When in Rome

Just as predicted, I walk through the door of The Pie Shop and the little bell ringing over my head alerts Noah to my presence. The sudden force of his gaze threatens to level me when he looks up from the counter where he’s writing in a little notepad. A classic little notepad for the classic man. His eyes lock with mine and BOOM, grumpy face. It’s good he doesn’t smile. I wouldn’t be able to stay standing if he did. But this…this I can make do with.

I approach the counter slowly. He’s a lion I’ve just encountered in the wild. “Hiiii,” I say, stepping closer, one little scooting step at a time. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts a brow. I try not to tremble.

When I get close enough, I lay both bouquets on the counter like an offering right next to where his muscular forearms are resting. My eyes get tangled up with the light dusting of masculine hair on them. The hairs are so blond, fine, and unobtrusive you have to be close enough to see them. My mind reminds me unhelpfully that I am close enough to see them, along with the shadow his baseball cap casts over his eyes, nose, and cheekbones. The scruff of his jaw is a little more prominent than it was yesterday, telling me he might not have gone home after sitting by my bedside all night. I don’t want to acknowledge why the thought of Noah worrying about me through the night sends a shiver through my body.

His eyes drop to the bouquets and then back up to my face. “Flowers?”

“For you,” I say, scooting the bouquet I made for him closer before clasping my hands behind my back and rocking lightly on my heels. “An apology-slash-thank-you for taking care of me last night.” I tip my shoulder. “And I know you like flowers. Annie told me you buy a bouquet from her several times a week.”

He doesn’t shift even an inch. “Just to be clear, I do it to help her. Not because I’m obsessed with flowers or anything.”

I widen my eyes at that incredible word. “Obsessed,” I say, letting it dissolve pleasantly on my tongue. “Sure you’re not,” I say, nodding and squinting my eyes. Play, play, play.

His eyes narrow. “Are you taunting me?”

“I’m just not sure why you’re ashamed to admit you’re obsessed with flowers.” I press my lips together against a smile.

“I’m not—” He starts to say in an impassioned tone, rising up to his full height and taking the bait before realizing I’m just goading him. He grunts and crosses his arms. Hello, Surly Pose. It’s lovely to see you today. “I like them. I’m not obsessed.”

I mirror his stance, and it’s too much fun. “It’s okay to admit your deep infatuation. I won’t force you to give up your man card.”

The hint of a smirk touches his mouth now. He’s on to me. “I own a pie shop. You think I give a shit about man cards?” He looks over his right shoulder, “Please,” and then back to me.

“If that’s true…then why so hesitant to fess up to your flower obsession? Annie claims you think she’s at risk of bankruptcy, but do you want to know what I think?”

“Pretty sure you’re going to tell me no matter what.”

“I think,” I begin in a fervent courtroom tone, “you very well know just how many people love and support her shop, and that her flower business is doing just fine. I think, good sir, that you use your brotherly care as a disguise for your…” I let the word hang as we stare at each other. “Obsession.”

He leans his palms on the counter, angling himself closer. Something sweet and warm crackles in the air between us. “I think…my obsessions are none of your business.”

“Aha!” I hold up a finger toward his face. “So you admit it?! Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you heard it from his own mouth!”

To my complete shock, Noah hooks his finger around mine, lowering them both slowly down onto the counter. Too many sensations mingle in that small touch, and when he doesn’t immediately remove his finger from mine after they’re finally resting on the counter, my heart gives out. I flatline. Someone get the stretcher.

A grin hovers on the side of his mouth—a lovely addition to the dark shadow his hat casts over his eyes. “I like the way they make my house smell.”

I can’t say anything. I’m frozen in this moment with Noah softly gazing at me, the skin of his hand against mine, and memories of his hungry kiss swimming in my mind. I never want it to end. “And your mom loved flowers, right?”

Nothing, and I do mean nothing, could have been worse to say in this moment. A silence so menacing drops between us that it practically takes on a physical form. It would be a man gnarled with scars and slapping a baseball bat against his enormous calloused hand. I should run screaming in the opposite direction. Instead, I watch, holding my breath as Noah’s brows pinch together and he rises to his full height again, removing his hand from mine. He doesn’t acknowledge what I said, and maybe that’s for the best since I didn’t mean for it to come out. He turns away and disappears into the kitchen without another word.

I mentally punch myself for acting like I was close enough to him to bring up his painful past like that. Like I had any right to call attention to it, let alone know that his mom loved flowers and isn’t around anymore. How vulnerable he must feel now.

Great job, Big Mouth. Real cool. Can’t you just be normal for like a second and not ruin it?

I should leave. In fact, I will.

But after picking up the bouquet of flowers Annie gave me, I decide that now I have two things to apologize for and set the flowers back down next to the other bouquet. After I cross the shop and open the front door, Noah calls out to me while reemerging from the back. “You’re leaving?”

