I laugh. “Of course. If your friends ditched, then I gotta step up and help you eat all this food.”
She giggles.
I feel that too.
She grabs my wrist again, pulling me toward the couch. “Good,” she says. “I was really hoping you’d say that.”
And then, before I can think about it, before I can overanalyze, before I can ask myself why this feels like the easiest yes I’ve ever said, I sit down next to her, and she presses play.
Chapter Four
Juliet
I knew Noah was a romantic.
But the pink roses?
The soft, careful choice of them?
That was proof.
Most men wouldn’t notice what I wear. Wouldn’t care about the details. Wouldn’t look at a pale pink slip dress and think,‘Yes, that’s her. That’s what I should get for her.’
But Noah did.
Because Noah is different.
And different men require different approaches.
The movie is playing, but I haven’t processed a single second of it.
Because Noah is beside me.
Close.
His arm rests on the back of the couch, not touching me, but near. So near. Close enough that I can feel his body heat, close enough that if I shifted, just a little, our shoulders would brush.
If I tilted my head back, it would land against his arm.
Would he let me stay there? Would he pull me closer?
My stomach tightens.
I want to be in his space. I want to be in his lap.
I could do it. Right now.
Just crawl into his arms, kiss him, press my body to his.
My breath catches. I swallow hard, my fingers digging into the hem of my skirt, fisting the fabric, grounding myself.
Not yet.
Noah isn’t the kind of man you rush.
Noah isn’t like other men.
Other men are thoughtless. Greedy. They take, they touch, they whisper soft lies in your ear just to get what they want.
