“My apartment is an eighteen-plus attraction,” he sneers. “I would obviously put it away if kids were stopping by. You want one?”
“Yea!” My eyes light up and it makes him laugh. “What other edible stuff do you have here?”
“Girlfriend, I’ve got it all. You name it, I have it,” he rasps. “Cookies, muffins, butter, oils… fuckin pasta sauce. Whatever.”
So Noah Richards is a pothead? Why am I not surprised?
“What about brownies?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“I don’t have any made right now, but we could always bake some.”
“Oh my God! Yes! We should totally do that!” I squeal, jumping up and down.
Noah chuckles, watching me in amusement. “You want to bake pot brownies?”
“Only hell yes! Come on, Noah! It’ll be so fun!”
“Alright, you’re the boss,” he shrugs.
I’m jittering with excitement. I’ll be combining all my favorite things. Sweets, Noah and getting high.
We head back into the kitchen and Noah begins pulling things out of cabinets and cupboards. Then he slips an apron over his head, tying it behind his back. It has a rooster on it, and it says Kiss The Cock. I laugh and poke him in the rooster. He swats my hand away, giving me an evil smirk that has me clenching my thighs together.
Noah wearing that apron over his beautiful bare chest will be haunting my dreams for a while, I’m sure of it.
We float around his kitchen, making a mess while we cook, and I really love how well we seem to get along. The teasing flirtations are quite possibly my favorite part of our entire friendship. He’s a touchy feely kind of guy, and I can’t get enough because it’s not something I ever experience at home.
When Roger touches me, it’s calculated; alarming. And then there are the times when it’s painful and bruising…
But when Noah touches me, it’s soft and playful; sometimes even hesitant. As if he wants it really bad, but fears crossing some line that will upset me. I wish he knew that I’ve been craving his touch every day since we met… But then he can’t know that.
Once the brownie batter is all mixed together, Noah opens the jar of oil and takes out a measuring spoon.
“How much do we add?” I ask, peering over his shoulder while he works. He looks like part sexy chef, part mad scientist. I’m getting some Breaking Bad vibes, for real.
“Not too much,” he adds a few spoons of the oil to our brownie mixture. “I don’t want you going all Fear and Loathing on me.”
He gives me a side-wink and I bite my lip like an instinct.
“Hey, that’s a great movie. We should watch it later.”
“I can’t watch that movie when I’m high. It gives me anxiety.” He chuckles nervously and I cackle.
We stir in the good stuff, then pour the batter into a pan, placing it immediately into the oven.
“Would you like some wine while we wait for our creation?” Noah asks.
I nod. “Sure. Red would be nice.”
“Coming right up.”
He pours us each a glass while I stand in his giant, fancy kitchen, reveling in how at home I feel here. My kitchen is nice, and equally big, but it feels like it was set up for someone else. To be honest, the whole place does.
I’ve always felt like a guest in my own home, which is an uncomfortable way to live. The fact that everything is so neat and clean just makes me nervous that I’ll mess it up.
But Noah’s place is nice and homey without feeling like you’re in a display of some kind. You’re allowed to dirty up the kitchen while cooking brownies and it doesn’t make a lick of difference.
Noah hands me a glass of wine and we clink like we always do, then take our sips, eyeing each other over the rims of our glasses. It’s interesting, the eye contact. As if we’re both trying to read the other’s mind at the same time.
“So…” I speak softly, wondering what happens now.
“So,” his deep voice grumbles in my direction.
There’s some serious heat in the air, and I don’t think it’s the oven. Need a distraction.
“Can we go out on the terrace while we wait?” I ask him, requiring fresh air soon, before I spontaneously combust.
He nods slowly and walks away, leaving me following behind him like a puppy. He whips the stupid apron off and tosses it somewhere, going for the big glass door to his terrace, which could easily be mistaken for a window. We step outside into the cool night air, which feels nice on my heated skin.
We both take a seat in adjacent chairs, and I admire the view of this intricate, private little spot. There are even more plants out here. Potted trees, flowers, all kinds of vegetation. It feels like we’re in a jungle.
“Do you take care of all these?” I ask, looking around.
“Nah, I wish I was that good,” he chuckles. “I have two cleaning ladies, one of whom does the plants.”
“They’re really pretty,” I tell him and he smiles.
We both go quiet again for a moment, just watching each other, enjoying one another’s company without having to fill the silence with words. It’s nice; peaceful. I can’t remember a time when I was this at ease.
“Thanks for coming over, Al,” he finally breaks the silence with a soft voice. “I like having you here.”
“I like it here,” I respond, then take another sip of my delicious wine. “Your place is great. The perfect home. It really fits you.”
He says nothing, just continues to stare at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking one bit, and I’m not sure if it makes me nervous or enlivened. Maybe both.
Noah glances down at a watch on his wrist I didn’t notice until right now. “Time to get those brownies out. You can stay here if you want.”
He gets up and meanders back inside while I take his advice and stay seated. I look around some more, fascinated that I’m still in the city. This little terrace is so secluded, you can barely hear the noise, although it’s still there. The city noises are always there, and it’s oddly comforting.
I grew up here, in Brooklyn. The city is a part of me. I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel, and I definitely want to see a lot more places in my lifetime. But I’ll always come back to New York.
The concrete jungle is my home.
A few minutes later, Noah comes traipsing back outside with a plate in his hand. He sets it down on the table and there’s actual steam billowing off the brownies. They smell so good, my mouth is filling with saliva.
“Dig in, lovely,” he nods at the plate and I squeal with excitement that makes him laugh.
I grab one of the warm, gooey confections and take a bite, instantly launching into a moan because it’s like chocolate heaven in my mouth.
“God, these are good,” I drawl in between scarfing the thing down like a beast.
“Right?” Noah agrees with a mouthful of brownie. “You didn’t see my secret ingredient.”
“Uh yes I did,” I scoff. “Weed oil, remember? I was standing right there. Are you already high?”
He huffs a chuckle and shakes his head. “No, silly ass. I added butterscotch chips. See?”
He holds up his half-eaten brownie and points at the blondish chunks scattered inside.