Chapter 12

Noah

Cherries

I watch Bridgett as she sleeps with her head on the armrest of the couch, her hair down around her shoulder, and her cheeks pink from the champagne she drank. Even passed-out drunk, she’s adorable. Actually, she’s adorable all the time, which has become a problem. When I didn’t know her as anything more than Aiden’s little sister, it was easy to brush off my attraction to her. Now, not so much. Whenever I’m around her, the urge to kiss her or touch her is almost unbearable.

I want her. I want to know what she tastes like. Want to know if her skin is as soft as it looks. And I want to know what sounds she’ll make when I go down on her or fuck her. And all of that would be easy enough to get over, but I don’t just want to fuck her. I’ve grown protective of her and have come to crave her presence. She’s a mystery I want to solve, but with her being so skittish around me, it’s almost impossible to figure her out.

That said, I’ve figured out that her family has not looked out for her, including my best friend, which is probably why she ended up married to a man like her ex. I’ve learned that she’s got a soft heart, she’s funny even when she’s not trying to be, and she’s afraid of not earning her place, no matter where that is. I didn’t expect to like her, not when we come from such vastly different backgrounds, but I do. And I honestly don’t know what to do with that.

I told her this evening that life is too short to live on someone else’s timeline, but I’m not sure I could take my advice when it comes to her. She’s still not divorced from the dick she married, and even if I know she’s attracted to me, I’m not sure taking advantage of that would be the right move. Going too fast could blow up in my face, but waiting until I think she might be ready could cause its own set of problems.

My jaw shifts, and my hands ball into fists. I’ve always been one to look at a situation and figure out the right move, but I’m at a loss for what to do when it comes to her.

Knowing I won’t be able to figure that shit out tonight, I push up off the couch, then start to pick her up so I can put her to bed. Her eyes open as her hands move to my chest.

“Noah.”

“Just putting you to bed, babe,” I tell her softly, lifting her off the couch. She makes a sound of protest in the back of her throat before shaking her head.

“I can walk.”

I ignore her and carry her to her room, hitting the light switch with my elbow, which turns on the desk lamp, casting a soft glow around the office. Since she’s been staying here, I haven’t come into her space, but seeing it now causes something to shift inside my chest. Her suitcases are both open on the floor with her clothes neatly packed inside like she’s just waiting to close them up and leave, and the couch looks like she’s never pulled out the bed.

“Have you been sleeping on the couch?” I ask, placing her on the cool leather loveseat. She tips her head back to look at me.

“Yes.”

“Babe, what the fuck?”

“It’s comfortable.” She pulls the blanket she brought with her off the back and lays her head on her pillow, closing her eyes. “You shouldn’t have let me drink so much champagne.”

“I tried to cut you off, but you told me you couldn’t let it go to waste.”

“Oh, yeah,” she murmurs, and I bite back a grin.

“You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“That’s doubtful. Champagne hangovers are the worst.” She tucks the blanket up around her neck, and I shake my head, then go to the closet to grab a thicker one before spreading it over her. “Thank you.”

“We’re gonna have a talk tomorrow.”

“About what?” She peeks one eye open to look at me.

“About you not unpacking.” I lean over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, watching up close as her nose scrunches. “Get some sleep.” I stand back, then go to the door and cut the light before leaving the room.

It takes me a few minutes to close everything down and get the house locked up, and even longer to fall asleep after I get into bed.

The next morning, standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand, I look toward Bridgett’s bedroom door. When it opens, I smile as she mumbles, “Morning,” before ducking her head and rushing to the bathroom across the room with her arms full.

A couple of seconds later, I hear the shower turn on, so I wait a few minutes before tossing one of the breakfast sandwiches she eats—unless I cook—into the microwave. I then pour her a cup of coffee, adding the vanilla creamer she always uses. Knowing she’s probably hungover, I grab a bottle of Tylenol from the cupboard and place it next to a glass of water on the island, along with her sandwich and coffee before grabbing a set of keys off the hook near the back door and heading outside.

