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“Have you seen a menu floating around?” I ask him. “I’m not even sure they serve food here.”
“I thought I saw one at a table we just passed.”
“What?!” I ask, unable to hear him now that the crowd has converged on us.
He leans in close, his mouth a hair’s breadth away from my ear. “I said—”
Someone bumps into Noah and he stumbles forward, knocking into me with enough force that I’m about to land flat on my ass. Fortunately, he reaches out and grabs ahold of me, yanking me back to standing with easy deftness. My chest is against his chest. We’re in a dirty dancing pose with my thigh sandwiched between his. HELLO Noah’s rock-hard leg. Hello Noah’s other…anatomy.
“Jesus. Sorry,” he says, stepping back to right himself.
“Are you apologizing to Jesus or me?”
He inhales a deep breath then shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“Just go that way, will you? And I’m going to put my hand on your arm because I’m scared someone will try to trample you, but you don’t need to look so disgusted about it.”
“It’s only me trying to get used to it. It’s a little intimidating. Your hand could circle my arm twice. There. How does my face look now?”
“Constipated.”
I suppress the urge to sock him in the arm.
“Strange you’re worried about someone trampling me,” I say, rising up so I can speak close to his ear. “I would have thought that kind of thing would fill you with glee. You probably love that wildebeest scene in The Lion King. You have the clip saved on your computer. You watch it whenever you need a little pick-me-up.”
His mouth curves into a delicious smile. “You really think I’m a villain, don’t you? You’ve concocted all sorts of stories in that head of yours.”
Our heads stay bent together as we talk. We’re supposed to be moving toward the bar, but we’re just standing in the crowd, his hand firmly gripping my arm, my chin tilted up so I can see him properly. In the hazy bar light, he looks like a dream. All that thick hair, smooth skin, itty bitty freckles across his tan cheeks. I could measure the fullness of his lips. Could count the long black lashes that cluster together and frame his brown eyes. He has the warmth of a crackling fire and I feel like I’ll get scalded if I keep standing this close to him for too much longer. There are dangerous thoughts swirling around in my mind. Thoughts that would have Noah rolling on the ground with laughter if he could hear them. Thoughts that have cropped up in my mind once or twice over the years—mostly when I’m asleep and dreaming and therefore off the hook.
“You look like you’re really mulling something over.”
I am.
I swallow and he leans closer. “Why don’t you share it with the class?”
My eyes stay zeroed in on his lips. A bullet train could be hurtling straight for me, blaring its loud horn, and I would not break eye contact with his mouth.
“Murder. Mutilation. Blood.”
“The truth, Audrey.”
Like a hypnotized psych patient, words tumble out of me before I even realize I’m saying them. “I’m curious about how you kiss. I wonder if you ever let your partner lead or if you’re a bossy asshole about it.”
If I’ve surprised him, he doesn’t show it. Always in control, this one. Unflappable and stoic. I so rarely have the upper hand with him that I can’t resist the opportunity when it presents itself.
Truthfully, I’ve never wondered what a kiss with Noah would be like until now. Why would I ever conceive of such a thing? My efforts have been focused elsewhere: researching loopholes to get him fired, concocting elaborate plans to get him deported from the country, wielding tiny weapons of psychological warfare that drive him insane. Example: loosening the knob on his classroom door. Boy, did he hate that. Phillips screwdriver: $7.07. The look on Noah’s face when he realized what I’d done: priceless.
Lindale administration would prefer we keep our hands and mouths to ourselves, but we’re in Rome and Noah’s no rat. When I slide my hands up his shirt and creep up onto my tippy toes, I know this moment will stay between us forever.
I slip one hand underneath the back of his shirt collar then gently run the other up into the hair at the base of his head, through his soft strands, hunting for something.
“You won’t find an ‘off’ switch.”
Normally I hate that he can read my mind, but right now, it’s hilarious that I’ve been outed.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” I say, cheeky and sweet.
His eyebrows furrow; he’s curious and intrigued. I have him on the edge of his seat. If I pulled away right now, he’d be oh so disappointed. This power feels delicious. I could go mad with it if I’m not careful.
