His apartment looks the same but cleaner. I turn around, taking in the fresh smell of cotton and bleach. The floors are shiny, and the pillows have been plumped at a perfect 45-degree angle.
Something about this feels suspicious. "You knew I would say yes," I accuse. "That's why you cleaned."
I turn around in time to see a small, frail woman coming out of the kitchen with a mop and yellow gloves. She smiles at Noah, who returns her kind smile before reaching into his pocket for a tip.
"Thanks, Mrs. Hedge," he says. "I'll see you at the same time next week." As the door clicks behind her, Noah arches an eyebrow at me. "You can use the ensuite in my bedroom," he says before heading to the kitchen. "It's bigger."
I nod but make no effort to move. Instead, I exhale, watching Noah open the cupboards, the muscles in his forearms springing to life. "Just to be sure, this isn't your way of tricking me into a date, is it?"
He looks over his shoulder. Winks. "You haven't earned that privilege."
Rolling my eyes, I hurry down the hallway as he calls out third door on the left. I dip inside, closing the door behind me before taking in his bedroom. It's large and airy, with a four-poster bed and a set of old antique drawers. The pillows are propped, the bed draped in an expensive muted blanket that looks soft as silk, and everything is in its rightful place. Despite the cleaner, something tells me Noah's bedroom would look this way even without one.
With a deep breath, I head into the bathroom, marveling at the stone countertops as I strip and step into the rainfall shower. With a twist of the faucet, hot water pounds my skin instantly, creating a cloud of steam around me. I tilt my head back, relishing in the warmth before scanning the inbuilt shelves.
In typical Noah fashion, there are countless expensive shampoos and soaps to choose from. I take my time lathering up in a kind-to-skin fruity shower gel before washing my hair, shamelessly enjoying every second. I'm so used to having to dart back home still half-drenched in chlorine that a nice hot shower after swimming feels like heaven.
After sufficiently pampering myself, I dry off and change before glancing in the mirror, wincing at my bare, blotchy face. I hadn't thought to bring makeup, but then again, I hadn't planned on having dinner with Noah tonight.
Still, there's nothing I can do about it now. I run a quick hand through my hair and head into the kitchen, where Noah stands before a bubbling pot on the stove. The place smells delicious, a mix of herbs and spices that make my stomach grumble. I lean over his shoulder to catch a peek as he half turns to look at me, forcing our noses to brush.
I feel my cheeks burn as I forcefully step back. "What are you making?" I take in the bottle of red wine on the counter and suddenly grow alarmed that he's planning to get us drunk.
"Red Wine Bucatini with Pancetta and Parmesan." He says it so casually that it surprises me, making him laugh. "Don't get your hopes up – it's just a fancy way of saying pasta. Come here." He steps back a little, making room for me to stand in front of him.
Cautious, I move closer, stopping an inch away. Noah rolls his eyes before grabbing my waist, guiding me into the space before him. I flinch at the feel of his chest against my back, every inch of my body on edge. "What are you doing?"
Reaching around me, he grabs for a spoon. It sends a jolt of excitement through me. "Relax, Blue. I'm teaching you how to cook – strictly platonic."
If I felt nervous before, it's nothing compared to now. Noah stands behind me, his broad chest pressing against my back like solid iron. Every fiber in my body demands that I move, but I can't. "What's the first step?"
"First, we remove the pancetta," he says and proceeds to remove it with a slotted spoon, placing it on a paper towel to drain any excess. Next, he adds a tablespoon of butter, garlic, and pepper flakes to the pot.
The kitchen is filled with the aroma of garlic and herbs as we sauté ingredients in the pot. Noah reaches around me to grab a spice jar from the cabinet, and I can feel the strength in his arms as he leans closer. His fingers brush against mine as he hands me the jar, sending a shiver down my spine.
As we work, we move in sync, like a well-choreographed dance. He adds the diced tomatoes to the pot as I stir in the seasoning. We share a smile as we taste the sauce, adjusting the flavors to our liking.
"I don't know why, but I expected you to eat takeout every night," I say.
"With this body? You're crazy." He reaches for the wine bottle and pops the cork, his forearms tensing magnificently around me. I reach out to stop him when the bottle nears empty, but he bats me away and keeps pouring. "You'll hardly taste it," he says. "We cook it down until it has reduced by nearly half."
"Well, I never know with you."
He positions his mouth near my ear and says, "You think I'm trying to seduce you, Blue?"
