One beer turned into two, then three, and then Noah and I ended up doing shots of some unlabeled clear spirit Scotty pulled off the bottom shelf. I’m pretty sureit was moonshine, and it tasted like battery acid, or at least what I assume battery acid tastes like.
Pressing my fingertips to my temples, I roll over in bed and plant my feet on the floor, giving myself a minute for the room to stop spinning and my stomach to settle. Opening up my shop late sounded great when I was throwing back the alcohol last night, but now I’m here, I’m realizing what a colossal mistake that was. All I want to do is curl back up under the sheets and sleep for the next week.
When the room stops spinning, I push to my feet and pad out of my bedroom toward the kitchen. Coffee and breakfast, that’s all I need. My eyes flick to the couch, finding Noah’s shape tucked under a blanket sprawled over the cushions, his arm thrown over his eyes.
One foot is sticking over the sofa arm, his sock half off and dangling off his toes.
He only lives a block away and could have easily gone home after consuming far too much alcohol, but he never does. He always ends up on my couch, or I end up back at his, no matter what.
Pulling two mugs from the cupboard, I get a pot of coffee brewing before I mix up a batter for pancakes and fry up some bacon. The smell alone will wake him from his coma.
I slice up an apple and peel an orange before I pour the coffee, counting down in my head as I wait for him to wake up.
“Is that pancakes?” His voice sounds right before I get to one.
I chuckle, “Rise and shine, cupcake.”
He groans as he sits up on the couch, “We need to find a new bar.”
I point my spatula at him, “You take that back.”
Noah can afford to go anywhere in the city, any bar or restaurant, but he’s never swayed from our regulars.Scotty’s.The Taco Bus—a literal bus that serves tacos from a window down at the park.So, we’ve got buns, our regular burger place when we’re not feeling tacos or pizza, and the coffeehouse that sits between his office building and my shop where we meet three out of five days of the week for lunch.
Ninety-five percent of my time is spent with this man.
Turning the bottle of pills up, I empty two out into the palm of my hand and pass them over to him along with the coffee I made.
“Thanks,” he grunts, throwing them into his mouth to follow down with his coffee. I turn back to the bacon, flipping it in the pan before I dish the pancakes up onto a plate. Behind me, I hear Noah get up, a low groan leaving him as he stretches, joints popping a little, and then his steps move away, toward the bathroom.
I’m not sure why we don’t just always go back to his place. It’s bigger, with more beds where my tiny apartment only has one bedroom and a couch barely big enough to fit him.
“That smells so fucking good, cricket,” he says from behind me. I glance at him, swallowing thickly when I realize he hasn’t put any clothes on and remains in a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers, the thin material outlining everything the man has to offer. Newsflash:it’s a lot.
Noah works hard on himself, works out at the gym six out of seven days of the week and has the muscle to show for it. Stacks and stacks of muscle, a V carving up his hips, with wide shoulders and thick arms and thighs to match. A dark line of hair trails from his navel to beneath the waistband of his boxers, and a small bouquet of peonies is tattooed over his left pec, the ink etched into his skin delicately, giving the petals and leaves definition in the simplest of ways.
“When does it not?” I turn away from him, willing my cheeks to cool. This man is my best friend; I should not look at him the way I do sometimes. I am but only human after all, and Noah is a god to look at. Subtly, I wipe away the drool at the corner of my mouth.
He’s called me cricket from the day we met all those years ago. I’d just moved to the city and started a new school, so I was on edge. I had been there a month already, had made no new friends, and was just a pile of nerves constantly. My time was mostly spent wandering the halls alone, trying to figure out where the hell I needed to go next. I was just coming out of the bathroom when I quite literally bumped into Noah. He’d startled me so much that I’d squealed and almost dropped to the floor. Noah said I sounded like a cricket, that I didn’t squeal, Ichirpedand jumped so high just like one. He’s called me that ever since.
“I’ll grab the syrup,” he says, wandering off to the pantry where I keep it. I can’t help but check out his ass.
He’s my best friend.I’m allowed.
I’m quick to avert my eyes when he returns, pretending I wasn’t checking him out as I plate the bacon and place it on the counter beside the pancakes. Noah and I are merely platonic; we always have been; we’ve nevercrossed any sort of lines. We are friends, the best of friends. He’s been there for me through it all, the heartbreaks, the accomplishments, just like I have been there for him. I held him when he cried after his uncle, the only family he could count on, passed away, was there when he opened his office, and received his first award. I’ve been his date at many charity events and fundraisers, we’re together so often that the tabloids frequently mistake us as a couple. We are just there for each other, even when we don’t ask for it.
We eat our breakfast in silence. Noah scoffs his food down like he hasn’t been fed in weeks, shoveling bacon and pancakes and fruit in like his life depends on it.
“I swear I want to marry you every time I eat your food,” he groans. “So damn good.”
I laugh, “That’s just because you think through your stomach.”
He grunts some kind of agreement, serving himself a second helping while I finish my coffee and pray the headache abates enough that today won’t be torture. I need to finish the bouquets for a wedding happening tomorrow. They are being picked up at six tonight, and they are mostly ready. I just need to finish the maid of honor’s bouquet and add in the little trinkets the bride provided for the bridesmaids.
Noah clears up the kitchen while I head through to the bathroom and shower, removing the stench of questionable alcohol and pizza before I head back out in just a towel.
“How are you feeling?” Noah asks. He’s now back in his suit pants and shirt, but he’s left it open, showing off all that muscle still.
I force my eyes away.
