I stop in my tracks, reaching for his arm and pulling him to a stop next to me. “Why on earth would you think any of that is a lie?”
He looks at where his arm is still in my grip. I hadn’t even realized I kept hold of him, as if trying to keep him anchored to me. His eyes lock on mine. “I guess it’s hard for me to believe you would think those nice things about me.”
I move a half step closer to him, letting the woodsy scent of him fill my nose. “I think you’re maybe the best man I’ve ever met, Ben.”
He sucks in a breath, and his eyes darken.
It’s the closest either of us has ever come to acknowledging there might be something living in this blank space between us.
He told me to give Noah a chance.
I told him there was no reason for him to not accept his date.
And yet.
His lungs expand—my gaze is caught on his throat, the peek of bare skin where his shirt is unbuttoned, and I watch his breath stutter.
He takes a step back, shaking his head. “I should go. I don’t want to be late.”
Now I’m the one having trouble breathing. “Sure. Me too.”
I gesture for him to go on ahead without me, knowing I can’t possibly stomach walking by his side for another second.
Message from one Dr. Ben Loving clearly received.
He hesitates for a half second, his mouth opening and closing like he might have something to say, but he quickly spins on his heel and hurries down the path, leaving me behind without a second glance.
I dig my nails into the skin of my palms, using the bite of pain to center me, bring me back to the task at hand.
Noah Crenshaw. Falling in love. Getting the hell out of here.
20
Totally warm and delicious smells greet me the moment Noah opens his door. His house looks much like mine in layout but has been decorated in a more traditionally masculine fashion. His sofa is leather, his TV takes up the entire wall, and instead of a dated yet color-coordinated kitchen, his is all sleek marble and stainless steel.
And he appears to actually use said kitchen, which is something none of my past boyfriends have ever been able to say they do. To be fair, it’s also something I have never been able to say.
“Wine?” he asks the second I’ve kicked off my shoes and made it through the front door.
“God yes.” I follow him into the kitchen and accept the glass of red he offers.
“Tough day?” He flashes me a smirky smile and turns his attention back to the stove, which currently holds multiple steaming pots.
Since the only tough part about it was dealing with theman I can’t seem to make myself stop thinking about, I lie. “Oh you know, the usual. The bakery has been so busy lately, Emma and I are being run ragged.” I slide onto a barstool at his kitchen island, sipping my wine and trying to look coy instead of depressed. Not an easy task.
Noah tosses me a knowing glance over his shoulder as he stirs something in the largest of the pots. “Glad to hear business is going well, should make it easy for her to invest in a new location.”
I glare at his back. “Not going to happen, bud. And I thought we weren’t going to talk business?”
He shrugs. “You brought it up.”
I fold my arms and lean on the counter. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Of course.”
“Does it ever bother you? Doing what you do?” Doing whatwedo, is what I really mean to ask. I need to hear his answer, to see if it’s the same as mine once would have been.
He taps a wooden spoon on the edge of a pan and turns to face me. “Honestly? Not really. My clients hire me to do a job, and I do it. My loyalty is to the people who pay me. I can’t think too much about what’s best for anyone other than my clients.”
