Noah presses his lips together like he’s fighting a grin. “Touché.”
I sit back in my chair, battling my own smirk because that exchange with Noah was almost fun.
Still, I’m supposed to be studying, and I am no more capable now than I was before. I might not be worried about what he’s thinking, but it’s taking all my willpower to keep my eyes on my own paper and not on the gorgeous man sitting across from me.
What’s he reading? Does he look like he’s enjoying it? Is he looking at me as frequently as I’m looking at him?
Across the room, Noah quietly turns a page.
Okay, probably not.
After considerable effort, I eventually get used to Noah being in the room. Weirdly, I even start to enjoy his company. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually done this before, at least not outside of a library, but there’s something nice about sharing a space with a person without any expectation of conversation. Not that I would mind talking to Noah. But this is nice too. Companionable.Easy.
Just past five o’clock, my stomach lets out a low rumble, so I leave Noah in the living room and head into the kitchen to make dinner. It takes a few minutes of exploring the bounteous supplyof ingredients in the fridge, but I eventually decide to make chicken noodle soup. Cold weather always makes me crave soup, plus it will pair well with the homemade bread I brought from Harvest Hollow.
Once all the ingredients are out on the counter, I pause, debating. It’s almost impossible to make soup for one person. Noah said I didn’t have to cook for him, but if I’malreadycooking, it only makes sense for me to share.
Decision made, I head back into the living room to let him know my plan. “Hey,” I say as I enter the room. “I’m going to make?—”
My words cut off as soon as I see Noah because he’s fallen asleep.
His book is open on his chest, hands folded over the top, and his head is tilted back onto the cushion behind him.
Slowly, I make my way into the room. His breathing is steady, like he’s really sleeping deeply, so I add another log to the fire, then tiptoe over to his chair.
As carefully as I can, I slide his book off his chest and place it on the sidetable, then drape a blanket over his legs, pulling it up to just below his ribs.
I step away, knowing I shouldn’t just stand here staring at him, but it’s almost impossible not to. He is no more handsome now than he is when he’s awake, but with his face relaxed, completely at rest, there’s an air of vulnerability about him that makes something in my heart turn over.
Based on the brief conversations we’ve had so far, it doesn’t feel like a leap to assume that on some level, Noah is hurting. Hurting…or hiding. Maybe a little of both? Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here instead of in Italy with his family.
I wonder if he’s struggling to sleep. If he has something on his mind, it makes sense that?—
Wait. No.I’m not going to play this game. If I keep staring at him, I’m going to write an entire back story for the man, a thousand reasons why I should forgive his surly nature and fall in love with him anyway.
I turn and hurry back to the kitchen, determined to mind my own business. But once I’m there, I cave and make enough soup for Noah anyway. It’s a matter of practicality. It would be a waste of ingredients not to. If Noah wants to eat it, he can eat it. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t have to. Simple as that.
As soon as the soup is finished, I help myself to a bowl, eating it with two thick slices of bread slathered with butter.
Noah still hasn’t stirred by the time I’ve cleaned up, so I leave the soup warming on the stove and write him a note, letting him know he’s welcome to help himself just so long as he puts the leftovers away.
I figure I’ll come back down to check just in case his nap turns into sleeping all night, but when I turn to leave the kitchen, Noah is standing in the doorway.
“You’re awake,” I say.
He wipes a hand over his face. “Yeah. I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep.” He tilts his head toward the living room. “Thanks for…”
“It was no problem,” I say. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He shakes his head no, his eyes moving around the kitchen. “I think the smell of food woke me.”
“It’s chicken noodle soup,” I say. “And there’s plenty. I left you a note.”
His eyes land on the notecard and pen still sitting on the counter where I left them. “You don’t have to keep feeding me, Megan.”
“I know,” I quickly say. “But soup is soup. There’s always enough for more than one person.”
“But I don’t want you to think—” He pauses and seems to reconsider his words, but then he never finishes his sentence.
