soon.
“No. I have visitors from time to time but mostly I’m here alone.” He hands me my wine and I take a sip. “Are you from around here?”
“No. My hometown is just outside of San Francisco. I just got accepted to grad school here.”
Noah takes a seat at the end of the couch and takes a sip from his own glass. “I’m a student, too. What program?”
“Education. I hope to get my master’s. Just finished my bachelor’s this past spring. What about you?”
“Psychology,” he answers. I look around the room. Noah does not have the typical undergrad boy apartment. The matching furniture and general tidiness make me think he is probably working on some sort of graduate degree also. I recognize a few of my favorite titles on the bookshelf in the corner and hardly notice when Noah refills my glass. The buzz I am beginning to feel is allowing me to relax.
I look back at Noah and catch him staring at me. He smiles, and the quiet in the room feels oddly familiar and comfortable. He traces lightly over the skin on the inside of my ankle. The tingle from his touch crawls up my leg and I feel my face grow warm, but he pulls his fingers away suddenly.
“It isn’t bruising. Probably just a mild sprain. I’m really sorry about you getting hurt. Jen can get like that. She’s impulsive and she has the worst temper I’ve ever seen.”
“Sounds charming.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s none of my business. It’s just that you seem so mellow and she seemed kind of high-strung.”
He chuckles. “Sometimes crazy can be a little hot.” He empties the last of the wine bottle into my glass, then leans his head back and props his feet up on the coffee table, relaxing into the couch cushions. I sit up and set my glass on the table.
“Well, thanks for the help. I should probably get going—I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I’m sure you have more important things to do than babysit me on a Friday night.” His hand reaches out reflexively, as if to stop me, but he pulls it back.
“As a matter of fact I don’t have anything better to do. I’m enjoying the company. Don’t run off so soon—if we’re going to be neighbors we should get to know each other a bit more.” I know I should go, but I don’t want to. There is something about him that seems to pull me back down into my seat.
I haven’t been this close to a guy, alone, since the night Lyle broke my heart two months ago. We had spoken often about going to grad school, and I had assumed we would be making the move together. The night he told me he needed to experience life without me and would be going out of state came as quite a surprise. My heart constricts with the pain of that remembered conversation and I fight hard to keep the tears from welling in my eyes. Lyle will realize he has made a mistake; I just need to give him time.
“What do you say, Crash? One more bottle?” The deep, playful tone of Noah’s voice floats across my skin. His cheeks are slightly flushed from the alcohol and his blue eyes are bright. He might be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.
I close my eyes for a brief minute. Lyle isn’t waiting for me. I still love him, but my fantasy of getting back together is far off right now. For all I know he could be with another woman right at this moment. My stomach flips just thinking about the possibility. Would it be so bad to take one night off from thinking nonstop about what went wrong between us?
I muster up all the strength I have and hope that I am not going to regret this. I lift my glass in Noah’s direction and answer, “Absolutely.”
Chapter 2
Noah
I thought twice about going after Jen when she bolted from my apartment, I really did. She was more pissed off at me than she’s ever been before and I had no desire to stage another world war with her in the lobby of the building. I couldn’t have cared less whether she came back, either, but I was afraid she might trash my car as she left. I never imagined that she would slam right into a woman so beautiful I couldn’t look away. As soon as I saw Leah’s dark chocolate eyes I forgot all about Jen and her drama.
Now, somehow, I’ve got Leah sitting here with me in my apartment and I can’t stop thinking about how this is going to be a serious problem. This girl is gorgeous in that unpretentious way that sends me right over the edge, with her cutoff shorts and her old concert tee, and her long brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. I’m already fighting an unnerving instinct to reach out and touch her, to let my fingers dance beyond the soft skin of her ankle, but my mind is warning me that I need to stay clear. I don’t make a habit of hooking up with neighbors, because when things go bad—and they always do—you’re stuck running into each other every day for God only knows how long. Still, my body is revved up and ready to start something as we sip our wine and get to know each other.
“So…I know it isn’t really my business, but did I witness an epic breakup today between you and Jen?” Leah asks. She steals a glance at me and those full lips of hers curve into a killer smile. Her cheeks flush a deeper pink.
“I’m not sure you could call it a breakup,” I answer. I can’t avoid the fact that I’m going to sound like a total dick when I explain this. “It isn’t that she’s coming back; it is definitely a permanent goodbye. We just never really were a couple. I don’t do committed relationships.” I look down at my glass and then bring it to my mouth for another drink.
“You can’t be serious,” she argues. “Everyone wants the real thing. You just haven’t found that special someone, but eventually you will.”
She hasn’t seen what I have. I’ve been studying couples breaking up for the last three years. It’s what I do; my dissertation is a study of couples who are struggling in therapy. I see them when they have a chance at making it work but most of the time I watch them crash and burn. Of course, some couples make it, but I am not convinced it will be forever.
And then there’s my own experience. I was hopeful once and had a three-year relationship with someone I thought I could be committed to forever, but we failed just like all the others. I know the game now and I have no interest in playing it.
“Not everyone wants forever, Leah. Most people do, okay, I’ll give you that, but more often than not, it doesn’t work out. I’ve seen it too many times to count. I don’t want to be a part of that statistic. It’s like sitting through a super long movie even if you know the ending is going to suck. Relationships suck.” Her mouth is agape. She smells sweet, like apples, and I want to taste her. I wonder what she would do if I tried.
“Well, I believe in forever,” she says. “You just have to find the person you’re meant to spend it with. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I do think it’s possible.”
I always get this response from the women I share my theory with. They’re raised on Disney movies and romance novels. It’s all bullshit, really. I laugh softly because I know there is no way to win this argument with a romantic.
“I hope that works for y
ou, because it sounds amazing. Just remember that love is like an equation where the variables are always changing. Most couples think they have it solved, only to find out that it no longer works. Very few things are constants.”
“It’s not an equation, it’s a chemical reaction.” Leah waves her hands around to emphasize her words. “Once you’ve joined the two elements, the work is done. The basic ingredients are always the same even though the outcome might vary.”
“Always is never true, beautiful.” I say, almost to myself. She still has so many painful lessons to learn. “Take it from me. I believe I’ve found the one thing that gives the equation a higher likelihood of success, and yet I still don’t believe in forever.” I down the last of my wine and set the empty glass on the table. Leah finishes hers, as well, and our fingers touch for a brief moment when she hands the glass to me. I swear I feel the connection all the way down to my soul. I pull my hand away quickly.
“What do you mean you’ve found ‘the one thing?’" she asks.
“I work with couples in counseling for my dissertation. I believe that there is one behavior that helps to accurately predict whether a couple can fix whatever isn’t working between them. I’ve seen it play out numerous times on video.” This has her attention.
“What is it?” she asks eagerly. “Compassion? Honesty? Commitment?”
“Touch. Any kind of touch. The soft brush of a palm across your partner’s skin or a familiar caress.” My eyes fall to her hand. “The more intimate touch of a lover’s hand on your face…It doesn’t even have to be sexual, just a simple touch. The couples who continue to touch, or learn to use it as a tool when things get difficult, tend to make things work longer. Those who stop physically reaching out to each other are doomed to fail.”
Leah’s expression changes as my words sink in, from hope to pain right before she pinches her eyes shut. And there it is. She can’t deny that I am right because somewhere in her past she has seen this play out. I can see that she is hurting and instinctively I reach out and squeeze her hand tightly in mine. I fear I’ve crossed a boundary I shouldn’t have, but I can’t bring myself to let go. We sit together not saying a thing, and yet communicating volumes.