by M. Leighton
Tilly looks genuinely perplexed. “No. Why would it be?”
I laugh and shake my head. There’s no explaining to Tilly that there’s such a thing as being too forward. She knows no other way. And, for the most part, it works for her.
Except with Noah.
Noah.
I shiver involuntarily.
“Let me tell you something, lady,” Tilly hisses as she steps closer to me and grabs my upper arm with her long fingers. “I want details. Do you hear me? Allll of them. That is non-negotiable. If I can’t have him myself, I guess I’ll just have to have him through you, but I’m gonna need it all. Descriptions, pictures, audio. Maybe even a charcoal rendering.” She says the last with such a serious face, it’s all I can do to hold in my laughter.
“Okay, yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll take pictures and then do a little sketch for you. That wouldn’t be weird at all. ”
“I hope you need a big piece of paper for that, honey,” she murmurs from one side of her mouth, giving me a naughty wink and a nudge with her shoulder.
“You’re a mess,” I declare, glancing at my watch for the six millionth time. “Hey, can you get the check when table three puts his card up? You can even keep the tip. I need to go.”
“You sure do. You’ve got to get going with that and then report back to me. Don’t make me wait too long. I get grouchy when I’m the one not getting any.”
I roll my eyes, untying my apron as I turn to head toward the back. “Poppy?” I stop to look back at my friend. “Remember, no glove, no love.”
Face on fire, I tuck my chin and hurry away before she can further embarrass me. There’s no escaping the trill of her maniacal laughter, though. It follows me all the way back into the kitchen.
Exactly four minutes later, I sling my purse over my shoulder and exit the break room, which is nothing more than a storage closet at the back of the diner. As I walk through the kitchen, my pulse thrums faster. I’m jittery with excitement by the time I swing through the double stainless doors that lead out into the seating area.
With a powdered nose and freshly glossed lips, I weave my way between tables to the row of booths along the wall. The light is burned out over the space Noah occupies, casting his angular face into shadow, but it’s not hard to imagine his eyes on me. I can feel the weight of them.
When I stop in front of him, he leans forward and a wedge of light slants across his face. Back is the blank expression and the grim mouth. It throws me off. It shouldn’t, but it does.
I stammer, “H-hi.”
He says nothing. Not a good sign.
I’m deflated. I wanted him to be as anxious about this date as I am. I wanted him to be looking forward to it as much as I have been. But he’s obviously not. And as much as I want this, I don’t want to be an obligation to this beautiful man. That’s why I feel compelled to give him an out if he needs one.
As he begins unfolding his long frame from behind the table, I blurt, “If…if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to go.”
Noah stops suddenly, a frown marring his features. “Why? Having second thoughts?”
“No, no! I just… You seem…”
He sighs. I’m so intently focused on him that, even with the ambient buzz of a busy diner surrounding us, I can hear him clearly. His sigh, the sound of his clothes brushing across the vinyl as he scoots out, the way he starts to say something but thinks better of it—I hear it all. In fact, he is all I hear.
“Would you mind?”
I’m devastated when I hear the relief in his voice.
I rush to respond, hiding my extreme disappointment behind a casual gesture of my hand. “No, of course not. No big deal at all.”
“It’s just that I…I really shouldn’t be here. With you.”
Now his words crease my brow. “You’re not with me. This is a public place. We serve food. You come here to eat. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“No, but…” Mingled with his usual haunted expression is the hint of something unmistakable.
Guilt.
It clouds his features like mud in fresh, clear water.
But what on earth would he have to feel guilty about? This is innocent.
Unless…
Oh God, maybe he’s married!
Reflexively, I scan his hands where they rest on the table. I don’t know why I’ve never looked before.
I’m relieved when I see his long, blunt fingers boast no ring.
Not that he couldn’t have taken it off. Men do that all the time, I’m sure. But I don’t get the impression Noah is like that. I don’t get the impression that he’s like other men in any way. He seems…different. He has since the first time I saw him. I think that’s why I’m so attracted to him.
So then, again, what does he have to feel guilty about?
Despite my disappointment, despite the humiliation that’s creeping in, my curiosity about this man triples.
I do my best to recover what dignity I had by offering logic. “Look, Noah, it was nice of you to invite me to dinner, but it’s just that—dinner. Food. An unfortunate necessity to human survival. It’s not like we made plans for a night of debauchery.” One side of his intriguing mouth pulls up a little and I sigh inwardly. I love seeing something other than sadness on his face. Sadness or, now, guilt. “Unless you left out that tiny detail.”
Noah makes a light huffing sound. “No, I just wanted to take you to dinner.”
Was that a laugh? I think that was a laugh. A small one. More like an almost-cough, but I’m pretty sure it was an actual laugh.
I feel inordinately pleased with myself.
“Then you have nothing to feel guilty about. But since you do, I’ll just take a rain check and we can do it another time.”
Noah finally pushes himself out of the booth and to a stand. I didn’t realize how close I was to him until his chest is mere inches from my nose. I should take a step back, but I don’t.
