My cheeks warm under the heat of his gaze. I can barely hear myself talk over the way my blood rushes in my ears. “It’s a clever tactic,” I say once I’m sure my voice won’t come out breathy. “Charming the cleric so she makes sure your character stays alive.”
“You think I’m charming?”
Fuck, he’s good.
My flat stare is ruined by the smile I can’t school into a mockingly serious frown.Oh, Noah, you know you are,I think fondly. “Not everyone can play a bard. You’ve got to have some measure of charisma to start with.” I dip my long spoon into the milkshake for another bite. I’m slow about it, though, and I take my time licking along the spoon’s edge as I hold his gaze.
Noah’s dark brows shoot up, and a twinkle of amusement glistens in his eyes as he leans forward to swipe his thumb along my chin and bottom lip, catching a smear of whipped cream I’d missed while trying to play at flirty.
Immediate mortification.
But before the heat of embarrassment sinks into my bones, he sticks his finger in his mouth. “Missed a spot,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb down his tongue.
See? Charisma.
To distract myself from his shit-eating grin and the way my heart starts to thud painfully fast in my chest, I eat the last bit of pancake left on his plate. Even soggy with syrup and sticky cinnamon roll icing, it’s still incredible.
I bet he would taste the same.
Holy hell, I’ve got to distract myself. “Whose camper van is in your driveway? Maura’s?”
Noah straightens, looking surprised by the change of subject. He’s got his shoulder pressed against the window to his left, and the casual lean has the buttons of his shirt straining harder than before. I keep my eyes on his clear blue ones. Does he ever blink?
“It’s mine.” His voice is an amused purr. I bet he sees right through me.
“I thought you only rode your bike.”
“For the most part, when I’m staying in town. Biking is really the best way to get to know a place. That, or hiking.”
I swirl my straw around my water glass. The ice is almost all melted. “Then what do you use the van for? Do you camp a lot?”
“I do, actually—though I haven’t in Texas yet. But I move around a lot, too, which is why I got the van after college. She’s been with me across the country more than once.” He looks sidelong through the window, as if sketching out his next journey. I remember what he said about his travels. College in Colorado, apark ranger job in Washington, a visit to a friend in NOLA, and now Texas.
It stresses me out. He’s lived in three times as many places as I have and had as many different jobs. It’s adventurous and admirable, but nerve-rackingly chaotic, too.
I lost the only job I’ve ever had and I’m a wreck.
“You really are a traveling bard,” I muse quietly. “Where to next?”
“Who knows!” God, he almost sounds excited. “I don’t like to think too far ahead. And why bother? I love living with Dan again, love working at Alchemist. I’m trying new things, meeting new people, playing new games…Once it starts to grow stale, then I’ll know it’s time to move on.”
Unease twinges at the base of my ribs, and I can’t understand why. He’s describing my exact situation, my summer of rest and recuperation before I return to the hustle of New York. The perfect small-scale adventure. And yet I don’t know what he means—what it feels like for a place to growstale.New York never grew stale for me. I’d always found it endlessly exciting, dynamic, and fast-paced—but when things got tough, I just couldn’t keep up. And the city wouldn’t slow down for me.
I withdraw slightly, pulling my hands under the table and pressing them between my thighs, suddenly cold.
The vinyl booth squeaks its protest as Noah eases himself forward. He catches on to the shift, and even as my energy dims, his eyes stay intent. Even as I retreat, he follows. His knuckles brush against the thin fabric covering my knee.
“It’s hard to imagine, though, isn’t it?” he muses.
I shift slightly, and my fingertips brush against his. Immediately he opens his hand, skating his rough palm against mine until he finds the smooth ring I wear on my middle finger. Cradling my hand between each of his, he twists the ring in slow, thoughtful circles around my knuckle. Already I’ve lost his thread of thought.Every ounce of my focus is fixated on where his skin touches mine.
“What’s hard to imagine?” I ask.
“That a place like this could ever lose its charm.”
I try to see what he means—I really do. I give myself a moment to listen to the R& B song that buzzes out from the jukebox’s old speakers, to watch Crystal teasingly swat a menu against the arm of an older man who’s clearly a regular. My gaze slides farther out, through the window and into the night, and even from here I can pick out the pinpricks of stars that would be impossible to see in New York’s light-polluted sky. But my attention keeps getting tugged back to the warmth of Noah’s hands, to the twist of the ring, to the steady gaze he’s pinned on me.
I smile, and he squeezes my fingers under the table.
