“It’s okay,” I whisper, kissing along the side of her neck. I turn us around, so she backs up to the desk, forcing her to sit.
With her sitting and me towering over her, I can take more control of the situation. I kiss her lips again, aggressively, and pull her forward, so her crotch is directly against me. She’s warm, and I can tell it’s not just residual heat from the workout. I brush a hand across her breasts, feeling her hardened nipple. The door’s still slightly open, so I don’t want to take her bra off and leave her exposed if anyone happens to walk by. Instead, I give her right nipple a pinch and roll it between my fingers. She breaks the kiss to let her head loll back, moaning, and I drag my teeth along the side of her neck.
“You love having these nipples played with, don’t you?” I whisper, covering her mouth with another kiss.
She doesn’t have to say anything in response because she moans again, squeezing my bicep when I speed up my movement. I switch over to her other nipple, pulling at it until it’s standing hard against the fabric of her sports bra. I grind my hard-on against her for a moment before stopping myself. I’m almost too hard, and the friction is going to make me do something rash or embarrassing if I keep it up.
I thread one hand between us and cup her between her legs, running two fingers over where her slit is while continuing to play with her nipple. She bucks her hips into my hand, which makes me think she’s into it, so I keep going. Her breathing’s speeding up, and little whimpers escape her mouth between kisses.
But then she jerks backward, closing her legs and gently pushing me away. I’m knocked out of my haze immediately and brought back to reality.
“Sorry, I – sorry. Did I cross a line?” I stammer, studying her face.
She’s bright red and won’t look me in the eye. Thankfully, she shakes her head to let me know that isn’t the problem.
“We shouldn’t do this.” She slides off the desk and adjusts her boobs in her bra. “This is a bad idea.”
“Why?” I ask, and she glares at me.
“Because it’s a bad idea. Us, together.” She grabs her water bottle and shoves the chair out of the way so she can open the door.
“Again, why?” I grab the door, so it doesn’t slam against the wall. “Were you not into it? Because if so, I’m sorry for misreading the situation.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, and I’m transported back to the first night she came back into town. The look is filled with pure irritation, and it shuts me up for a second. I go from horny to angry in a split second but know that I should hold my tongue before I say something stupid. She just shakes her head at me, her eyes watery — is she disappointed with me? Or just angry? Or what?
I don’t know because she storms down the hall without saying another word to me.
I slam the door behind her, making the wall shake. She’s doing it again. Running away from me when if she would just tell me, we could sort it out.
It’s driving me insane. I know she's been hurt before but shit. Is this going to go on forever?
Chapter Nine
Nadine
This rental house isn’t big by most people’s standards but having lived in my postage-stamp-sized apartment for years, the place feels huge. There’s a roomy entryway, a whole laundry room, a living room, and a good-sized master bedroom. There’s even a backyard. The outside is cute also. All of the houses in the neighborhood look wildly different since they were built at different times, which I kind of like. This place is unique.
And the rent is cheaper than my old rent by a lot. I’m not sure if I’ve stumbled into a bargain or if my view is skewed. I can’t believe I’ve lucked out on this.
I’ve been lucking out on a lot of things lately, actually. Or maybe it’s the contrast from the crappy luck I had before that makes it feel like good luck.
Joseph and Mom were kind enough to hire movers to move the stuff from my apartment back in the city to a storage unit nearby, so I wouldn’t have to go back there and do it by myself. Mom spends a lot of time at Joseph’s house, so I’ve basically had the whole house to myself.
Things at the bakery are good too. I’ve been there for two weeks now, and it’s been calm after the incident with her. I’ve been decorating birthday cakes and baking so many pies that I come home smelling like sugar. Mom’s been kind enough to bump my hours up to full time, so the pay isn’t bad either. My experiences as a teenager must have been colored by angst because I’m having actual fun there. It’s not the boring torture chamber I thought it was. I didn’t know how shitty a job could be back then.
Hanging out with Krissy’s kind of the same way — I didn’t realize how much I held back from my old friends until now. She’s so easy to hang out with that I hardly feel self-conscious around her, even when I’m gross and sweaty from the gym.
The only little blip in my suddenly okay life is Noah, but I shove him into the back of my mind. Way, way back in my mind. It’s like my brain shuts off the moment he comes into my thoughts, like a defense mechanism against cringe.
“How soon can I sign this lease?” I ask the landlord, realizing I’ve been standing here staring at the kitchen for a few moments too long.
She smiles and reaches into her bag for paperwork.
I fill out the paperwork I can and head home to get the rest of the information she needs. The house is empty besides the cat, so I open up a celebratory beer and flop on the couch with my laptop. I fiddle around on YouTube for a while before I inevitably pick up my phone again. Against my better judgment, I open my texts again. It’s like I’m picking at a zit I know I shouldn’t touch, but I just can’t help myself.
I only get texts from Mom, Andy, or Krissy, so my last text to Noah is still visible.
“Ugh, why!” I shout to no one, feeling so mortified that I have to let out my feelings somehow.