I break out in shivers, forcing myself to remember all the reasons why kissing Noah would be bad. Very bad. "Even if you tried, it wouldn't work."
It's a lie if I ever told one. He turns me around until I'm facing him properly and looks down at me. "I promised I'd keep to myself," he says, his voice slightly strained, "but you make it difficult when you say things like that."
Hearing this shouldn't excite me, but it does. I fold my arms, determined to pretend otherwise. "If this is how you act around your friends, I can see why Natalia's confused."
He doesn't miss a beat. "It's different with you."
The heat in his eyes makes my breath quicken. I turn around, knowing that if I stay in this position, I'll do something I'll regret. "Where'd you learn this recipe, anyway?"
He leans in again. My breath flutters, a reminder of the things Noah does to my body, and that's without touching me. "Last year, when my dad remarried, I had this urge to escape, so I took a plane to Italy."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I can't imagine taking off to another country like that, especially one so far away. It would take me months to plan and even longer to go through with it, which I guess is the difference between us. "So, what did you do there?"
He shrugs. "Rode around on Vespas for a week, visited a great Aunt in Pomelo. Learned a new dish."
"Met some Italian girls."
He laughs a little, a low, warm sound that I feel against my neck. "None that could match up to you, Blue."
The hairs on my arms stand on edge. I know he's only flirting, but the tiniest part of me wishes it were true. "I used to travel a lot for meets," I say to control the conversation, "but never out of the country. I'd always think, I don't need to travel yet because when I make it to the Olympics, I'll be traveling all over the place."
My throat immediately thickens. For the most part, I've accepted that my swimming dreams are over, but every now and then, the thought of what could have been hits me out of nowhere, stealing my last breath.
Noah's hand slips over mine like a warm, cocooning blanket. I feel myself sink into him, able to feel his rough, steady breaths against my neck. His whole body tenses as he presses against me, every inch of him solid.
"Fuck, Blue," he says and turns me around.
We're standing so close that I can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. He leans toward me, placing his hands on the counter behind me, trapping me in his arms.
As his head lowers, I panic. "You promised."
His voice comes low and raspy in my face. "I know. I'm not going to kiss you." Instead, he tucks my hair behind my ear, letting it linger before brushing my lips with his thumb.
Shivers descend my spine in a sign that my body has betrayed me. I meet his gaze, waiting for common sense to kick in and dictate I push him back, but my hands stay rooted to the counter.
"I bet you taste sweet," he says, watching my mouth. His thumb moves lower until it's trailing my throat, warm and fleeting. I part my lips, so overtaken by the heat in my stomach that I'm ready to be stupidly reckless.
Just when I think his mouth will find mine, the water bubbles over. He closes his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched with frustration before he opens them again. Moving me behind him, he turns down the heat and mops up the excess water.
I step back, flustered, and use these few moments to get a hold of myself. You don't like Noah. You don't like Noah. You don't like Noah.
With a glance across his shoulder, Noah takes in my reddened face and sighs. He grabs the pasta and tosses it in the pot before beckoning me over. "See how the pasta soaks up the wine?"
I barely nod, still feeling hot and flustered. The way he flits in and out of saying dirty things is a like a shock to my system. "Yeah."
"All right," he says, "it's nearly ready. Why don't you sit at the table, and I'll serve it up?"
I nod and sit down, ignoring the shake in my legs. Being around Noah is like being on a rollercoaster, only I'm not sure I know how to get off.
When he's finished serving up, he sets down our plates and sits opposite. Eager to dig in, I take my first bite, acutely aware of him watching me. For a moment, I forget about everything and focus on the burst of flavor on my tongue.
"Impressed?" he asks.
"Please don't let this inflate your ego any further, but this is the best pasta I've ever had."
He laughs and winks. "Just wait 'til dessert."
"Noah."
His eyebrow arches; he knows where he's taken my mind to. "I meant ice cream," he says. "Unless..."
"Unless nothing. Can we have a civilized conversation?"
His eyes flash wickedly, but for the next ten minutes, he remains on his best behavior. We talk about trivial things, like what our favorite color is or how many meets we've lost, and I'll admit, it's nice seeing this side of him.
"All right," he says, wolfing down his pasta, "tell me your favorite piece of art. It can be anything."
Surprised by the question, I take a moment to think. "The cafe terrace painting by Van Gogh. I first saw it in my seventh-grade art class, and I remember thinking it was so beautiful that I wanted to go there someday, even if it didn't exist."
