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“Sure.” I stand up and smile for the selfie he takes, and with another quick handshake I say my goodbyes and head out before anyone else can recognize me, feeling a little disheartened that because of my celebrity, answering the question of whether I’m attracted to anyone beyond Tripp is going to be much harder than I anticipated.
Chapter eight
Tripp
I’m nervous.
That’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, especially considering I’m about to walk into my own house. But for the first time since moving in, that house isn’t going to be empty when I get inside, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
On the one hand, last night was hot as fuck, and I want to do it again. And again. And many more agains, after that. On the other, I’ve never had anyone stay the night. Ever. Not once. So, I’m not sure what to expect. Complicating things even more, Noah isn’t exactly experienced in the hookup department, much less the hooking up with men department, so I don’t know whether he’ll be freaked out, casually curious, or clingy.
Considering I’m pretty certain he said ‘thank you’ last night, my money’s on clingy, but I hope I’m wrong. I wouldn’t mind getting carnal with the big guy since he really gives my junk a hard on, but emotions are not my jam. If he goes fatal attraction on me, I wouldn't just lose him, I could lose Xander, as well.
I might’ve pushed the boundaries of our budding friend group last night, and Xander won’t hesitate to castrate me for it if it backfires. He’ll claim I should’ve known better—which I did—as if he doesn’t know I’m unlikely to stop chasing a dick I want.
Usually, I have no shame in the pursuit of a good fuck, but I also don’t usually pursue acquaintances, or people I genuinely like. Noah just does things to me I can’t seem to ignore. I should make sure he’s on the same page though.
Shoving all the ‘what-ifs’ from my mind, I push through the door with my trademark coy smile, only to have it turn into a gasp when I’m hit with the most divine aroma I’ve ever experienced inside my little sin bin. Hockey terminology is so appropriately filthy.
I round the corner into the kitchen and find Noah bent at the waist—showcasing a deliciously round ass—and pulling some sort of pan out of the oven. “What kind of foreplay is this?”
“Foreplay?” Noah arches a curious brow as he sets the dish on the stove.
“You know, stuff that makes your dick hard.” I point to the steaming plate. “What is it?”
“Tourtéire,” he says with a little French flare. “Beef inside a pastry crust.”
“I didn’t know pot pie was such an aphrodisiac.”
“Not pot pie. Tourtéire,” he clarifies as if I didn’t just try to make things inappropriate. Our normal dynamic still applies. That’s a good sign.
“Which restaurant delivers these? If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m gonna have to put it on my favorites list.”
“I didn’t order this. I made it.” He helps himself to the cupboard and pulls out two plates that have probably never held actual food, only takeout containers.
“With what? I don’t have any groceries here.”
“You do now.” He pulls a knife from the drawer and starts slicing the pie while I open the fridge to find that I do, in fact, have food. A lot of it. Fruit and vegetables and eggs, stuff I don’t eat unless I order it.
“So, this is like a frozen thing? Where’s the box? I’ll take a picture, so I know what to get.”
“No box, I made this from scratch.” He scoops a slice onto a plate and hands it to me.
“For real?” I twist and turn the plate, inspecting it from all angles. It looks just like a heaping slice of apple pie, only with ground beef instead of apples, but with the same golden flaky crust you’d expect in a dessert. “You can cook?”
“Sometimes. When I’m bored, or...” He lifts a casual shoulder then dishes a piece for himself.
“Hmm.” I close my lips around a forkful of pie, and an explosion of savory flavor hits my tongue. The meat is so tender it practically melts right along with the flaky crust, and I swear my eyes roll back in my head a little as the cinnamon-sweet aftertaste floods my senses. “Holy shit, that’s incredible.” I rush to take another bite. “How’d you get it to rise like an actual pie? I always thought those were hard to make at altitude.”
Noah cocks his head to the side as I take another bite, realizing too late the blunder I just made.
“I didn’t expect a guy who keeps literally no food in his house to know anything about baking.”
“Late night TV,” I say around a mouthful, figuring that’s enough of an explanation to keep him from asking anything more.
“Which show?”
Dammit.
