“Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”
Believe it or not, his tone is soft and inquisitive; curious and welcoming. He’s not accusatory or butt-hurt over having wasted his night on a girl who’s not putting out. It’s unexpected, but I’m beginning to think he actually is a good guy, despite his penchants for sleeping around.
I use my chewing as an opportunity to stall while I think of how to respond. I know the answer in my head, but I don’t think it’s something I can say to him right now. Or ever.
I took my ring off years ago, because I couldn’t stand the constant reminder of what a joke my entire marriage is. And I only put it back on when he’s around, as a preventative measure.
I finally swallow and tug my lower lip between my teeth. It’s the only thing that seems to break his unwavering gaze long enough for his dark eyes to drop to my mouth. I squirm in my seat. I bet he’s a great kisser…
“I lost it,” the words jump out of my mouth, then I return to chewing on my lip. I don’t like lying to him for some reason. His presence is like a truth serum. I just want to open up to him, but I can’t.
He stares at me still, dark brows stitched together in skepticism and concern. I think he knows I’m lying and again, I’m not sure how, but I’m guessing his manners won’t allow him to grill me any further.
“Your husband must have been mad,” he grumbles, and one of the brows lifts. “Does he have insurance on it?”
I shrug because I physically can’t say anything. I have no words. The sounds of Kings of Leon Sex On Fire playing over the speakers is enough for right now.
My silence must give him a hint that I don’t want to talk about this, because he graciously changes the subject.
“When did you start painting?”
I release a shaky breath and smile softly, thankful for the out he’s given me. And I launch into a story about my fifth grade art class, when my teacher, Mrs. Henley, told me I had some real talent. It was the first compliment I’d ever gotten on my art, and it lit a fire inside me. After that, I knew I had an artistic gift, and it was my responsibility to utilize it.
“Being creative is like growing a plant,” I tell him. “You have to care for it constantly. Water it, give it sunlight… Be constantly working at it. You can’t just sit back and expect it to grow on its own. It takes patience and dedication. A lot of people think that if they have talent, things will just come to them, but it’s the opposite. You have to make it happen. I’m sure you know all about this…”
Noah smiles, his eyes rounded and bold. “No, I just get stuff.” I laugh at his teasing and roll my eyes, to which he leans back and says, “You’re pretty smart, huh?”
An awkward giggle slips out as I shrug through my humility. “You should tell my parents that. They think I’m an idiot because I never went to college.”
“Fuck college,” he scoffs. “I didn’t go either. It’s not for everyone. I never understood this whole American dream concept of putting yourself in suffocating debt just to have a college degree. Sure maybe if you want to be a doctor or a lawyer. But for people like us, it’s a waste of time.”
I grin at him, nodding along. He’s just voiced my exact feelings toward secondary education. My parents never got it, and I know it’s because their small minds can’t accept that there’s more to life than money, worthless degrees and boring jobs. You’d think they would understand, being that neither of them went to college. But they think that was the reason for their lack of success, when really it’s the opposite. They have no motivation.
Having a degree won’t change your life if you don’t hunger for something more.
Our plates are empty, and our bellies full by the time I check the clock on the wall. It’s two in the morning. I’m not worried, since Roger’s out of town on business until tomorrow. Still my stomach turns at the thought of him being home unexpectedly when I get there. My muscles instinctively stiffen.
Noah catches me checking the time and rests his elbows on the table.
“Can I have your number?” He asks, giving me a look that I can now say with certainty is exclusive to him. It’s like these cute puppy dog eyes mixed with a playful peer pressure. I bet he was the guy in high school who got everyone to go skinny dipping in the neighbor’s pool or break into the zoo after hours. “Strictly for friendly purposes, of course.”
I shoot him a scolding glare, but he’s so damn charming I find it hard to deny him of anything. It’s like I want to just do whatever he says, without a second thought. Damn, the look really does work.
I say nothing and simply hold out my hand for his phone, to which he laughs and forks it over instantly. No hiding or hold on while I delete all these naked pictures, which shocks me.
During the one-minute process of entering my number into his contact list, his phone buzzes eight-million times with incoming text messages, all of which are likely from girls he’s done this exact same thing to. Well, maybe not this exact thing. But definitely girls he’s bought drinks for, danced with, and requested phone numbers from.
Each buzz in my palm serves as a reminder to my gullible mind.
This. Is. A. Mistake.
Only difference here is that I’m not going home with him tonight. Because I’m married. And he’s a famous actor who doesn’t chase. It’s not happening.
As soon as I’m done, I hand his phone back.
He stuffs it into his pocket and grins at me. “Did you give me a fake number?”
“No. Aren’t you going to answer all those texts?” I raise my brow.
“No. Standard etiquette is to call yourself from my phone so you’ll have my number in return. Thus confirming that the number is legit.”
“I’m still not even sure why you’d want my number in the first place…” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck.
“We had fun tonight, right?” He asks casually.
“Yes…” More fun than I’ve had in years…
“Then why wouldn’t we want to do it again?” He’s so nonchalant, it’s equal parts refreshing and infuriating.
I squint at him. “Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because you’re you,” I huff. “You’re Noah Richards.”
“And you’re Alex Mackenzie. What’s your point?”
I laugh softly to myself, shaking my head. Okay, you wanna play this game? Fine. Let’s pretend you’re going to call me, Noah Richards.
We’ll see what happens.
“Alright, fine. Whatever.” I sigh.
“I like your enthusiasm. It does wonders for my ego,” he smirks, and I can’t help but laugh. It just bursts out of me like a reflex.
Damn him and his charm and nice hair and strong tattooed body.
Noah pays for the food and we leave the diner. This time there’s no big SUV waiting for us at the curb, because we walked here from Sensay. Apparently, Noah lives a couple blocks away, further proof that this is definitely his pick-up game routine.
I still feel slightly guilty for getting his hopes up. I don’t like stringing people along… But the night is still young. He could easily go back to the club and find a girl to bring home tonight. Or just respond to one of his thousand text messages, most of which are probably booty calls anyway.