I feel myself get a little damp between my legs too, almost like a Pavlovian response to just looking at his name. That moment at the gym is now emblazoned in my brain, and I can’t get it out. His skilled kisses, the way I could feel his voice rumble in his chest when he asked me if I liked to have my nipples played with, the warmth of his body.
Then comes the shame — shoving him away like he had the plague and leaving without giving him any sort of explanation. The second I got out of the gym; I knew I had screwed up. Instead of walking back in and apologizing to him directly, I waited a few days and sent a text:
Hi. I’m really sorry about all that stuff at the gym. I got overwhelmed.
‘All that stuff’ is keeping it vague. Why couldn’t I at least call him or something? But saying I got overwhelmed works, right? I’m not doing what I did before, not giving him an answer and making him wonder what the hell is going on. Progress?
Somehow that’s not the worst part — his response was:
Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. It was just impulsive.
How could he freaking forgive me, even when I’ve been the worst, most hot and cold person on the face of the Earth to him? It might be another fluke, because I know I won’t get more chances if I screw up again. The problem is that I don’t know how to proceed after that.
He kissed me and more. I kissed back. There’s a mutual attraction but shoved between that attraction is my boatload of baggage. There’s the ‘dating guys in general’ baggage, having been strung along, cheated on, humiliated and dumped on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
Then there’s the Noah-specific baggage. I know the Noah who drove me insane growing up, who slept with me that one night and treated me like a disposable cup. I still can’t let go of that even with his apology. The deep knife wound of hurt and embarrassment won’t go away.
But I also know the Noah who forgives me when I act like a complete weirdo and says he understands, despite my complete lack of rationality. He’s been really nice to Mom, helping out with stuff she can’t do, like fix cabinets and pick up flour for her. He’s obsessed with his rescue dog, helped his frien
d open the business of his dreams, and regularly saves people’s lives in his job. And he still gives off an aura of power, like people automatically feel the need to respect him everywhere he goes because he could destroy them if he wanted to. But he doesn’t.
Which Noah is the real one? People don’t change that much. In retrospect, I missed so many red flags with Grant — the weird outings, the secrets, the bullshit excuses for not wanting to sleep with me. I have very, very solid red flags with Noah, and I can’t ignore them because I want to sleep with him again.
I knock back the rest of my beer and sit up. I wish he hadn’t kissed me again. His lips woke my desire from the dead, and now I pass out asleep with my hand down my panties, thinking of him every night.
I turn my attention back to what I need to send the landlord, then go to the kitchen to cook something. I need a distraction.
I hate to say it, but I’m really glad Joseph is loaded and a pretty generous guy. I’m standing in my new rental house, watching movers bring all of my stuff in. It’s all in neat, plastic storage bins that’ll force me to unpack since the movers will be back to get them in a couple of days. The whole day has been so easy that I’m hardly even tired, a sharp contrast from the other moves I’ve made in my life.
My furniture still isn’t inside, so I sit on the porch railing, so I’m out of the sun. I look around at the other houses, which are just far enough away for comfort. My heart skitters and skips a beat when I look at the one to the right of my little house and see what I think is Noah’s car.
Hopefully, he’s just visiting someone?
I pull out my phone and procrastinate by playing some games, hoping I’m right. But no, fifteen minutes later, I see Noah crossing the grass, wearing running shorts that show off his lean, muscular legs, and a t-shirt. I want to crawl inside and never look him in the face again after what happened, even if we’re technically back at a truce. But he seems fine, like nothing happened at all. It puts me at ease. Now I get why Andy always claimed Noah was chill when we were growing up. When he’s not making jokes, he’s easygoing.
“Hey,” he says with a smile, glancing at the moving truck. “You’re renting this place?”
“Yeah,” I nod, hopping off the porch as gracefully as I can. “Are you visiting someone next door?”
“Nah, that’s my house.” He runs a hand through his hair and watches some of the movers drag my little couch up the steps.
“You live in this neighborhood?” I ask. “But I thought you were…”
I don’t fill in the rest of the sentence. It seems rude to say that he’s too rich for this area. But he gets what I mean and doesn’t seem offended.
“It’s close to work, which is important to me, and I like the feel of the neighborhood. I basically gutted the whole place and updated it. Mabel and I don’t need a lot of space.” He shrugs.
I look back at his house. It does look a little more put together than the other ones on the block. His landscaping is nice and tidy, and the paint job looks fresh. My new home is charming, but it’s definitely missing some updates. Okay, a lot of updates. But it’s still a nice place.
“I like the neighborhood too.” I tuck my hands in the pocket of my skirt.
“You want help with anything?” he asks. “I’m not a professional mover, but I can lift some stuff.”
“No, it’s fine. I think I’ve got it.” I sigh, looking at the number of boxes that are piling up in the living room through the window. “I can’t believe I’ve amassed this much crap. How did it fit in a tiny apartment?”
“You never realize how much stuff you have until you see it all in one place.” He looks where I’m looking. “You need help unpacking?”
