“Ah . . . the booty shot,” Noah jokes, popping a hip and making me laugh. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be funny, and he’s not some outrageous clown sort or stupid dad joke type, but he’s quietly humorous in his own way. And that’s coming out more and more as he feels comfortable with me. I can see it actually happening before my eyes—the uptight, cocky asshole who maybe wasn’t as much of an asshole as I thought morphing into a sweet, caring, funny man who makes me smile.
We take the three and I take a moment to look them over. There’s one from the first series that I love. I can’t believe how handsome he is behind me, his hands around my waist and smiling.
Then again, I look good in his arms too. My smile’s megawatt, and I didn’t have to fake it at all. I look . . . happy. And not just Insta-happy, but really happy and looking forward to the night. Just the image of us together is powerful.
“Wow . . . they’re all keepers,” Noah offers. “You make me look good.”
He knows he’s gorgeous and photogenic, but he’s playing it off modestly. I play back the same way. “Definite keepers,” I say and then press a quick peck to the corner of his lips.
Noah looks into my eyes, a crooked smile on his lips. “You are something else, Sunshine,” he says reverently. But then he straightens his back, and his face goes serious. “We should go.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, afraid I did something wrong.
He’s pulling me toward the door, but he looks over his shoulder at my question. “If we don’t go, you’re gonna keep looking at me like that and saying things like that, and I’m going to take you down that hallway, and we’ll never get out of here for a date. I aim to woo you, Riley Watson.” He uses the word ‘woo’ like it’s an actual thing people say.
“Woo?”
“Yep, all part of my plan,” he explains, which isn’t really an explanation at all. But I guess with Noah, it sorta is.
A planner, detailed, loyal, a hard worker—all things that make him who he is, and I can’t wait to get to know it all.
We go to the door, Noah helping steady me while I slide my tall pink heels on. They match the pink flowers on my yellow dress, but I’d still prefer my Docs and socks. They just hadn’t seemed appropriate for a date. On a whim, I stop and click my heels together three times, and Noah pauses. “What was that for?”
“Guess I’m feeling a little bit like a mix of Dorothy and Cinderella,” I admit. “Click my heels together three times, and Prince Charming appears. Bam!”
Noah chuckles. “Just don’t run out at midnight or turn into a pumpkin.”
I pat my flat belly, “Then you’ll have to quit feeding me so much. Tacos, cheesecake, and I’m assuming we’re going to dinner because if not, I need to go back inside and grab a snack.”
“All part of my plan,” he says dramatically.
Outside, he shows me to our ride, a small SUV. “Before chatting, I would have taken you for a sportscar type. Something that goes fast, rides hard, and tears up the asphalt in strips fifty yards long. But not a family SUV type.”
“It was necessary at the time,” Noah says with a small shrug. “And you’re not totally wrong. There’s a part of me that wants to have some muscle machine that passes low-flying aircraft if it wants to and growls when you punch the accelerator. But this works well. I got it at a good price, it’s a hybrid, and it has the best reviews in its class.”
Noah goes over to the passenger door and opens it for me like a gentleman. I get in, looking up at him as he gives me a smile and closes the door. As he goes around, I take in the interior, impressed with the deep gray and black leather interior. I run my hand over the dash, whistling at the buttery soft feeling. I’ve never cared much about cars, but I know my VW bug reflects who I am and the message I want to send, and I suspect that Noah’s vehicle is the same.
I look over and see that he’s smiling a bit uncertainly. I haven’t seen that look before. I was so used to seeing the cockiness, the utter confidence. This is a different Noah, the Noah I met over chat . . . the Noah I like. The real Noah.
I reach over and give his hand a squeeze. “Makes perfect sense. Sounds like you made a well-thought-out decision.”
Noah frowns lightly, and I tilt my head. “What?”
“Well, I thought I had until this moment. The middle console,” Noah says with an irritated sigh. “I’m not saying I planned to stare at your legs while driving, but . . . well, I can barely see a thing over there.”
“A thing, huh?” I tease, provocatively sliding my hand down my chest and into my lap. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Noah growls but laughs after a second. “You won’t need that, Miss Watson. Trust me.” He takes my hand, holding it on the accursed center console.
Noah pulls out, and as he heads toward the end of the street, I have to smile. I know from Arielle that there was a time the Danielses didn’t have the means to buy something like this. And with Noah’s story about his mom going back to school, I know they struggled for a lot of years while she worked to provide them with a better life.
“Your mom must be proud of you,” I say quietly, knowing this has the potential to be tricky territory.
He’s come a long way from the cocky guy who covered up his lack of funds with a lot of bravado back in the day. Maybe that’s where some of that cockiness came from . . . a shield to protect himself from the cruelty of others and their assumptions.
“She is. Did you know she’s a manager at work now? Runs the whole coding and billing department.” He virtually beams as he talks about his mother’s success.
“What about your dad? Arielle always just said that you were more of a father to her than her sperm donor.” It’s as kind a quote as I can offer. Arielle has said some harsh things about her dad over the years.
“Me?” Noah says, looking surprised. But he doesn’t question it further. It seems more like he puts it away in his mental filing cabinet to take out and analyze later. With a shrug, he offers, “He left when I was a kid. I don’t even know how much Arielle remembers. We never talk about it, you know?”
I don’t know. My parents are still married decades after their vows, but I nod anyway.
Noah pauses, and at the next intersection he takes a right. We steer away from the interstate, and I wonder where he’s taking us. “My father walked out on us,” Noah says quietly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “I was nine, and Arielle was six. After Arielle’s birth, the stress was bad. He and Mom would fight, usually over money because there was never enough. They tried to keep it away from us, so I don’t know all the details. But one Sunday, I woke up and he was gone. Other than an occasional child support check, we haven’t heard from him since. Honestly, I’m glad. Even if he was a part of what made me snap at you back then.”
“What do you mean?”
Noah makes another turn and accelerates a little. “Arielle had just turned eighteen, and we knew the rare child support payments would stop. They weren’t much and never frequent enough to count on, but they helped. So I knew Mom was losing that help, even though Arielle was still in high school, still living at home, and with dreams of college. It had me pissed. It wasn’t the whole reason I snapped, but it was part of it.”