I freeze and look back at him. He’s holding two plates with a slice of pie on each one. “I thought…I thought you were mad and it was better if I left.”

He rolls his eyes with a little hint of a smile before gesturing toward the slices of pie. “I was just getting you a slice of pie. If you’re interested, that is?” He moves around the counter and out into the main portion of the shop, setting the plates down on the two-seater table near the window. One plate is uncovered and the other has plastic wrap over it.

“Something you need to know about me,” he begins in a softer tone than I’ve heard him use yet. “I’m not talkative.” I give a mock gasp of surprise, which makes him grin. “And I don’t like talking about personal stuff when I’m not prepared for it. Sometimes I need a minute to process when I’m caught off guard. But if I’m actually mad, I’ll tell you. I don’t believe in the silent treatment when it comes to stuff like that.”

I’m still standing halfway out the door because I can’t move. I’m overloaded with how incredible and heartfelt that speech was. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man articulate his emotions so well to me before. I didn’t even realize that was something I should expect or hope for. It’s clear that there’s so much more to Noah than his Surly Pose and burnt orange truck. He’s obsessed with flowers. Is protective. Feels deeply, but prefers to keep it to himself.

And damn if I don’t find all that sexy as hell.

He lifts his eyebrows when I don’t respond. “So. You in or out, pop star? If you’re in, turn that Open sign around and lock the door on your way back in. It’s my lunch break.”

I laugh and step away from the door, letting it fall shut behind me before flipping the sign and the lock. “With your accent, it sort of makes it sound like you just called me a Pop-Tart.”

“No, definitely not.” He takes his seat and then flashes me a grin. “I actually like Pop-Tarts.”

I laugh and throw a pepper packet from the table at his head. It bounces off his cheek and hits the floor. Noah tsks while leaning over to retrieve it. “Bringing up my family history and littering in my pie shop. And to think this is how I’m rewarded for keeping your ass safe last night.”

“I already bought you flowers for that. My debt is paid in full.” I sit down opposite him, realizing belatedly that this tiny table makes it so our legs are pressing up against each other. I would move mine, but he’s not moving his. So there they stay.

I clear my throat. “So is this my farewell pie?” Looking up, I see his confused expression. “I assumed you asked me to come here today because I’ve been a pain in your ass and you want me out of your house tonight instead of Monday morning.” It physically hurts to think of leaving this town the day after tomorrow. It’s too soon.

Noah chuckles. Actually chuckles. It’s so deep and rumbly I imagine pressing my palm to his chest and feeling the laugh while hearing it. The complete experience. “You’re definitely a pain in my ass. But I’m not kicking you out. In fact, just the opposite.” Noah nervously licks his lips. “Do you remember anything you said last night?”

I didn’t until he asked. But at his questioning, my memories hit me in bursts.

My mom only likes me for my money.

I’m drowning and no one sees me.

You don’t like me anyway.

Ohhhhhh I hate all those words. They’re so raw and vulnerable they make my skin itch. And that’s why I lie right through my pearly white teeth. “No. I don’t remember.”

He studies me closely, and I must have a better poker face than I realize because he seems to believe me. “Well, you—” Before he can finish, there’s a knock on the door. Noah looks out the window at the same time I do, finding two middle-aged men peering through the door. Noah ignores them so I do, too. Especially because I have got to know what he was going to say. The way he left it lingering has me terrified that I’m not remembering everything there is to remember from last night, and maybe I pulled my pants down and mooned him or something. Or worse…did I hit on him?!

“You’re killing me. What did I say last night?” I ask as blunt as the knife edge piercing my gut. Dramatic? No. Not when there’s a potential memory of mooning hanging in the balance.

He scratches his neck, the exact appendage I want to strangle at this moment until he tells me what I said and did.

“You told me you were…” He looks up, seeing my horrified expression, and then smiles softly. “Tired.”

Noah has a poker face, too. We might as well be wearing neon visors and clutching cards to our chests. We stare at each other, wondering who will fold first. If I admit to knowing I never once said the word tired to him last night, then he’ll know I remember my blubbering vomit of emotions and we’ll have to discuss it. I’d rather not. And I think he’d rather not as well.

“Ah—tired, yes,” I say, pushing my poker chips into the middle of the table. I call.

He grins. “So I was thinking…in light of you being so…tired—”

Our conversation is interrupted again by more knocks on the door and I want to groan. A small crowd of townspeople are starting to gather out there. “Should we let them in?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head and then frowns at the window where at least ten people have gathered, gesturing for Noah to open the door. “No!” he says sternly. “I’m closed for lunch. Go away!” He swats at the air but they don’t flee.

It’s hard to focus but I’m determined to hear where this conversation is going. Noah has the same thought so he adjusts his chair, positioning himself so his back is to the window. I do the same. Now we’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. This is excruciating.

“Anyway…I, uh…I thought about it, and I’m okay with you staying with me until your car is fixed.”

