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I open his drawers and peer inside. Boxers, socks, white T-shirts and tank tops, shorts, sweatpants. A black baseball cap hangs from the corner of one drawer. Like the rest of his flat, his drawers are pretty tidy. I pick up his spray—no brand, just a standard aftershave with a neutral name, Deep Ice—and spritz the air with it.
It smells like Noah.
I spray my wrist, mixing his scent with my trademark Chanel N°5, and perch myself gingerly on the edge of his bed. The mattress is firm. I brush my hand over the rumpled duvet. It’s soft and cool. I lie back on the bed, and then I roll over, burying my face in the duvet. It smells like detergent and Noah’s spray.
I would never have guessed someone so poor, who works so hard, could smell this good.
Face still buried in the blanket, I close my eyes. What would it be like to sleep in his bed? I’ve never really slept in a boy’s bed before. I’ve slept in hotel rooms—some of the most luxurious hotel rooms in the world—and I snuck into Luca’s dorm room once, briefly.
But this isn’t some hotel or dorm bed. This is arealbed—a real person’srealbed. Noah sleeps in it every night. He dreams in it, and maybe—probably—even touches himself.
I squeeze my thighs together. This train of thought is turning me on more than it should. I toy with the idea of taking off my clothes and waiting naked on Noah’s bed just to see what he’ll do. But I must have used up all my courage just getting here—I have none left.
With a sigh, I stand and continue snooping. The bedside table gives me a couple of old paperbacks (a mystery, an autobiography by some MMA fighter), a broken watch, some packets of chewing gum and a gumshield in a little plastic case.
Despite Cammie’s fears about Noah turning out to be a secret serial killer, it’s pretty obvious Noah has nothing to hide. He didn’t lie about boxing. The evidence is everywhere: old boxing gloves, rolled-up wraps, training gear and coiled jump ropes. He seems pretty tidy, his clothes are plain and unbranded. It’s easy to tell how little money he has just from the quality of the stuff he owns and the size of his tiny flat, but he’s not living in complete squalor either.
My stomach squirms uncomfortably, and I have a sudden sinking feeling. I came here to seduce Noah because it’s going to drive my father crazy to know I’m having sex with some broke, trashy guy. But Noah isn’t just a broke, trashy guy. He’s just a normal person, working hard and living his life.
So what does that make me? The shallow rich girl who judged him and came here just to use him? The spoilt, petty princess who’s taking advantage of the honest working-class hero?
I’ve always thought of myself as the heroine of the story, but right now, I don’t feel like that at all. Right now, I just feel like the villain.
Chapter 8
Sob Story
BythetimeNoahemerges from his shower, I’m sitting in his living room (if you can call it that), debating what to do.
Part of me wants to leave before I do anything I’ll regret. Part of me feels guilty for being here at all. Part of me wants to carry on with the plan because I know it’ll succeed. And part of me just wants to stay out of pure, carnal curiosity.
Noah comes into the living room wearing grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His T-shirt is baggy, but not enough to hide the thick muscles in his arms and chest. His hair is still wet, his skin is clear and shiny, and a towel is draped around his neck. There’s a new bruise on his face I didn’t notice earlier, a little smear of bright purple near his left eye, and a scratch near his jaw.
He looks quite hot. Well—I guess I’m staying now.
Oblivious to the effect his appearance has on me, Noah ambles to the kitchen and calls out to me, “Tea or coffee?”
I stand from the couch and go to him, propping my elbows on the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room. “Do you have wine?”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I don’t really drink.”
My mouth drops open. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, no. I’ll have a beer every once in a while with mates, and I’ll drink at my mum’s wedding this summer, but after that, I’ll be training to compete.”
“Oh.” I’ve never met anyone this young who didn’t drink. Even Sophie Sutton drinks, for God’s sake. I stare at him. “You’re not allowed to drink while you train?”
“It’s not good for you,” he says. “Messes with your weight, too. So tea or coffee? I have orange juice if you want.”
“Orange juice?” I raise an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m not a five-year-old.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Alright. No orange juice.”
I gesture at him. “Coffee will do.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
Noah doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’ll have almond milk in his fridge, so I shake my head. “Just sugar, please.”
