Page 53 of Pages of Amber
“I did read the page and I would have continued if someone didn’t try to snatch the note from my hands. Can I read more? I want to, but only if you say yes.” He lowered his arm, the note still in his grip. “Besides, you wrote it. Why would I think it was horrible?”
She said nothing. Her stare fell from his face to the note still clutched in his hand. Noah looked down at it, then back at her. “Why don’t we sweeten the pot? I’ll read it and give you my best critic review.” Her eyes rose to his. “In exchange, you have to tell me about what you’re writing, when you got into it and how long you’ve been writing. Anything I want to know.”
“Why do I have to do that?”
“We’re striking a deal, m’lady. Its fifty-fifty.”
“More like seventy-thirty. I’m the one who’ll do all the talking.” She glared again.
“You’re forgetting that I’ll give you a review. Sure, it might be a little sixty-forty, but that’s still a win-win situation.”
Amber opened her mouth to argue when a loud gurgle reached his eyes. For a second, they froze. Then, a fierce blush rose from beneath her shirt collar and into her cheeks. She was hungry. And adorable. It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t be both at once. He already didn’t stand a chance.
“Got anything to check out? I feel like getting a snack to start off this conversation.”
“Sure you do,” she muttered. “Give me the note back first.”
He clutched the note in his hands. She wanted him to lose his only bargaining piece. “I think I’ll hold onto it for the mean time. How about the Scoop Parlor?”
Amber let out an aggravated sigh. When she saw he wouldn’t budge, her frown drooped even more. “Fine,” she conceded. “You only get three questions and you’re buying.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
Arthur looked up as they neared the door. Noah raised a hand. “Gotta go, Arthur.”
His eyes darted to Amber, her face set in a glare aimed at Noah’s back. “You two know each other.” It wasn’t a question.
“Lucky guess,” Noah teased. “We go to the same school but I didn’t know Amber frequented here.”
The older man nodded thoughtfully. “Amber, is it? We never got to make acquaintance.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Arthur. I love your store. I probably should have said that earlier.” Amber smiled at him. Noah couldn’t help staring at that smile a minute longer.
“You’re welcome anytime, miss. ‘Long as you keep buying, of course.” Arthur chuckled at his joke. Brought back to attention, Noah reached out. His hand wrapped around Amber’s wrist, settling there almost as if it was second nature to touch her like that. Her head whipped to him, eyes wide, but Noah was focused on ignoring the feel of her skin on his so he could talk.
“You can extort her later, Arthur. I have a puzzle to solve and all the pieces are almost in place.”
Amber gave him a look over. She tugged her hand but he kept his grip, unfazed. “I didn’t agree to tell you everything,” she whispered in exasperation.
“Funny. I don’t recall that a single bit.” Noah flashed a wide smile in the face of her glare. He gently pulled on her arm to get her to follow. The door pushed open with another soft ding as he stepped a foot out.
“Wait!” Arthur hollered. “You didn’t buy nothing. Boy, you promised.”
Noah glanced back for a second. “We’ll be back, Arthur. Probably. Bye!”
“Tsk tsk. So easily replaced,” was the only response he heard before the door closed behind them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HER NEWLY PAINTED NAILS suffered a beating as she chipped at them. A million thoughts ran through her mind, each one increasing her panic.
Noah knew about her writing. He had seen it. Read it.
And he wanted to read more.
The memory of his smooth voice as he’d said that pushed to the forefront. Her cheeks warmed despite the air conditioning in the shop. How coincidental that they were in the same sweets and beverage store where she’d told Beverly about the deal with Noah. Maybe she was doomed to spill all her secrets in the sugar-scented shop. The pastel color scheme didn’t relax her like it had last time. She couldn’t get over the fact that someone other than her dad had seen her writing.
He’d been so proud of Amber’s first story that he’d read it nearly every night before bedtime. She hadn’t been able to write anything for months after his death. But writing had become her outlet whenever things got too much, even dancing. Her stories had been her personal treasure.
