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“It’s on me.”
“I’m the only one who ate.” I point at my plate. “You lied to me, Noah. You weren’t even hungry, were you?”
“Iamhungry, Emily. But not for food.” His intense stare leaves no question about his meaning.
“Oh,” I whisper, my mouth gone instantly dry.
As he works on calculating the tip for our meal, I stare at him. At his handsome features. He must be in his early thirties; however, very few lines mar his face.
I recall my mother saying lines on your skin are like a map that tells you where someone had been. Crinkles around the eyes and mouth say a person has known joy. But if they’re on other parts of the face, parts that don’t normally pull when a person smiles, that means they’ve been through hell.
Noah doesn’t have lines around his eyes or mouth. His are between his brows and one long indent that forms on the side of his cheek when he’s deep in thought. Like now.
“Noah,” I say.
He signs the receipt and places his credit card back into his black leather wallet, then lifts his gaze to mine.
God, just when I think I’ve gotten used to the intensity of it, it hits me right in the gut, leaving me slightly breathless.
“Do you have anywhere to be for the next hour?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Wherever you are.”
I grin. “I want to show you something.”
10
EMILY
Five minutes later, we’re pulling up to my house. He insisted on driving us here, and I didn’t want to pass up the chance to ride in his black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera. I’m not a car guru by any means, but even I wanted to experience the luxury of this vehicle.
I skimmed my palm over the sleek lines of the exterior before sliding onto the buttery tan seat and purring. It was a short ride, but I enjoyed every minute of it. The roar of the engine. The smell of leather and Noah. The way his arm grazed against mine when I rested it on the console, the heat of his skin penetrating through the material of his shirt.
He doesn’t ask me how to get to my house, but I direct him anyway. I suppose that’s because, otherwise, I’d have to acknowledge what happened the night he saw me almost undress, and I’m not ready for that.
“Is your father home?” he asks when I slide the key into the front door lock.
“You wouldn’t be here if he was,” I reply.
He steps in after me, looking around as he takes it all in. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. It’s been home since I was eight years old.”
Moving farther into the small foyer, he peers into the living room, then across it into the study. “You collect firearms.”
I follow him to the large glass display filled with old guns. “My father does. He’s been an avid collector for as long as I can remember.”
His eyes go from one piece to another with unmistakable interest. “I thought he was into art.”
“I’m into art,” I say. “This is his thing.”
There’s a concealed keypad on the side of the display. I enter the six-digit code and it unlocks. Pulling open the double glass doors, I take out the Mauser P.38 pistol.
“Have you ever handled a gun?” I ask.
“A few times.”
I release the magazine and pull back on the slide to make sure it’s empty, then I hand it to him.