I nearly ask him why he’s trying to be so helpful, but I stop myself. Maybe he’s trying to mend bridges. I need to do the same.
“Maybe, actually. I have to get all this stuff unpacked so I can return the bins in a couple of days,” I tell him. “You sure you want to spend your Saturday helping me unpack boxes? That sounds like the worst weekend ever.”
“I don’t have much else to do. No home improvement projects, no cleaning, no shopping.”
“No cooking?” I ask, hoping he catches that I’m teasing him a little bit.
“I made room in my fridge for an extra pizza box,” he grins, which makes my heart do a stupid flip. “I can even bring over Mabel. She’ll stay out of the way.”
“Sure, then. That would be helpful.”
“The second I mention the dog, you relent.” He shakes his head. “I swear, I need to keep her with me at all times so I can get things done.”
“I can’t resist. I’ve always wanted a dog, but we’ve always had cats.”
I watch the movers stack the last few bins on the ground and close the truck.
“I’ll go get her and meet you back here in a few?” Noah asks, walking back toward his house. I nod, trying not to stare at his butt when he turns.
I go inside and finish up with the movers, giving them their tip and signing the receipt. When they leave, I feel a sense of peace. A whole house to myself, and I’m not going broke renting it.
I walk around, assessing what needs to be done. I need to eat, so the kitchen will have to come first.
“Hey, we’re back,” Noah calls from the front door.
“I’m in the kitchen, straight through the living room,” I call back.
He and Mabel come in moments later, and Mabel greets me with happy snorts and hops. I give her all the scratches she wants and pat her on the butt before she’s satisfied with my hello. She lays down on the ancient linoleum, stretching out her front legs.
“All of these boxes are your kitchen shit?” Noah asks, truly bewildered.
“Yeah, is that strange?” I ask, looking around. “It’s not that many.”
“I don’t own much kitchen stuff, so yeah, it feels a little weird.” He runs his hand over a box labeled FRAGILE. “Tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Okay, let’s start with the small stuff.” I find a box cutter and cut the plastic ties holding the bins closed. “Can you put the dishes in the cabinets with the glass doors?”
He nods and starts, while I open up the other boxes. I’ve got tons and tons of appliances and gadgets that I could hardly use at my old place. My kitchen here isn’t huge, especially in comparison to the one at my Mom’s house, but it’s a lot bigger than what I’m used to. And there’s actually space for stuff.
We start to work in silence, the sound of dishes quietly clattering against each other, filling the air. I want to play some music, but I hesitate. He and Andy always made fun of my music taste. I know we’re beyond childish taunts, but I don’t want to break up the peace between us with any weird tension.
“Want to listen to a podcast or something?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket.
“Sure,” I nod.
“What do you like? Your house, your rules.”
“I don’t really listen to them,” I admit, feeling weirdly embarrassed.
I used to overhear people talking about them at the office and felt left out for not knowing what they were talking about. But the thought of trying them out in an effort to make connections made me feel like I was the awkward middle school loner I used to be, so I never looked into them.
“What? You’re missing out.” He scrolls through his phone. “What’re you into? In terms of topics.”
I pause, trying to think of something interesting. My life has been work and dumb TV that helps me wind down for so long that I haven’t had the chance to regain any actual hobbies or interests. Yet another reason I like Krissy — she’s up to date on things and likes to talk more than I do. She’s filled me in on all the celebrity gossip and important pop culture things from the past five years in the short time we’ve known each other. I get the feeling Noah has zero interest in the Bachelorette, but that’s all that’s coming into my head right now.
“True crime?” he suggests.
“This is a short one, in case you don’t like it. Where’s a cup?” He nods and digs through a box to find one. “Ah, here we go.”
He puts the phone in the cup and presses play, the sound much more amplified than it would be otherwise.
Listening to something helps the dull task of unpacking go faster. Before I know it, the episode is over.
“You a fan?” he asks, scooting Mabel aside with his foot so he can put an empty bin down. She slides across the floor, not bothering to move from her comfortable position on her own.
“It was okay.” I pause. “Kind of violent, though?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He looks a little sheepish, and somehow, I’m relieved that he didn’t come back with a snarky comment. When will I get over this gun shyness around him? He’s not going to jump down my throat for dumb things like that.
Or at least he hasn’t yet.
“Want some music instead?” he tries. “All of the other good ones I listen to are definitely guy podcasts.”
“What counts as a guy podcast?”
“MMA, mostly,” he shrugs.
“Oh.”
The last and only time I watched MMA was the night we slept together. His face doesn’t betray any embarrassment like mine probably is right now. Probably because he doesn’t think that night was a big deal.
My mood dips. I haven’t asked him about what the deal was that night but dropping that bomb in the middle of him giving me much needed help doesn’t sound like a good idea. I probably need to get drunk to loosen up my nerves, but that might be an even worse decision.
“Here’s some random playlist,” he says, making the decision for us. “Hope you don’t hate it.”
One Night Flame Page 14