by Tawna Fenske
I fumble with the clasps and pry off the lid, then reach inside to scoop up the soft little body. Bartholomew squirms in my palm and turns his head to lick my thumb.
“Come here, you little stowaway,” I murmur. “Let’s make sure you’re really okay.”
Noah laughs behind me as I snuggle his soft gray body against my chest. Bartholomew wriggles into the space between my boobs, which is kind of his thing.
I never realized until now how suggestive it seems. Noah clears his throat behind me, but doesn’t say anything. I pull the wood rat out of my cleavage and inspect him from tail to whiskers.
“You look great,” I tell him before turning to look at Noah. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says. “I’m just glad I found you.”
“You said he was in your lunch box?”
“More of a lunch bag,” he says. “All I can figure is that he crawled in there looking for something to eat and decided to take a nap.”
I laugh and tuck him back inside the terrarium. “Looking for shiny things is more like it. After I got home last night, I took a closer look at what I thought was his tail poking out of the hut.”
“What was it?”
“Some sort of fuzzy key-chain tassel,” I tell him. “I’m guessing he picked it up in the elevator, too.”
“Well, he’s safe now.”
“I’m so glad.”
As Bartholomew scurries into an overturned butter tub, I fasten the latch on one corner of the cage, careful to make sure it’s nice and snug. I don’t want any more escapes on my watch.
“Here, let me help.” Noah crouches beside me and reaches across to the latch on the right corner. “This one on the far corner sticks a little.”
I’m positive he doesn’t mean to graze my boob with his forearm. But the instant it happens, sparks shoot through my whole body. His flesh is muscular and warm, and my nipples prick to attention as his arm slides across the front of my shirt.
Instead of sitting back, I lean forward. I don’t even mean to. It’s like my body has a mind of its own.
“God, Lexi.”
My eyes lock with Noah’s and freeze there. His expression is half guilt, half desire. Slowly, he draws his arm back.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” My voice comes out breathless. It’s more than okay. My whole body is on fire, and I’m seriously going to hurl myself into his lap if I don’t break eye contact. I look away first, even though I don’t want to. Even though I’d rather grab the front of his shirt and pull him against me to feel more than his arm against my breasts.
But instead I get to my feet. I’m so out of practice at flirtation that I’m not even sure that’s what this is. The last thing I want to do is go throwing myself at a man who might not even be interested. I take a step back to put some distance between us, smoothing my hands down the thighs of my jeans. My palms prickle with moisture, aching to touch him.
Let’s not get carried away, Watson warns in an unexpectedly soft voice.
Let’s please get carried away, Harlow sings.
Noah stands up, too. His face is flushed, and I wonder if he’s feeling even a fraction of the electricity that arcs through my body. If so, I’m surprised this house doesn’t spontaneously combust.
“I’m sure you want to get Bartholomew home,” he says slowly. “But could I talk you into sticking around for a quick—”
“Yes.”
He cocks his head at me. “How do you know I wasn’t going to say lobotomy?”
My cheeks warm, but I will myself not to look embarrassed. “Or maybe invite me to stay for a Jell-O wrestling match?”
It comes out more suggestive than I meant it to, or maybe I did that on purpose. God, I’m nervous.
But Noah just grins. “That wasn’t my plan, but I can’t say I’d object.”
I swallow hard, wanting to keep things light so I don’t do something dumb like pouncing on him. “I suppose you could have been asking me to stick around for a quick game of Monopoly.”
Noah laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I was going to ask for help folding laundry.”
I echo his laugh and run my fingers through my hair. “You know, I might actually agree to that. As long as we could turn on the History channel and watch that new rock show. Have you seen it?”
“Seen it?” he says. “I’m obsessed with it.”
I grin and try not to read too much into the fact that we have the same taste in television. “Then let’s watch together.”
“Can I make you a drink? I’m no mixologist, but I think I could manage to throw together a gin and tonic or Jack and Coke or something.”
He starts toward the kitchen and I follow, admiring the view of his broad back. “Funny, no one ever offers to make me a cocktail. Job hazard, I guess.”
“Maybe they’re intimidated,” he suggests.
“You’re not?”
He reaches the fridge and turns to grin at me. “Nope. Not by your cocktail prowess, anyway.” He pulls open the fridge and peers inside. “I also have ginger ale, milk, and a couple beers.”
“What’s the beer?”
He pulls out a bottle and shows me the label. “It’s called Off Leash. It’s a Northwest Session Ale.”
“Oh, it’s from Crux Fermentation Project. That’s a great brewery. I’ll take that if you have one to spare.”
He nods and pulls out two bottles before gesturing toward the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll see if I can round up some pretzels or something.”