“You are?” I ask, turning my face to look at him. We’re so close I can see the tips of his eyelashes.

He nods—poker face still in place. “The guest room is yours if you want it. And…” He gives his throat a big uncomfortable clearing. “If…you want a tour guide, I moved some things around and have some free time now.”

Now I’m blinking as if someone has just flashed a camera in front of my eyes. “All because I’m…tired?”

My mind autocorrects that word tired to lonely, and I think it’s doing that in Noah’s head, too, but he’s too kindhearted to say it out loud. He’s playing along in a way that makes me feel safe and I just want to know why. Anyone might have heard my sloppy speech last night and chosen to look the other way. What I said to him is messy and complicated. Instead, he’s choosing to extend a hand to me in the water. I see you.

Still, past experience has me wary to believe his good intentions. “Are you planning to sell the story of my visit to a tabloid? Did someone offer you an exclusive?”

He looks deeply offended. Maybe even angry. “No.”

“The pill I meant to take last night was a migraine medication. I’ve been getting them from all the stress and my doctor says I should take more breaks and get more rest, but I chose medication instead. That’s a pretty juicy story, are you sure you don’t want to sell it?”

“Why would I do that?” His voice is stern again. Irritated that I won’t believe his kindness.

I laugh sharply. “Because anyone else in the world would. My own mom has sold personal stories about me to tabloids on multiple occasions.” I didn’t mean to say that last part, and I wince lightly at my slip. My poker face falters a hair and I think he can see my cards.

Noah’s eyes are soft when I look at him. He shakes his head the tiniest amount. “Not me. I would never do that to you.”

Oh no. Those are good words. Too good. I feel my heart trying to suck them all up at a frantic pace. It’s dangerous to let myself believe him, and yet, I do.

I’m not sure what he sees in my face, but it causes his expression to soften. He lays his cards faceup and he has a winning hand. “You can trust me, Amelia. I won’t exploit your tiredness.”

And now, I’m beginning to think he’s not wrong about that choice of word. I am tired. Tired of loneliness. Tired of distrust. Tired of being taken advantage of. And tired of hiding myself from everyone all the time.

“Okay,” I say, while looking down at my pie and scooping a bite onto my fork. If I say more than that, I’ll cry. And I’ve had enough vulnerability for the last twenty-four hours without needing to add tears to it as well.

“Okay? So you’re staying.”

“I’m staying.” My stomach does a little flip.

Noah lets out a breath almost like he’s relieved. And then pulls that classic little notebook he was writing in from his back pocket and sets it on the table between us. “You should write down a few things you want to do while you’re here. So we have a plan.” It’s adorable how awkward he is right now. He won’t make eye contact with me and it’s painfully obvious that talking with me this much has him wanting to crawl out of his skin. I should let him off the hook and tell him he doesn’t have to spend time with me. But I’ll die before I do that, because even though it’s the worst idea in the world, I want to spend as much time with him as I can while I’m here.

“Because you’re my tour guide,” I say, taking the notebook.

He fights a smile. “Because I’m your tour guide.”

I’m already busy trying to think of everything I want to do while I’m here. Do I want to be restful or adventurous? Do I want to hide or see more of the town? I think some combination of all of it.

“Oh, but just one thing.”

Annnnnd here it is. The catch. The hammer. The thing he wants in return. I knew it was too good to be true.

Noah leans slightly toward me and lowers his voice like maybe all the Peeping Toms outside the window will hear us or read his lips. “The other night. When I told you I wasn’t on the market.” My cheeks flush a little at the memory. “I meant that. And I think it’s best if right out of the gate we get things straight. This isn’t going to turn into anything romantic between us. It’s just…friendship.”

I should be disappointed that my summer camp crush isn’t interested in me. But I’m not. Because little does he know, friendship is exactly what I want. What I need.

“Perfect,” I tell him, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in years.

And then there’s a firm knock on the window, making us both jump and look over our shoulders. Mabel has her nose pressed into the glass, and her brows pulled together sternly. “Noah Daniel Walker,” she says, sounding slightly muffled from the glass. “You better open up. You know I get low blood sugar.”

He sighs at her nose print on the glass. “Batshit crazy town.” He smiles, and it’s clear that he means that as nothing but affectionate.

That’s when I notice the slice of pie sitting in front of him covered in plastic wrap. “Were you planning to eat that?”

“No,” he says, standing from the table. “It’s for someone else I’m meeting just as soon as I take care of these loons.”

“You know? I can’t help but feel it’s completely unfair that you’re allowed to have so many secrets when I continue to spill mine.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” he says with zero smile but amusement running through his voice, straight into the pit of my fluttery stomach.

Noah lets me borrow his truck to drive back to his place, and with the windows down and a smile on my face, the strangest thing happens to me. I catch myself singing along to the radio. Something I haven’t felt like doing in a while.