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It’s probably almost loud enough to drown out my thoughts and doubts. He’s known here. The woman behind the bar—Jesus, I thought I had big breasts—winks at him and now the jealousy is unmistakable. I go to pull my hand free, but his fingers squeeze mine. He looks down at me and, for a millisecond, it’s like no one else exists. There is just the throb of heat between us, a bright, burning, existentialist need that I will have to face or conquer—and soon.
‘Hungry?’ It’s so loud that he has to lean down and whisper into my ear. Just the feel of his breath on my skin spreads goosebumps across me. My tummy drops as though I’ve just crested over the high point of a roller coaster—I’m in freefall.
I nod, just a jerk of my head. It’s all I’m capable of.
‘What do you want?’ His lips twitch, like he knows what I really want. And of course he does. He’s forced me to admit that—to him, and myself.
‘Whatever.’ I shrug. It’s definitely not my usual style. I’m more of an Italian-at-six kind of diner.
He grins and weaves through the people until we reach the bar, where he’s immediately served by she-of-the-big-breasts-and-low-cut-top. He speaks quietly to her too, so I don’t hear what he orders, and I think my tummy is too twisted into knots to manage food anyway.
His eyes pierce me then and he jerks his head to his left. I follow the direction of the gesture and see only more people. But Noah leads me that way, his fingers still tight on mine, guiding me through the throng of revellers and, behind them, to a table in the back. It’s a high table with two stools.
‘Something you reserved?’ I ask as we sit down.
It’s so loud I have to raise my voice and I’m still not sure he hears. That suspicion is confirmed a minute later when he shakes his head and then stands, coming to my side and propping his elbow on the table. Once again, I have the sense that I’m imprisoned by him, by his big body and strong a
rms. And I realise how much I like that feeling.
It is a dangerous impulse—remember? I like bad boys. And the sense of being protected is almost always a lie. Men like Noah break your heart. Men like Aaron nearly kill you. The only protection comes from within. I am my own strength now.
‘You come here often?’ I say instead, wishing I had a drink to swallow the sudden dryness in my throat. As if my thoughts could convert to deed, a waitress—not Big Breasts, someone else—saunters over and places an ice bucket with champagne in the middle of the table. Two glasses are hooked into it, but she also has a pint of beer. She pushes it towards Noah with yet another wink—is that how they communicate here?—then swishes her hips as she walks away.
I’m way happier than I should be when his eyes stay trained on my face instead of following her curvaceous departure.
He’s staring at me, in fact, and the longer his eyes roam my face, the faster my pulse throbs in my body, the hotter my blood becomes. I don’t look away; nor does he. When I swallow, in an attempt to bring moisture to my desert-dry mouth, his eyes drop—briefly—to my throat, and then my lips. My stomach twists.
‘Do I have something on my face?’ I arch a brow, trying to sound a little sarcastic when I desperately don’t want him to stop looking at me.
But I should have known better than to stir Noah Moore. He reaches for my chin, gripping me lightly between his thumb and forefinger, holding me for examination. Holding me under the beam of his gaze, staring at me in a way that makes my skin goose all over. Staring at me like I am the only person in the room—no, the world. He moves closer, within the triangle of my legs. Our body heat is volcanic.
‘Nah. Your face is pretty perfect.’
Pleasure pumps my heart.
He grins and drops his hand from my face—the absence of contact sears me—turning to lift the champagne flutes and bottle from the ice bucket. He pops the cork with ease, like a man who’s done so often, and fills only one of the glasses before sliding it across the table to me.
In university, I used to drink vodka, lime and soda. And more than I should have. Now I don’t drink often, and almost only drink champagne. Noah’s chosen my favourite bottle. I lift the glass to my lips, savouring the first hint of bubbles as they pop against my flesh and breathing in its crisp, fruit-driven aroma.
He watches me with that intense way he has, as I take a sip and swallow, and heat is simmering through me. He’s so close, just an inch or so from my knees. Doubts are somewhere deep in the back of my mind, but I cannot grasp them now. I don’t want to grasp them. Instead, I smile at him and he smiles back. A slow, considered smile that makes me ache to know everything about him.
He draws a sip of his beer and then places his glass on the table, right beside my champagne flute. His hand drops to my knee. It’s a casual touch, but it’s possessive too, like he’s staking his claim, and I like it. Oh, I like it so much.
‘So, you have a daughter,’ he prompts, his Australian accent sounding thicker here.
I nod, and my lips twist with a smile as I think of Ivy.
‘How old?’
‘She’s four and a half. She’d want me to say the half—it’s very important to her. She’s already planning her fifth birthday extravaganza.’ I’m babbling. His fingers have crept higher, to my hip, which brings his body right back to mine, so close.
‘She looks a lot like you.’
‘I know.’
‘Who’s the father?’
The question is surprising, and not. I mean, it’s a natural thing to wonder about, isn’t it? If I weren’t wildly attracted to him, would it strike me as a strange thing to ask? Would I be hesitating like this?