I smile at his hospitality, then turn toward the living room. Instead of heading straight for the sofa, I walk toward the fireplace again. I study the swoops of color and texture, marveling at the workmanship. At the way he’s melded night on one side and day on the other. There are tiny clusters of pinkish pebbles in one corner laid out to look like flowers. At the top he’s laid out several dark slices of stone to show birds in flight. A greenish swath of rocks sprawl like a grassy meadow across the foreground.
I swear I could stare at this thing for hours and still see details I’d missed.
There’s a small remote control on the end table, and I wonder if that’s how you turn on the gas for the fireplace. Would Noah mind? The evening has turned cool, with a gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. One of the windows doesn’t have a screen, leaving it open to the slowly darkening sky. My skin tingles with the thought of such a delicious contrast—dark skies, bright flames, a cool kiss of breeze, the warmth of a fire—and my fingers itch to flip the switch.
“Go ahead and turn it on if you want,” he calls from the kitchen. “It’s the red button on that little white remote by the lamp.”
I look up to see if he’s watching me check out his fireplace, but nope. I can’t even see him from this side of the wall. Is it dumb to think it’s kinda cool we’re on the same wavelength?
I pick up the remote and press the button, rewarded by a soft poof and the flicker of gas flame jumping to life. I watch for a second, then turn and settle on the leather sofa with one bare foot tucked up under my thigh. Noah walks in then with a bag of pretzels under one arm. He grips two bottles in one hand and a pair of pint glasses in the other, and I’m awed once again by the size of his hands.
“Here you go,” he says as he hands me a bottle and sets the glass down on a coaster in front of me. “I was going to open them in there, but I didn’t want you worrying about getting roofied or something.”
“That’s . . . Wow.” I look down at the sealed beer bottle he’s just handed me, marveling at the forethought. That’s seriously considerate.
Or creepy, Watson chides. What kind of guy think
s like that?
A thoughtful guy, Harlow argues. One who knows you’re skittish.
Watson shakes her head and scoffs. One who’s thinking of drugging you.
When I look up, Noah is smiling in a way that’s anything but creepy. “I want you to feel safe.”
He does. He really, really does. I can feel it.
“Thank you.” I use a bottle opener to pry the top off the beer and take a sip straight from the bottle. It’s icy cold and tastes like orange peel and hops. So much of my life is spent crafting unique concoctions—pink-peppercorn-infused vodka with peach bitters and a splash of rosewater. Aloe vera and cucumber muddled with basil and blended with kaffir leaves and gin, served in a glass rimmed with black lava salt. Stuff like that.
Sometimes, it’s lovely just to sip a beer.
“How long have you been a barten—er, a mixologist?”
I laugh and set my beer on my knee. “It’s okay. You can call me a bartender. It’s more or less the same thing.”
“You own the place?”
I look at him, surprised. “How did you know?”
“The logo. It matches your freckles.”
I’m so dumbfounded I can’t find words. I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or sincere, but everything in his face screams sincerity.
I swallow hard, the taste of hops tangy on the back of my tongue. “No one’s ever made that connection before,” I say slowly. “Even my best friends—Shelly and Corrie. I had to explain the logo to them when I first showed them the concepts.”
“Like you said earlier—I’m a pretty observant guy.”
“Yes, but that goes beyond just paying attention or having an artist’s eye.” I shake my head, not sure whether to be flattered or flabbergasted. “That’s uncanny.”
He shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “I guess being trapped in an elevator with someone is a good way to get to know them.”
I stare at him, then nod. “So it’s like dog years?”
“What?”
“Being stuck in a confined space with someone,” I say. “An hour is the equivalent of a year of getting to know someone in the real world.”
He grins at me, spinning his own beer bottle on his knee. “Something like that.” He takes a slow sip. “So how long have you owned the place?”
“Less than a year,” I tell him as I settle back against the sofa. “I started as a bartender when it had a different name and a different owner. When he started talking about selling, I put together a business plan and begged every bank in town for a small-business loan.”
“Congratulations.” He lifts his beer in a mock toast. “Going out on your own takes guts.”
I nod and pick at the label on my own bottle. “Your shirt says Donovan Stoneworks. Is it a family company or just yours?”
“It’s mine.” The pride in his voice is as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I know what it feels like to look at something you’ve built and feel so grateful you could bust. The worst day of working for myself is still better than the best day of working for someone else.
“It’s not for everyone,” I say. “Owning a business, I mean. But I love it.”
“Me, too.”
“Now that I’ve seen your work, I’m realizing you’re more of an artist than a stonemason. Or maybe I just never knew what a stonemason does.”
“There are definitely different kinds,” he says. “And I probably fall more on the artsy side.”
“So did you always know you had it in you to be an artist?”
He looks thoughtful for a moment, beer bottle balanced on his knee like a ballast. “I always wanted to work with my hands,” he says. “Even when I was in law school, I kept gravitating toward side jobs that allowed me to do that.”
