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“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop making it awkward. This is fine. It’s us.”
She met his gaze. His expression was serious. Steady.
Comforting.
“You’re right. It’s us.”
He smiled at that and grabbed a suitcase in each hand. “Stay there as long as you like. I’ll put these in your room.”
That triggered something in her mind, and she frowned. “My room?”
He stopped and turned, the luggage dangling by his sides. “Yeah. I figured you’d take the guest room...?”
She nodded. “Oh, okay. That’s fine.”
He didn’t move. “Were you thinking of being in my room?” His voice sounded a little rough when he added, “With me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just thought... Graham comes over sometimes. What if your parents stopped by? Would they see all my stuff in another room and wonder what was going on?”
One corner of Noah’s lip disappeared between his teeth. “I didn’t think about that. We’ll already be sharing the bathroom and I just assumed you’d want your own space.”
“I do. But I’m also afraid someone will figure this all out, and we’ll find ourselves in a mess. I can barely pay my medical bills—I definitely can’t pay fines. Or your salary if you get fired. I just want to be careful, I guess.”
He nodded. “How about we put your stuff in my room, but you can sleep in the guest room?”
She thought about that for a moment. “Okay, yeah. That works. I mean...if you have space in your closet.”
His gaze passed over her, and he started down the hallway again. “Don’t worry. I’ve got room for you, Mia.”
6
Noah was eighteen when he realized he was in love with Mia. They, along with a group of friends, had bought tickets to a concert of a popular rock group. It wasn’t until they arrived at the venue that she pulled him to the side, pointing to a different entrance than where their friends were headed.
“Our seats are over here.”
He’d hesitated, not because he wouldn’t follow her anywhere, but just because he was confused.
“They wanted to be on the floor,” she’d explained. “It’s not our scene. Everyone will be wasted and it will be crowded and loud. We won’t be able to enjoy the show.”
He’d havehatedto be stuck on his feet in the middle of a pulsing crowd for three hours. It would have embarrassed him if she’d bought separate seats just out of consideration for him, like he was the killjoy who didn’t like to have fun, but she’d done it because she didn’t want to be down there, either. She loved music, loved the band, and she had stood in their front-row seats in the bleachers, swaying and singing along with the most beautiful, content smile on her face.
It had been perfect for both of them, and he’d realized if he could choose just one person to experience these moments with—a concert, a school dance, or even just hanging out on a Friday night—it was her.
His affection for her had only deepened with time. And today, he’d married her.
What have I done?
He lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling, wishing back everything he’d said to her over the last week and a half.
He wanted to help her, sure. He’d cut off his right arm if he thought it might make her happy. Not the left, though. He glanced down to his left forearm and the outline of the dark tattoo there.
Most days he would have said her happiness came before any hesitations he might have. But that was before he saw her KitchenAid mixer on the counter next to the refrigerator. Before her dresses and silky shirts hung in his closet beside his starched oxfords. Before he glimpsed her in a tank top and shorts as she padded down the hall to the guest room.
They’d snuck into her parent’s hot tub all the time as kids. He’d seen her in a swimsuit a million times, for fuck’s sake. She was more than covered up in what she was wearing, but he’d nearly tripped over his feet when he caught sight of her tan legs as she walked past his doorway, her forever-long midnight hair trailing down her back like a waterfall.
