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“No one deserves that kind of treatment.”
He gives me the last bite of his sandwich. A stillness settles over the table.
“You amazed me in Mexico,” he says, leaning back from his empty plate. “The way you were with the kids there, what you said in your devotional, the work you do at your school... You were so different from what I had led myself to believe.”
I amazed him? “But you were always glaring at me!”
Nowhewinces. “Not glaring. Staring, maybe.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe glaring at first,” he admits with a laugh. “I still had a hold on that grudge, and I was a little embarrassed at my outburst in the math lab. I couldn’t imagine what awful fate had doomed me to spend an entire week pretending we could get along. Besides,” he says, his gaze sweeping my face, “I was still attracted to you, and that annoyed me.”
“Still?”
His eyes narrow. I can see his wheels spinning, though I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Eventually, a smirk slips through the fog. “Maybe it’s a good thing I had that grudge to ground me, or I never would have been able to focus on helping you with your math.”
I chuckle. “So I owe my graduation to my own stupidity from four years ago.”
“I guess so,” he says. His smirk dims. “What if we hadn’t met until... later?”
The waitress approaches with our check, breaking the moment before I can tell him I’ve wondered the same thing.
“Cashier’s at the front,” she says, clearing the table with practiced efficiency and leaving us to battle it out over paying rights.
Noah slides out of his seat and holds out a hand—for the check, I think. It surprises him when I slip my hand into his instead.
“That’s almost worth letting you pay,” he says, helping me up and easing his hand to the small of my back.
“Either way, I’m paying,” I say, leaning into his hand, though I’m moving forward. “I still owe you a dinner.”
“Not keeping track, but if it makes you feel better...”
“It does.”
A group moves toward us, and his hand migrates to my waist as we make room for them to pass. He stays close at the register, leaning on an elbow and pulling a couple of wrapped candies from his pocket as I make small talk with the cashier.
“Want one?” he offers as we leave.
I pop it into my mouth.
Cinnamon.
Chapter 68
Under the Influence
Being with Grace was intoxicating.
For months—years, really—Noah had held himself well outside her personal space, smothering every fleeting impulse to lean closer, touch her arm, brush a curl off her face.
Now, having indulged just a little, he couldn’t get enough.
Following her out of the restaurant, he stretched out his arm to hold the door, seizing the opportunity to keep one hand on her waist. The supersoft material of her shirt begged for more attention, her curls grazing his cheek as she passed through the door. A whiff of what he used to associate with the math lab assaulted his self-control, begging him to bury his face in her hair for more.
Intoxicating.
“So where have you been?” she asked, space forcing itself between them as they moved beyond the exit.