I nod toward the fireplace but keep my eyes on Noah. “I have to admit that’s not what I pictured when you told me you were a stonemason. You said something about gravestones, and I just assumed—”
I trail off there, embarrassed by the direction my words want to take me.
But Noah just laughs. “You imagined Fred Flintstone in a rock quarry pounding granite with a bone?”
“Something like that.” I smile, relieved he didn’t take offense. “I had no idea you were so artistic.”
“Neither did my family,” he says. “It took my parents a long time to come around to the idea that this is what I’d be doing for a living. Not working in a law office or courtroom or something.”
“Are they happy now?” I ask. “With your choice, I mean.”
“Yeah, they’re happy.” He smiles, and I feel it deep in the hollow beneath my ribs. “I’m happy, too.”
I smile back and take a sip of beer, casting another glance at the fireplace. Flames lick the front of the glass, casting a warm glow over the stones above it. I’m conscious of the heat in my limbs, conscious of the solid, sexy man beside me.
He hasn’t made a move to turn on the television for that History channel special we talked about, and I’m grateful. There’s something about getting to know each other in this setting that seems different. In the elevator, we were two people stuck together and making the most of it.
Here, we’re choosing to be together. Delighted by it, truthfully.
Or is that just me?
I steal a glance at Noah as warmth creeps into my cheeks. He gives me a soft smile that makes my insides go mushy.
It’s not just me.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him. Maybe it’s the firelight. Maybe it’s the beer—though I’ve only had three sips.
So it must be Noah.
Strong, capable, kind, sexy Noah with his goofy smile and brave heart and large hands and—
“What are you thinking?”
I startle at his question. “What?” I ask, stalling for time.
“You had a funny smile on your face,” he says. “Like you have some big secret you’re thinking of sharing.”
I feel my face go hot. Busted.
“Maybe I do,” I admit. I’m aiming for flirty, but it probably comes off sounding psycho. Like I have three ex-boyfriends locked in my basement.
I offer a nervous little “I’m not crazy” smile, but my heart is thudding in my ears. Does he know? Can he tell how much I want him to kiss me?
Noah smiles then, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from crawling into his lap. From twining my arms around his neck and kissing him hard and deep.
I can’t imagine being that brave.
“I can’t imagine being brave enough to chase down a purse snatcher,” I say instead. “Unarmed.”
“I had a weapon,” he says softly.
“The sausage?”
He shakes his head. “I meant size advantage, mostly,” he says. “But knowing someone needs you has a way of making you brave.”
The hell with it. I want to be brave. And I want to kiss Noah. I set down my beer, take a deep breath, and turn to face him. Those brown eyes lock with mine, and my heart gives a tickly little shiver and flops to the floor of my rib cage.
I take a shaky breath. “You’re a good guy, Noah Donovan.”
Then I skim my palm over the bristles of his cheek and stretch up to kiss him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Noah
Holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
I’m kissing the hot girl from the elevator.
Or she’s kissing me.
I honestly can’t tell anymore as we connect in a tangle of fingers and knees and tongues and heat.
I’m not sure if Lexi meant for this to be a single, chaste kiss, but it isn’t turning out like that at all. Her breasts press soft against my forearm as her h
ands tunnel under the hem of my T-shirt, and it’s all I can do not to lay her back against the sofa cushions and strip her bare.
“Wait,” I manage to gasp as Lexi’s clever fingers dance in my chest hair. I bite back a groan of pleasure, aching to keep going.
But I need to make sure this is really what she wants.
She looks at me uncertainly, and I have to swallow a few times before I remember how my voice box works. “Are you sure?” I choke out. “I don’t want to take advantage of—”
“You’re not,” she interrupts. “I just—” She licks her lips and gives me an uncertain smile. “It’s like I said about dogs.”
“Dogs?”
I’m confused and a little dizzy from all this kissing. Is she suggesting a sex position, or recalling a conversation with someone else?
“Dog years,” she said. “And elevator years. I feel like I’ve known you for longer than a day. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes. It does.”
It really does. From the second I met her, I felt something click with Lexi. Some connection I haven’t felt with anyone, ever. It sounds so insane I can’t possibly say it aloud, so I kiss her instead.
Her lips meet mine with an urgency unhindered by the words we’ve just exchanged. If anything, the intensity is stronger. I can taste it like a cinnamon disc on the back of my tongue. Her hands are back under my shirt, and I help her lift it up and over my head. I toss it to the floor and reach for her again, grateful when her fingertips return to dance across my chest.
I seize the chance to touch her, too, skimming my palms along her biceps, over her shoulders, down her collarbones. I hope my hands aren’t rough from work. Hope that this feels even half as good for her as it does for me.
“God, Noah, don’t stop,” she whispers, her breath hot in my ear. “That feels amazing.”
I slide my palms lower, skimming the edges of her breasts. I go slowly, giving her the chance to be sure. To pull back if she decides this isn’t really what she wants.