Noah’s voice floats across the darkness, wrapping around me like an embrace. “I’m thinking that maybe my family knows what’s best for me after all.”
Twelve
The power ison by the time I wake up the next morning. When I walk to the window and look outside, the sky is a brilliant blue, the sun sparkling as it reflects off the newly fallen snow. For a split second, I wonder if last night was some sort of glorious fever dream. But the burned-down embers of the fire Noah built are right there in the hearth. He was here.We kissed.
And it was incredible.
I lift a hand to my lips, the memory of his touch still fresh enough to start a low fire in my belly. I need to call Evie. Tell her what happened. But I’m guessing Noah is already up, which means I’d rather get downstairs as quickly as possible.
As amazing as last night was, it’s hard not to sense the looming countdown clock ticking down the moments to when I’m supposed to leave.
I take a quick shower and get dressed, careful of my still tender shoulder, then head downstairs where I find Noah in the kitchen, warm coffee waiting and a stack of waffles on the counter.
Noah is wearing an apron, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’s wearing glasses, something I haven’t seen on him until right now. He smiles when he sees me step into thekitchen, and he looks utterly and completely adorable. It’s hard to believe the scowly man who rescued me at the beginning of the week is the same guy.
“Good morning,” he says. He motions toward my shoulder with the spatula he’s holding. “How’s it feeling?”
“A little sore,” I say. “But still functional.”
I stand awkwardly in the doorway, not sure how to behave in this new normal. I feel an impulse to walk over and wrap my arms around Noah, kiss him hello, but…is that what he wants too? Is that something you do the morning after a first kiss?
“I never did get you a sling,” Noah says. “I can if you think you need one.”
“I think I’m okay. I’m trying to be careful.”
He eyes me, like his doctor brain is dubious that I’ll be as careful as I should be, but he must decide not to press the point because he lets the topic go. He gestures to the waffles. “I don’t suppose you want a waffle? Or four?”
I slip onto a barstool across from him. “I’d loveawaffle. Not sure about four.”
“I probably should have halved the recipe. But I didn’t really think about it until I’d already started. My mom says I can freeze these though.”
My heart squeezes the tiniest bit. “You called your mom about waffles? In Italy?”
“She’s only six hours ahead,” he says with an easy shrug. “It was good to talk to her.”
There is a lightness about Noah that feels new. He’s relaxed, his words coming as easily as they did last night. I can’t help but hope the change has something to do with me, at least in small part. But more than that, I hope that talking things out helped him process a little of how he’s feeling.
Noah slides a waffle onto my plate, then moves the butter dish and a ceramic syrup jar close enough for me to reach. “Want coffee?”
I nod, and he makes quick work of pouring me a mug, following my milk and sugar instructions until it’s in my hands, warm and perfectly delicious.
“When did the power turn back on?” I ask.
“Around six,” he says. “The high is close to fifty today, so most of the snow will probably melt by tomorrow.”
I take a long sip of my coffee, keenly aware that after the most intense makeout of my life, Noah and I are sitting here talking about the weather like there’s nothing else to say. But everything Iwantto say feels big. Monumental.
Can I really look at him over morning coffee and just casually drop that after last night, I’m pretty sure he’s ruined kissing for every other man on the planet? It’s him or no one. I can’t go back.
“I should check in with the Petersons and make sure they’re still good to come,” I say.
Noah nods. “I’ll get the farm road cleared today, and I expect the county will get the highway plowed. If the Petersons need any reassurance, tell them I really do think the roads will be fine.”
“Good. Perfect.” My hand is trembling as I pick up my fork, which is completely ridiculous. But Noah in glasses, feeding me, making me coffee. It’s too much for my heart. I can hardly breathe for the weight of my longing. I want this—him—like I’ve never wanted anything before.
I take a steadying breath, but when I try to cut my waffle, my hand slips, and a syrup-covered chunk goes flying across the counter and lands next to Noah’s plate. My face flushes hot as he grins, giving me a sideways glance. “You okay over there?”
I clear my throat. “Totally fine.”
