Page 100 of The King Contract
His brow furrows. “I thought we were getting better at communicating?”
I give him a small smile, warmth seeping through my chest at how much he’s trying. “Before you leave,” I reply. “Before the Tour starts.” There is so much in those few words.Before the contract is up and you travel for a year. Before this entire farce is over and we have no contractual obligations to stay in touch.
Noah’s thumb runs over my cheek, his eyes searching mine, almost as if he can hear the things I’m not saying. “We should talk about that.”
My gaze falls to the sand beneath my feet as I exhale quietly, my voice coming out in a whisper, “Yeah, we should.”
“Hey.” Noah’s hand drifts to my chin, and he tips it up so I can’t avoid his attentive gaze. “I can see your mind working a million miles a minute.”
“You don’t know me,” I joke.
Noah’s left eyebrow quirks. “Don’t insult me.”
It’s hard to believe how much Noahdoesknow me. How much we know each other. We’ve become so close over the past few months; I struggle to remember what life was like before he came back into it. But I know it was grey and routine and somewhat dull and the thought of returning to any semblance of that, loosens the chains on the words at the tip of my tongue.
I bite the inside of my mouth, before whispering, “I don’t think I can keep pretending.” I hold my breath as I wait for Noah’s response, focusing on the cloud-shaped birthmark on his chest.
“Millie.” Noah ducks his head to force my gaze to his, butterflies bashing furiously within my body. “This stopped being pretend a long time ago.” He pulls me to him, his hand clenching the nape of my neck, forcing me to look up into his earnest green eyes. “IknowI can’t keep pretending.”
With that, the tightness in my chest loosens and I lean into him as his mouth finds mine, his tongue sweeping softly inside my mouth. I cling to him, my nails digging into his flesh, our surroundings disappearing as we slowly melt into each other. Kissing Noah has become one of my favourite past-times.
A whistle pierces the air and we break apart, turning to see our friends, as well as several onlookers, watching us. I don’t miss the phones in their hands, and I shut my eyes, imagining the footage they captured of us with our tongues down each other’s throats.
“My child doesn’t need to see this display!” Jared hollers as Dan covers Willow’s eyes with his giant hands.
Noah grins. “Come on. Let’s finish this shoot. We’ll talk more tonight.”
“You have a meeting tonight,” I remind him. Noah takes my hand, and we start down the sand dunes towards the group. “And I’m getting set up for tomorrow.”
“Goddamned meetings,” Noah groans. “What time do you want me there in the morning?”
“You don’t need to come,” I assure him. “Stay home and get focused for Salt Skin. I’ll see you at my exhibit.”
Noah squeezes my hand. “I want to be there. What time?”
“Five?”
He leans down and kisses me on the nose. “I’ll be there.”
I melt a little bit more.
39
MILLIE
Pervert
I barely slept last night.
Nerves about my photography exhibit and the situation with Noah swirled into a vortex of anticipation, stress and panic. Ellis and I stayed at Beansuntil late, prepping the store for our ‘free coffee and haircuts’ morning. By the time I crashed into bed, I was overtired and tossed and turned for a few hours before my alarm shrieked at the crack of dawn.
We’re at the café by 4.30am, helping barbers and hairdressers set up their stations and chatting to the food truck vendor, who’ll be handing out breakfast burritos to those who come through. I crank up our industrial coffee machine and pour out cups of caffeine for those who have volunteered their time. Unsurprisingly, some of our regulars show up early, making their way inside.
I smile across the machine at Fred, a silver-haired, bushy-bearded man who’s visited us for several years. He’s lived on his boat for over a decade. Said boat is mostly on land these days as it’s in desperate need of repair, but he loves it all the same.
“Morning darlin’!” he sings out, shuffling across the room. He’s wearing the same worn-out grey shirt and long brown pants he always wears, his flip-flops slapping against the hardwood floors.
“Morning, Fred. How are you?”
