Not my mouth.
Not as an invitation.
Only affection.
Its softness reached me more deeply than urgency might have.
We ate at the table while rain stitched shining lines down the glass. Noah stayed awake through dinner and almost half of a comedy afterward.
Then his head settled onto my shoulder.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened.
His proposed research was postponed.
I carried him to bed.
The next morning, Elliot Shaw arrived at ten without a recorder in his hand and without a photographer trailing him.
That improved my opinion of him before he said a word.
He looked to be in his early thirties, dark-haired, wearing a navy raincoat and shoes far too clean for a marine workshop.
“I’m looking for Noah Bennett.”
“You’ve found his employer.”
“Reid Callahan?”
“Yes.”
He offered his hand.
I shook it.
“I spoke with Owen yesterday. I hope the visit didn’t create a problem.”
“It was intrusive.”
He accepted the answer without flinching.
“I can leave.”
The absence of argument surprised me.
Noah emerged from the sail loft before I responded. He wore work pants and a green overshirt, with a grease pencil tucked behind one ear. The walking pole struck the floor in a steady rhythm.
“You’re the reporter,” he said.
“Elliot Shaw.”
Noah looked at me.
His decision.
I kept silent.
“What exactly do you want?” Noah asked.