Noah is tall. Taller than I thought. He towers over me, and I have to crane my neck to see his face. He’s probably closer to six-five than six feet. And while his height is intimidating, yes, I don’t feel intimidated. I feel…safe. From day one, the way he’s watched me, the way he’s looked at me and spoken to me, I’ve gotten the impression that he’s a protector. A fierce protector. Like he could and would shield me from any harm that might come my way.
And I love the way that feels.
It makes me wonder if that instinct to protect extends to Noah. Is he protecting me from himself ?
Maybe so.
Maybe that’s why he’s backing out.
Maybe he knows the sadness he carries will one day be the thing that hurts me most, and now he’s having second thoughts.
Or maybe he knows something from his past, whatever haunts his clear blue eyes, would destroy any kind of relationship we might form.
Or maybe none of this is accurate and I’m just wishing he were that type of man.
I may never know, and that thought leaves me feeling strangely bereft as I stare up into his darkly fascinating face.
“What makes you think I feel guilty?” His voice is the coarse crunch of gravel under a tire, his question the soft whisper of night air on bare skin. Once again, he’s all I hear. All I see. His imposing presence eclipses the entire world so that we are alone, Noah and me. Alone in the midst of a crowded city in a bustling diner.
My answer is hushed, but I know he can hear me. He can hear me as well as I can hear him because it’s just the two of us. “I don’t know. I can just tell that you do.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
I shrug, ignoring how breathless I am. “Maybe I feel like I do.”
Noah raises one hand, bringing it to within a centimeter of my cheek before stopping in midair. It hovers there, his hand, so close that I can feel the heat from it, but Noah doesn’t touch me. Almost as though he thinks better of it, he slowly lowers it away from me and takes a step back, giving us both room to brea
the.
“Then dinner,” he says, the skin between his eyes pleating into a frown, making it seem as though he’s agreeing to it against his will.
Or maybe he’s agreeing to it against his better judgment.
That’s something else I might never know.
With my eyes still locked on his, I reach for the hand he would’ve touched me with, and I take it gently in my own. We need to do this. Both of us. Because both of us need rescuing. I just can’t be sure who needs it most.
Turning, I lead him from the diner.
5
Poppy
M y apartment is two blocks from Bud’s diner. I used to have breakfast there because it was closest to my place, which is how I heard about the job.
Noah remains quiet as we walk the short distance. Our hands are still clasped together. Noah’s fingers are tense within mine, though, as if he’s uncomfortable with the contact. Or maybe he’s uncomfortable with the gesture, the intimacy of it. Still, he doesn’t move to break our hold.
It occurs to me that maybe he’s holding on just to spare my feelings. Like he tries to spare Tilly’s. But I can’t imagine why. I mean, he asked me out. That has to mean something , right?
For me, holding Noah’s hand feels perfect. As though within his is where my hand was always meant to be. It feels right.
There’s that word again.
Right.
It feels right, but what the hell do I know about right? The only aptitude I have is for picking a series of Mr. Wrongs. Love used to be the only thing I was ever willing to risk getting hurt over. At the beginning of every relationship I’ve ever had, I always hoped it would be worth it, worth the risk, but one too many broken hearts over the years has dampened my enthusiasm.
Until now.
Until Noah.
Something about him makes me want to try again, to give it another shot. Maybe he’ll be the one with whom I get it right.
At the street level entrance to my building, I release Noah’s hand and slide my key into the outer lock, giving the door one sharp push into the foyer. “The elevator is broken. I hope you don’t mind walking a couple of flights of stairs.”
Noah shakes his head and follows me toward the steps that rest against the wall to the right. As I ascend in front of him, I’m overly aware of my lower half—my legs, my butt, the hem of my skirt. I wonder if Noah is looking at me. It doesn’t feel like he is, but why wouldn’t he be? A woman in a skirt is walking up stairs less than a foot in front of his nose. What man wouldn’t look?
Maybe a man like Noah. A man who has much more and many different kinds of things on his mind.
As I turn at the landing, I glance back at him before I start up the next set of stairs. His eyes are skimming my calves.
I rush to look away, smothering a grin. Maybe he doesn’t have that much on his mind after all.
I’m glad he’s looking. That he’s interested. After he nearly backed out of dinner, I couldn’t be too sure. Hell, with a guy like Noah, I imagine it’s hard to be sure of anything.
But now maybe I can be.
Maybe.
Another flight and a half later, I stop at the door to my tiny apartment. I wiggle the appropriate key into the slot, but the knob already turns easily.
“Simone!” I growl in agitation.
I let the door creak open, frustration burning in my gut. I catch sight of Noah in my peripheral vision. He’s leaning in toward me. Close, close. Closer.
A shiver ripples through me.
He’s just so damn big ! And in the most delicious way possible. He’s brawny, but not overly so. His cheeks have a tiny bit of a hollowness to them that makes me think he’s lost weight recently. But still, he’s big.
Lean.
Perfect.
“Problem?” The single word, the question, is gruff and abrupt, but somehow laced with a sudden alertness.
I shift to face Noah fully. His expression has changed. Gone is the haunted, withdrawn man I most commonly see. This man is watchful. Vigilant. Prepared. I think again of a fierce warrior, ready to fight and slay and protect.
