One Hot Summer - Page 117

It feels strange. Like he’s too big for my small, cozy house. It’s been just my mom and me here for a couple of years now, and I’ve almost never had Jonah over here. And even when I did, Jonah has always seemed like a boy. Noah is all man, and the last time a man was here, it was my father.

I shake off the uninvited wave of melancholy and grief, and gesture to the old sofa in the living room. “Do you want something to, like, drink?” I offer, playing hostess.

Jonah stifles a smile, like he doesn’t think this is the time or place despite himself, and declines. “Nah, Liza. I was just hoping we could talk a bit.”

Talk?

Okay. I can talk.

“Just give me a minute.” I gesture to my towel in explanation, and Noah’s eyes follow, his gaze darkening in a way that I feel travel down my spine, and lower.

He catches himself quickly though, coughing unconvincingly and averting his gaze like some kind of gentleman. It’s quite novel considering the last guy I dated.

You’re not dating Noah Reed! My mood-killer brain reminds me. And of course I’m not. He’s just stopped by to check that I’m okay after what he witnessed the other night. What he saved me from. He probably just pities me.

As much as that sentiment makes me want to prove that I can take care of myself, I realize it’s a moot point right now, and I’m still way too naked under this towel.

I hurry upstairs and throw on my favorite red bikini, pathetically trying to convince myself it isn’t for Noah. I throw on a worn pair of cutoff jean shorts and my Dad’s old NYU tank top—my favorite—over it, and forcibly refrain from checking myself in the mirror before heading back downstairs. Noah doesn’t care how I look. He probably just feels responsible for me or something—like I need him to protect me from Jonah. The thought is nearly nauseating.

Noah stands when I return, looking me up and down as if he’s pleased with the view. I hate the way my cheeks redden so blatantly. Such is the struggle of the natural red-head.

I dip my face, as if trying to hide from him, and I don’t understand why. I don’t hide from anyone.

Noah approaches me, and before I know what’s happening, his hand is on my cheek. I meet his gaze in near-shock, confused by the emotion in his own. I barely stifle my gasp.

“Liza...”

I swallow audibly, too stunned by our closeness, by our eye contact to compose myself.

But Noah has no trouble, and with one deep breath, he’s back to his cool, aloof affectation, and he takes a single deliberate step back. We’re still so close, though, and his mere proximity effects my senses in ways I’d rather not admit, even to myself.

But whether he tries to hide it or not, Noah appears to be grappling with something he hesitates to articulate, but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“Is everything okay?” I ask him, concerned.

Noah nods to himself, as if to work up some kind of unfathomable courage. He has no qualms about charging into a fight with Jonah, but, somehow, words are too much for him?

“I just...” he chews the inside of his cheek.

I frown. I sincerely can’t fathom the thoughts might be plaguing him behind that vehement look in his eyes.

“Have you spoken to him? Berry. Just tell me. Are you back together?”

My gasp flies from my lips before I can even process.

Seriously? For some reason, I find I’m deeply offended by the question, as if it were more of an accusation. And maybe it was.

But I have no real right to offense, I suppose. Noah barely knows me, not anymore, and he knows nothing about my and Jonah’s relationship. For all he knows, Jonah has been physically abusing me for God only knows how long. And he thinks I’m going to take him back.

Fat fucking chance.

“Are you crazy?” I spit, my indignation more ob

vious than I intend.

I take several steps back, desperate to extricate myself from Noah’s spell so I can at least form a coherent thought, let alone communicate it. I avert my gaze for that express purpose.

Noah grits his teeth, as if he’s struggling with a thought that affects him more than it has any right to, and secretly, just the idea that I can affect him at all—that he cares enough about me and my fucked-up life to give a shit—reaches deep into my chest and touches my heart in ways he can’t possibly comprehend.

Tags: Heidi McLaughlin Romance
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