better or worse than mine, just different. What matters is that we can understand each other.”
He’s always so smooth and confident about everything . . . even death. Before I can say anything more, Noah changes the subject.
“About the apartment—we should probably start spending nights there ASAP. I’ve got dinner plans with Sterling right now, but how about we meet back at the new place at . . .” He checks his watch. “How’s eight?”
Considering all the preparations I need to make, I nod slowly. “Sure. That’ll give me time to grab some food and pack.” I turn to leave, but Noah interrupts me.
“Hey, Snowflake . . . can you do me one last favor?”
I stop, glancing back. “Yeah?”
“Could you smile again?”
For some reason, his directness flusters me so much that I blurt, “W-why should I?” Then I want the floor to swallow me up.
What the hell, Olivia? You sound like a bratty teenager.
“Because I don’t want you to leave unhappy.” Noah reaches out to brush my jaw with the back of his hand. The lightest, most fleeting touch, gone before I can say a word. “And because it looks good on you. I’d like to see that smile more often.”
My face is on fire. I’m not sure how much of that heat is because I just embarrassed myself and how much is because of Noah’s heated stare.
“I . . . I guess you’ll get plenty of chances, now that we’re living together.” My attempt at a snappy retort comes out stuttering.
He inclines his head without breaking our gaze. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”
I swallow the boulder in my throat. He’s actually looking forward to it?
“Hey, Noah?”
“Yes?” he says sweetly.
“Why do you call me Snowflake?”
He steps closer and runs one finger along my cheek, making my skin tingle in its wake. “Because you’re just like a snowflake. Beautiful and unique, and with one touch you’ll be wet.”
Noah turns to leave, striding away with me staring after his broad shoulders and tight ass, with my mouth hanging open.
Dumbfounded, I shut the door behind me. Was that last comment meant to get a rise out of me? Or did he think I was really flirting?
Was I flirting? I thought I was just being bitter, but . . . maybe a tiny bit. I don’t even know. And it doesn’t help that my mind is still reeling from that bet we made yesterday.
• • •
I eat dinner alone at a little Italian bistro around the corner from the Tate & Cane building. I guess I was craving some comfort food. Spaghetti with meatballs and a glass of merlot do the trick nicely.
I take a cab home, and when I arrive, I e-mail my landlord to get the ball rolling on terminating my lease early. Then I start packing an overnight bag. I’ll arrange for the rest of my clothes and other personal items to be delivered to our new place later. My furniture will just have to be sold.
One hour later, my little maroon suitcase is stuffed full. I have no excuse to linger further. But I do anyway—walking through slowly, looking at everything one last time.
This apartment has been the backdrop of my life for the past four years, ever since I got my undergrad degree and stopped rooming with Camryn. Everything within these walls is a product of my decisions and mine alone. I chose this place for its airy architecture, its honey-colored hardwood floors, even the blue-diamond tile pattern in the kitchen and bathroom. I bought every stick of furniture, striking my ideal balance between stylish and cozy. I decorated its walls with framed art prints that suited my tastes. I filled its fridge and cabinets with my favorite snacks. I cluttered the bathroom with my beauty products, not worrying about leaving space for anyone else’s stuff. I organized everything according to the system that would best help me remember where I put it. Now . . . I can kiss all of that sovereignty good-bye.
Sure, I can bring a few more of my things to the penthouse, but so can Noah. He’ll add his
He’s always so smooth and confident about everything . . . even death. Before I can say anything more, Noah changes the subject.
“About the apartment—we should probably start spending nights there ASAP. I’ve got dinner plans with Sterling right now, but how about we meet back at the new place at . . .” He checks his watch. “How’s eight?”
Considering all the preparations I need to make, I nod slowly. “Sure. That’ll give me time to grab some food and pack.” I turn to leave, but Noah interrupts me.
“Hey, Snowflake . . . can you do me one last favor?”
I stop, glancing back. “Yeah?”
“Could you smile again?”
For some reason, his directness flusters me so much that I blurt, “W-why should I?” Then I want the floor to swallow me up.
What the hell, Olivia? You sound like a bratty teenager.
“Because I don’t want you to leave unhappy.” Noah reaches out to brush my jaw with the back of his hand. The lightest, most fleeting touch, gone before I can say a word. “And because it looks good on you. I’d like to see that smile more often.”
My face is on fire. I’m not sure how much of that heat is because I just embarrassed myself and how much is because of Noah’s heated stare.
“I . . . I guess you’ll get plenty of chances, now that we’re living together.” My attempt at a snappy retort comes out stuttering.
He inclines his head without breaking our gaze. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”
I swallow the boulder in my throat. He’s actually looking forward to it?
“Hey, Noah?”
“Yes?” he says sweetly.
“Why do you call me Snowflake?”
He steps closer and runs one finger along my cheek, making my skin tingle in its wake. “Because you’re just like a snowflake. Beautiful and unique, and with one touch you’ll be wet.”
Noah turns to leave, striding away with me staring after his broad shoulders and tight ass, with my mouth hanging open.
Dumbfounded, I shut the door behind me. Was that last comment meant to get a rise out of me? Or did he think I was really flirting?
Was I flirting? I thought I was just being bitter, but . . . maybe a tiny bit. I don’t even know. And it doesn’t help that my mind is still reeling from that bet we made yesterday.
• • •
I eat dinner alone at a little Italian bistro around the corner from the Tate & Cane building. I guess I was craving some comfort food. Spaghetti with meatballs and a glass of merlot do the trick nicely.
I take a cab home, and when I arrive, I e-mail my landlord to get the ball rolling on terminating my lease early. Then I start packing an overnight bag. I’ll arrange for the rest of my clothes and other personal items to be delivered to our new place later. My furniture will just have to be sold.
One hour later, my little maroon suitcase is stuffed full. I have no excuse to linger further. But I do anyway—walking through slowly, looking at everything one last time.
This apartment has been the backdrop of my life for the past four years, ever since I got my undergrad degree and stopped rooming with Camryn. Everything within these walls is a product of my decisions and mine alone. I chose this place for its airy architecture, its honey-colored hardwood floors, even the blue-diamond tile pattern in the kitchen and bathroom. I bought every stick of furniture, striking my ideal balance between stylish and cozy. I decorated its walls with framed art prints that suited my tastes. I filled its fridge and cabinets with my favorite snacks. I cluttered the bathroom with my beauty products, not worrying about leaving space for anyone else’s stuff. I organized everything according to the system that would best help me remember where I put it. Now . . . I can kiss all of that sovereignty good-bye.
Sure, I can bring a few more of my things to the penthouse, but so can Noah. He’ll add his
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