Except. Noah isn’t here.
Two more people in front of me.
One.
The door opens, wind whistling, just like in the freaking movies, a familiar silhouette standing there, gaze roaming the shop behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Backward baseball hat. Torn t-shirt, black mesh track pants, black sneakers.
I would recognize him anywhere. It’s not Noah, it’s…
That guy.
The one who bolted when I touched him.
I don’t understand what he’s doing here.
The girl ahead of me orders, and I avert my eyes, focusing on the back of her head. She has a cowlick and not a cute one. More like bedhead, and oh my god, I am so nervous.
I reach the counter, stumbling on my words, his gaze staring holes into my profile. I know it as well as I know what day I was born on. He. Is. Staring.
“I’ll have a, um… Um. Sorry.” I giggle. Shit. “A medium—no, a small.” Get it together, Miranda. “Plain. No, not plain.” I fiddle with the app on my phone, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath. Start over. “I would love a small, no foam, skinny latte with soy. Please.”
There.
Phew!
I step back a foot and bump into a solid form. There wasn’t anyone behind me when I got in line earlier and now warm heat spreads across my back. The hair at the base of my neck stands on end, a bit static.
The girl behind the counter zaps my app with her scanner and I tuck my cell in my purse. Trying to muster the courage that will allow me to turn around, to face what I know is standing there.
To face who I know is standing there.
I mean, I know him, but I don’t know him? If that makes sense.
He never told me his name. I only know what he felt like when I hugged him, hot and stiff and…
Stiff—and not the good kind.
My eyes hit a massive wall of chest before beginning their journey north. That unsmiling mouth. That Roman nose. The half-hooded eyes, shielded by his glasses, no doubt a bit too guarded for someone so young.
He can’t be much older than me, can he? What, maybe 25?
“Hi.”
He wavers before letting out his own “Hi.”
I look around, raising my eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”
Noah must have sent him. Should I trust this guy with this baseball card?
Wait—Noah trusted him with $20,000.
“I’m here for the card?”
Ahh—so he is doing his friend a favor. Makes sense. Still, a text giving me a heads up would have been nice.
I step aside so he can order, but he doesn’t. Simply jerks his head to the left, toward a table in the corner.
He leads, I follow, staring at his broad back, the fabric sticking along his spine. His hair looks wet and he smells great, like he’s fresh from a shower.
“Were you just at the gym working out?”
He grunts, sitting. “Something like that.”
Okayyy…
He removes the sunglasses, watchful eyes settling on the necklace at the base of my throat. My lips. The purse I rested on the table.
“Oh! The card!” He understandably wants what he came for. Duh.
The giant shifts in his chair as I retrieve the Jenkins card, his legs so long they barely fit under the small, round table. I can’t imagine he’d fit inside a car.
My fingers gingerly set the encased card in the center of the table, but he doesn’t reach for it.
He doesn’t do anything.
So. I do what I do when I’m nervous and unsure: I chatter. “I don’t remember you being this socially awkward at Rent on Saturday.”
His lip twitches. Mouth slightly frowning. Bottom lip looks soft, but chapped, like he licks it a lot and could stand to use some balm. What do guys know about skincare and exfoliating their mouths? Nothing.
I remove my gaze from his pout and it roams to his eyes.
They’re dark, an odd shade. Not amber and not brown exactly. I have no idea what I’m saying.
I need him to talk. To say something. And crap, I probably shouldn’t have given him the baseball card until I know he has the money.
“Pay up,” I tell him jokingly. “You wouldn’t want Noah to be pissed you did him wrong, would you?”
More painful silence has me shifting in the chair, the back ramrod straight and ungodly uncomfortable.
“That isn’t going to happen.”
Oh? “And why is that?”
“I’m Noah.”
I’m sorry what now? “Your name is Noah, too?”
Based on my extensive knowledge of body language, I can tell he wants to roll his eyes by his flaring nostrils. He’s frustrated with me; that much is clear.
“No. Not ‘Noah too’—I’m the only Noah.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Does this guy have two nicknames, too?
“That guy you met at the police station is my friend, Buzz.”
My mouth opens and closes like a guppy and I slam it closed, quiet for a beat.
“I don’t understand why you’ve been lying. Are you a criminal?” Shit, what if the cash he used to pay me was stolen? Hot, they call it? Is he on the lam? Could I go to jail? What if they trace the serial numbers on the bills to track me down?!
I notice a group of three high school boys watching us, and Noah—if that is his real name—slouches in the seat, sliding his sunnies back into place, spinning the brim of his ball cap over the front of his eyes.
Wow. This guy has issues…
“I’m not a criminal.” His voice is low, even, controlled.
“But definitely a liar.”
His jaw clenches and he turns an unflattering shade of red.
“Did you not hear what I said?” he asks. “I’m the one buying your cards.”
I stare at him, at the eyes I can no longer see. At the wet hair beneath his ball cap. The red cheeks and neck. The twist in his lips.
Any other person wouldn’t care that he didn’t show up himself to retrieve the card. Maybe someone else wouldn’t even care that he didn’t properly introduce himself at the club, didn’t bother