As his warm weight presses into my side, I watch his eyes scan the entrance to my apartment. His pupils are dilated and his jaw is set, and it seems to me that every muscle in his body is primed to spring into action.
He looks intense and powerful. Ferocious.
Fascinating.
And he’s close enough to touch…
“Poppy?” he prompts.
A shiver of pure sexual awareness ripples through me.
I shake it off as best I can. “No, no problem. It’s just my goofy roommate. She forgot to lock the door again.”
Noah leans away and frowns down at me. “Does she do that often?”
I shrug. “Not very, but often enough to piss me off.”
I yank my key from the lock and step inside, setting my purse on the small table by the door.
I don’t have much of a social life, which means I don’t have much company. Simone has a very active social life, but it exists outside the apartment. That’s why neither of us pays more attention to the way this place looks.
But I’m paying attention now.
I see it all with the fresh eyes of a stranger. I see the soft beige walls and the warm burnt orange-and-cream rugs. I see the plush turquoise sofa and jewel-tone pillows. I see the shoes in front of the television and the sequined halter top thrown over a chair.
For the first time, I notice that our place looks like a color blind psycho lives here. It’s perfectly obvious that two very different people had input in the decorating. There are broad swaths of me sprinkled with bright spots of Simone.
“Uhhh, my roommate and I…we could never really agree on any of the furnishings, so…” I rush to grab a red satin bra from the lampshade, my cheeks burning as I begin to regret bringing Noah here. “And she isn’t the neatest person in the world either.”
“It’s fine,” he replies noncommittally.
I tuck the few articles of clothing that were left strewn about the living room under my arm before I turn to face Noah. His hands are in the pockets of his dark jeans, and he’s looking around. There is no judgment on his face. Only curiosity.
“Would you like a glass of water? I won’t be long.”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, well make yourself at home then. I’ll be right back.”
I practically run from the room. How utterly humiliating. I’m so used to Simone and her crazy ways and tastes that I suppose I’ve never seen how things might appear through someone else’s eyes. It makes me want to redecorate, and reminds me that I need to come home and clean up every time I have guests. It’s too late for any of that now, though. Noah has seen. The impression has been made. There is no undoing it now.
In my bedroom, I shuck the stiff uniform in favor of a cotton shirt dress that skims my boobs and butt in what I hope is a flattering way. I don’t want to dress up since I don’t know where he’s taking me, and I also don’t want this to feel too much like a date since it seems he’s not quite comfortable with that. But I don’t want to look like a hobo either. Hopefully the casual dress is somewhere in the middle.
I run a brush through my wavy brown hair and freshen up my makeup, then walk through a spritz of my favorite perfume before sliding my feet into ballerina flats and heading back out to rescue Noah from our deranged living room. He’s standing near the only window, staring at a painting that adorns an exposed brick wall to the left. It depicts a tire swing dangling from the limb of an enormous oak tree. It’s so realistic, sometimes when I look at it, it seems that the swing is actually moving lazily back and forth through the single shaft of early morning sun that slants across the picture.
“I’m ready,” I announce.
Noah doesn’t move. “Who painted this?”
“Simone did. Why?”
He nods and turns toward me, offering a nonchalant, “It’s good.”
“She’s all artsy and eccent
ric and interesting. I’m the boring best friend. Just…plain ol’ Poppy.”
Slowly, Noah crosses the room to where I’m standing. He doesn’t stop until the tips of his shoes are snug against mine and his body heat is reaching for me. “There’s nothing plain about you.”
“Just wait until you meet Simone,” I reply breathlessly, all the while hoping against hope that he never does. Simone has this way about her, a gravity that pulls people in. Noah wouldn’t be the first to find it irresistible. And I know he wouldn’t be the last either.
“That won’t change the way I see you.”
I smile and say nothing, mainly because I don’t want to talk about Simone anymore. This might be my first, last, and only date with Noah. I want to make the best of it.
“Ready?” I want to get out of here before he changes his mind again.
He nods and I lead the way to the door.
We retrace our steps down to the foyer, and I pause as Noah reaches around to open the door for me. I inhale, noting the clean way he smells. Like soap. Just soap. Not cologne or hair product or anything like that. Nothing so…fussy.
I imagine a man like this doesn’t give thought to things like that. I mean, it’s obvious he doesn’t visit the barber very often, and he always has a few days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw when I see him. No, Noah wouldn’t bother with cologne, and I actually like him all the more for it. A man without pretense. That’s how I see Noah.
Honest and real.
I precede him out onto the sidewalk. “So, where are we going?”
Noah lets the door close behind him then gives it a pull to make sure the lock catches.
Fierce protector.
When he’s satisfied that it’s secure, he takes a step toward me, his brilliant blue eyes flicking from my eyes to my lips and back again. I wonder if he wants to kiss me. I wish I could let him know I’d love that, but I think it would scare him away if I did. And I don’t want to risk messing this up.
Self-consciously, I run my tongue over my dry lips to wet their surface. I try to ignore the way Noah’s pupils flare, just like I try to ignore the warm anticipation that starts to simmer in my stomach.