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“Great, and Noah, thanks for, uh, rescuing me last night. Thanks for everything.”
“You don’t have to keep thankin’ me,” he said with a dimpled grin that made her heart flutter. “We all find ourselves in trouble now and then. I’m glad I was around to lend a hand.”
As he strode out the door and closed it behind him, she let out a heavy sigh.
What she’d said was true.
He had rescued her.
There was no way she could have returned to the mausoleum her father called a home, not after the terrible fight she’d had with The Bitch From Hell.
“How much did I tell you, Noah?” she mumbled under her breath. “I wish I could remember.”
Hoping their conversation would come back to her, she finished the rich coffee, then headed into the bathroom for a much needed shower.
Ten minutes later, though she didn’t feel a hundred percent, she looked halfway decent. Her cosmetic pouch was in her bag, and she’d applied foundation, a touch of mascara and lip gloss, then combed out her long, wet hair.
She just wished she had a change of clothes.
Quickly dressing, but not wanting to put on her high-heels, she left the bedroom and padded down the hall. Her bare feet were silent on the hardwood floor, and as she entered the kitchen she found Noah standing at the stove with his back to her. She was admiring his wide shoulders and physique when the little terrier barked a welcome and trotted up to welcome her.
“Hello,” she said softly, crouching down and petting him.
As he began licking her face, she felt Noah’s eyes on her and glanced up at him.
“Sherlock doesn’t kiss just anyone. You’re special,” he remarked, shooting her his dimpled grin.
“Neither do I,” she replied, holding his gaze, “and so is he.”
He didn’t look away, and for a magical moment she felt that rare, undefinable thing.
The spark.
The connection.
Noah wasn’t just another good-looking guy.
CHAPTER FIVE
The look.
It hit Noah like an invisible lightening bolt.
One minute Eleanor Mitchell was just a cute girl who had downed one too many and needed a refuge for the night. Now, suddenly, she was…what?
This was unfamiliar territory.
Almost transfixed, he watched her kiss Sherlock on the head, then straighten up and move to the kitchen table.
“Whatever you’re making smells great,” she remarked as she sat down. “I’m a hopeless cook.”
Darting his eyes back to the pan, he saw his bacon was about to burn. Hastily lifting it out with tongs, he placed it on waiting paper towels, then plated the fried eggs.
“I’m not much good around a kitchen, but can I help?” she offered.
“There’s orange juice in the fridge if you want any. I’ll be stickin’ to coffee.”
“Thanks, but so will I,” she replied as he moved the bacon onto the plates. “I need the caffeine. I’m still not feeling great.”
