Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I pause. Something in the pit of my belly wants to say yes. Instead, I shake my head. “Not a good idea.”
“Maybe. But some of the best times I’ve ever had started from bad ideas.”
I chuckle. He has an answer for everything.
Noah looks up and catches my eyes. “Seriously, though, you seem like a woman who speaks her mind. And I don’t hear you saying you don’t want to go out with me. There’s a difference between not wanting to do something and thinking it’s a bad idea.”
I didn’t notice it last night, because the bar was so dark. But his eyes are the exact same color as his father’s—deep mossy green with specks of gold. There’s a lot I can’t remember from twenty years ago, but a person remembers the face of a person they’re about to kill. The only difference is Noah’s eyes have a light that shines from them, a sparkle that reflects the sun. Mr. Sawyer’s were cold and flat, even when he was still breathing. Same as last night, I find myself very drawn to this man.
“How long you in town for?” he asks when I still haven’t responded.
I thumb toward the front door. “I’m not sure anymore. I was planning on leaving today. But then my mom fell. She’s in the hospital now.”
“I heard about her health. The woman who told me where you live mentioned your mom was sick with cancer.”
I nod. “Her prognosis isn’t good.”
He nods. “I know how hard that can be. My mom died not too long ago. Heart disease. It was tough to watch.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am . . . but he’s also just opened a door . . . “Do you still have your dad?”
Noah looks away. “He died when I was just a kid.”
I wait, hoping he’ll say more. But he doesn’t. Instead, he swings his keys around and tosses them in the air, catching them with a jingle as they come down. Must be a Southern thing. “Welp, I guess I should be going. I really would love to take you out, but I won’t push, especially when you’re going through so much.”
I nod. “Thank you again for returning my card.”
“Anytime. And if you ever feel like company—just a friendship, a shoulder to cry on if things with your mom get tough—you call me.” He winks. “I wrote my cell on the signature strip on the back of your credit card.”
I smile. “Thanks, Noah.”
He steps forward and kisses my forehead. It’s sweet and feels innocent enough.
“Take care, Elizabeth. I wish you well.”
I watch him walk away, but as he does, an overwhelming sense of fear that I’m about to lose something I need hits me. “Wait!” I yell as he’s pulling his truck door closed.
He unfolds from the driver’s seat and gives me his full attention.
“Why don’t you come inside for a little while?”
“Is this you?” Noah picks up a framed photo and turns it to me. I’m in my communion dress, hands steepled like the good Christian my mother always wanted.
“It is.”
“Are you religious?”
“No.”
He looks at me expectantly. After a minute, he grins. “Aren’t you going to ask if I am?”
“Nope. That’s your business.”
He smiles and sets down the photo. “You see, that’s what makes you different from the ladies around here. You think it’s okay to keep some things private.”
“Of course it is.”
He shakes his head. “The women I’ve dated want to know every thought going through my head.”
“Sounds like they’re insecure.”
Noah shrugs. “Maybe.” He looks around the room. “So is this where you grew up? This house?”
“It is.”
“It’s nice.”
“It’s a shithole.”
He laughs. “See? There you go again. No bullshit. You just tell it like it is.”
“Would you rather I bullshit you?”
“Not at all. I appreciate a woman who is straight with me.”
I tilt my head. “So does that mean you’re being straight with me, Noah?”
His brows draw together. “About what?”
“Everything. Anything.”
His eyes jump back and forth between mine. “I haven’t told you one lie since we met.”
Again, he looks sincere. But did he select his words carefully? He hasn’t told me a lie—but are there things he’s failed to tell me? Omissions? Like he knows who I am? That he sat down next to me on purpose? That he is a student of mine . . .
I make use of the attention he’s giving me, keeping our gazes locked. “What made you approach me last night?”
“You were the prettiest girl in the room.”
“Woman, not girl, Noah.”
His eyes do a quick sweep over my body, and he grins. “Right. All woman. That’s for shit-sure.” He steps closer. My heart races, but I stand my ground. Noah brushes hair from my shoulder. “You’re really beautiful.”
Something about his voice, the Southern drawl I haven’t heard in ages, makes butterflies flutter in my belly—some a little lower, too. “Thank you.”