"It does," he says, a glint in his eye. "It's called Place du Forum in Arles."
I go to speak before stopping again. "Seriously, why do you know so much?"
He laughs and stabs his Pancetta. "I told you – I know a little about a lot."
I laugh, and for the tiniest moment, I find myself wondering what falling for Noah would be like. "What about you? What's your favorite piece of art?"
"It's actually a statue," he says, and his voice is so low and warm that I feel myself shiver. "Love and Psyche by Canova. You know it?"
The name doesn't ring a bell. I pull out my phone and type the name into the search bar, where a familiar statue pops up of what looks like two angels embracing. "Oh, I've seen it before," I say, putting my phone down. "I mean, not in real life, but I recognize it. I've always wondered what the story was behind it."
"It's a love story," Noah says, "between Cupid and Psyche." He leans forward, resting his arms next to mine. A shiver runs through me, starting in the place our arms touch and ending in my toes. "Psyche's beauty threatened to eclipse that of Venus, so the goddess sent Cupid to work her revenge, but Cupid falls for her instead."
I meet his gaze, lost in the gravel of his voice. Of all the sexual things he's said, it's this story that makes my skin hot. "What happened?"
"To protect his identity, he tells her not to look at him, but one night, she does, so he leaves." His eyes don't leave mine, bright and intense as they travel down my face, fleetingly resting on my lips. "While searching for him, she ends up as a slave for Venus, forced to go on quests. One of them was to get a vial from Hades that she was forbidden from opening, but Psyche couldn't resist and opened the bottle. After breathing in the vapors, she fell into a deadly sleep that only Cupid could break. The statue shows the moment he kissed her and brought her back to life."
The soft, gentle flutter of my heart stops me from speaking. Instead, I look at him, trailing the angled line of his jaw before moving to his lips. My heart throbs, and I realize I'm in trouble. "It's beautiful," I say and scoop up our dishes before heading to the sink.
"You don't have to do that," Noah says, walking behind me.
I refuse to look at him; if I look at him, I'll crumble. "You cooked, so I'll clean."
"Well, we have a dishwasher." He opens the cupboard next to me to reveal a hidden dishwasher and slots the plates inside. When he closes it again, he straightens up, moving in front of me. "All right," he says, "what's your poison? Strawberry? chocolate?" He throws me a look. "Don't tell me Pistachio."
"I'm strictly a vanilla kind of girl."
His eyes grow hooded as lowers his head, closing the hair's breadth of space between us. "Don't tell me that, Blue."
My throat closes; something tells me we're not discussing ice cream anymore. I lean further back as if I'm not already pressed against the counter, determined to put some space between us. "I'm not sure I have room for ice cream, and Jesse will be home soon–" I look at him finally, into those endless blue eyes, "–I should go."
The heat in his gaze leaves me breathless. He reaches for my hair, pushing it away from my neck. "One more minute, Blue."
My breath hitches. A lot can happen in under a minute, and none of it good. He leans closer, seconds away from breaking our agreement, and part of me wants him to. "Noah?" My voice is so frail that it comes out as a whisper, but I pray he hears me anyway. "Don't ruin it."
He suddenly freezes, his body wound tight like a spring about to pop. "All right," he says, standing back, "let's get you home, Blue." His eyes flit to mine, bright with frustration, but something about it excites me.
Something that shouldn't.
Taking my hand, he walks me to the elevator and stands between the doors, refusing to let them close. Leisurely, as if we have all the time in the world, he extends his arms above his head and firmly grips the archway, stretching his torso taut.
I let my gaze roam over him, aware of him watching me, but even when I've been caught red-handed, I don't look away. I can see the muscles in his biceps bulging, the veins pulsing with the effort of holding his weight, and for the briefest of seconds, I let myself imagine how he tastes.
Sin.
He tastes like sin.
The way he drags his gaze to my lips makes me shiver. I hold my breath, certain he's seconds from pushing me against the railing, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches over, a glint in his eye as he presses for the lobby.
"I'll see you at practice," he says and winks as the doors close shut.
My heart thrums all the way down to the lobby. I'm loathed to admit it – even to myself – but dinner tonight has shown me another side of Noah, one I think I could like.
As soon as the doors slide open, I step out, and in my half-dazed state, I don't see the woman in front of me until it's too late. We bump together, her heaving cleavage knocking me back a few steps, and that's when I get a good look at her.
Natalia.
A/N
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