I shake my head, but Noah’s already putting it over my shoulders, letting me slide my arms in and drown in it.
“What about you? You’re only wearing a T-shirt.”
He’s adjusting it on me, and it takes everything I’ve got not to dip my face and inhale until it’s burned into my nose forever. As weird as it sounds, it’s literally the most reasonable response to his scent.
He shrugs and slides his hands into his front pockets, which makes his already-defined biceps look even bigger. But I don’t just notice that. My eyes are glued to the snake that’s tatted around his left arm.
“I run hot. I’ll be fine.”
Yeah, you do.
He looks at me, then looks away again.
Wait, I didn’t say that thought aloud, did I? No? Did I?
My eyes grow owllike for a few seconds of worry as I stare forward before I pivot and try to rebreak the ice.
“So, where are you originally from? Because I don’t hear an accent. And I don’t meet a lot of guys here who don’t have one.”
“Stop meeting a lot of guys,” he teases.
Oof, he’s too good at this. Because everything he says is grin producing, as well as addictive. But I maintain my cool as he continues.
“I’m from a nowhereville little fishing town between here and Maine.”
“So, New Hampshire,” I say flatly.
He smiles, not looking at me, and points to a house with giant spiders all over the front.
“Eww, I’d never sleep,” I laugh, stepping in closer to him. “I hate spiders.”
“Even the cute ones?”
He says it without any recognition of the insanity laced within that statement.
I do a double take and stare at him. “There isn’t any such thing.”
“Excuse you. Tarantulas are adorable. All furry-legged.”
As he says it, his fingers crawl up my neck under my hair, making me squirm and squeal as I inadvertently curl my body closer to his.
“Stop,” I fake whine before shaking my arms like I have the heebie-jeebies and shoving his immovable shoulder, making him chuckle. “What’s your animal hard pass?”
“Cats.”
“So, it’s a no for pussy, check.” His mouth drops open, and I laugh. “Sorry, dirty jokes ... too soon? Am I cut?”
“I might like you even more.”
The way he looks at me makes me nervous, so I try to refocus.
“Nobody dislikes cats. You’re making that up.”
“I don’t dislike them. I hate them. Real disdain.”
I gasp, stopping in my place as he does, too, just in time for him to double down, crossing his arms.
“They’re superior, condescending, and disloyal. I refuse to house and feed something just to be judged by it.”
