Page 43 of The King Contract
“It can’t hurt for us to post a couple of Instagram stories of us hanging out at my place,” Noah hisses.
“Yes, there’s nothing I want to do more than take fake photos on my unexpected afternoon off,” I huff.
“I don’t care if we take one photo and then sit in separate rooms until the storm’s over,” Noah grits out. “You are coming to my house. Get your shit and get your ass in my car.”
The demanding tone in Noah’s gravelly voice catches me off-guard and I falter in my resolve. “I don’t have any clothes packed. My skincare, fresh underwear?—”
“You’ll survive for a night,” Noah assures me. “And you can wear my clothes.” Ellis returns from the back room and Noah leans in. “Don’t argue with me, Maelstrom. Get your stuff.Now.”
I glance at Ellis, who smirks in surprise at hearing the tail-end of our conversation. Noah calls to Winston as Ellis sidles up to me. “Is that what he’s like in the bedroom? Because good lord.”
I shove her playfully as I get my belongings, ignoring how my cheeks are tingling for a reason I can’t quite pinpoint.
Noah’s house feels different in the moody darkness of the storm, with rain splashing down the giant windows and flashes of lightning igniting the horizon.
Noah’s insistence of having me come over might’ve been annoying, but he’s been nothing but sincere and gentlemanly since we got here. He showed me to one of the many guest rooms, gave me a change of clean clothes and a fresh towel so I could have a shower. He even left a packet of sour candy on my pillow, which had me grinning more than I’d like to admit.
I sip on the mojito mix I whipped up for us, waiting for a microwaveable bag of popcorn to be ready. Well, I’mtryingto sip on my drink. Right now, we’re pressed against each other on his enormous couch, because Noah is trying to find the perfectat home with my missus during a stormphoto for his Instagram.
“Tilt your glass to the right more,” he orders, his phone hovering between us. He’s pulled me to his left side, his arm around my neck and our feet up on our table. I’m basically stuck snuggling him while he takes shots of our glasses and legs and tries to get the raging storm in the background.
“Nothing like soft launching your fake girlfriend on social media with feet.” I hold my tumbler up. “Peoplelovefeet.”
“Shut up, I’ll blur the feet.” Noah’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth. “The focus is your hand around that glass.”
I glance at his screen. “You’re doing it wrong. Give it to me.” He hands me his phone. “Turning on the grid should be your first step and then you follow the rule of thirds. Where these grid lines intersect is where you should put the subject, and this horizontal line needs to line up with the windowsill.” I adjust his settings, locking the focus on the glasses we’re holding and lowering the exposure. “That’s better. Hold still.”
I snap a few photos, adjusting the blur to make sure our feet are covered, before handing the phone back to him.
Noah swipes through the photos. “Holy shit, you really are a photographer.”
“Thank you.”
Noah leans forward and, with one hand, swiftly removes his t-shirt and tosses it across the room. My mouth goes dry at the rippling muscles in his back. “It’s so muggy. Do you want the air conditioner on?” He leans back, waiting for my response.
Now we’re sitting arm to arm, with his tanned, taut flesh exposed and screaming at me. Do you know how hard it is to not run your hand over an eight pack when it’sright there, asking to be touched?
“I knew you liked me with my shirt off.” My gaze snaps to Noah’s face which is smirking with victory—he’s sprung me drooling over his half naked-body.
“Get over yourself,” I snap, my cheeks burning. “I studied pharmacy. The human body is fascinating to me.”
“Oh, so you’re examining me for scientific purposes?” His smirk has got even smirkier.
“Yes. I was thinking about how the wordmusclecomes from the Latin term meaninglittle mouse. Ancient Romans thought flexed biceps resembled mice and I was thinking you look like you have a heap of mice sitting under your skin.”
I’m waffling. I don’t know why I’m waffling. I don’t care when people see I’m checking them out. I can appreciate Noah’s physique and not have it mean anything.
“Right,” Noah says slowly, peering down at his abdomen.
Beeps shriek from the kitchen and I jump to my feet. “Popcorn’s ready!”
I duck into the kitchen, doing my best to not think about any more of Noah’s muscles.
16
NOAH
A force to be reckoned with