When I get down the steps off the deck, I go to where my four-wheeler is parked under a slanted roof attached to the house and hook up the trailer, then straddle the seat and start the engine. After turning around in the yard, I drive down the overgrown path that leads to the backside of the property and hope like fuck the single-wide trailer I lived in for two years before building my house wasn’t damaged this winter.

When it comes into view, I scan the roof for any branches that might have fallen off the surrounding trees but find none. I park and get off, then head inside. The interior is still in good shape, and I know that even if I have no desire to be a landlord, I could easily rent the space out for a thousand or more dollars a month.

Hell, Bridgett could even move in here and be comfortable, but I don’t like the idea of her being back here on her own.

Or, if I’m honest, I just don’t like the idea of her being so far away from me.

Bypassing the kitchen, I head to the back bedroom and stop in the doorway. When my house was completed four years ago, I bought all new furniture first because I barely fit the queen bed I had been sleeping on for a couple of years. But also because most of the things I owned were hand-me-downs, and it was time to replace them all. I planned on donating the old stuff but decided to wrap everything in plastic and leave it in the trailer in case someone else needed it at some point. I’m glad I did.

When I’m done getting the wooden bedframe broken down, and it and the mattress and box spring out of the room and onto the trailer, I head back to the house. I park the ATV at the bottom of the steps, then take the headboard inside, noticing a slip of paper on the counter and the dishwasher running. Picking up the note, I scan the frilly writing.

Thank you for breakfast. Ran out to do some errands. Be back soon. xx

Seeing the Xs at the bottom scribbled over, I shake my head and bite back a smile. I lean the headboard I’m still holding against one of the walls, then bring everything else inside and get to work.

“Umm…what is going on?” Bridgett asks. I pause just below the landing of the stairs, the couch balancing on its arm since the only way to get it up to the second floor alone is to push it end-over-end.

“I’m taking the couch upstairs.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re kicking me out?”

“No. This is my way of telling you that you’re not sleeping on a couch while under this roof.” I drop my gaze to the bags she’s holding. “You went to the grocery store?”

“I got stuff to make blueberry scones and lasagna for dinner.”

“Babe, if you keep feeding me cookies and shit, I’m gonna have a heart attack running after a perp.”

“Don’t say that!” She gasps.

“It’s the truth.”

“You don’t have to eat what I cook.”

“I don’t, but I’m also not going to pass up your cooking.” I tip the couch up the stairs.

“Well, then—” She lifts her chin ever so slightly while crossing her arms over her ample chest. “I guess it’s good you’re a fancy detective now, and it’s someone else’s job to run after the bad guys.”

“I guess it is.” I squat, then stand, hefting the couch up and over one more time.

“Do you want me to help?”

“Fuck, no.” I groan, flipping the couch again, which places it at the top of the stairs on the second floor. As I begin pushing it down the short hall and into the small sitting area with the reading nook I never use, I hear her footsteps on the stairs. A second later, she’s at my side, bent at the waist with her hands on the armrest, helping me push. “I thought I said I didn’t need your help.”

“And all I heard was blah, blah, blah.”

“Smartass.” I turn to look at her and catch her smile, which means my gaze drops to her mouth. Her pink tongue darts out to touch her bottom lip. When I meet her eyes once more, her pupils flare, and without thinking about what the fuck I’m doing, I lean in.

I don’t have to go far because she meets me halfway, and our lips fuse, the attraction that has been steadily brewing under the surface between us for weeks boiling over. Taking one hand off the couch, I wrap it around the back of her neck and hold her to me, unwilling to give her a chance to get away as I lick the seam of her lips, gaining access. She tastes like cherries and feels like heaven.

My cock hardens behind my zipper, and the whimpering sound she makes in the back of her throat lets me know she’s just as lost as I am. When her nails dig into my biceps, I pull her against me, then take her down over the arm of the couch, pressing my knee between hers and forcing her legs open. I settle over her, and she arches her chest into mine, then lets her head fall back, giving me access to the soft skin of her neck and upper chest.

I trail my mouth over the top of one breast as I cup the perfect handful. My cock throbs as she wraps her leg around the back of my thigh, and I’m just about to tear her shirt down to take her nipple into my mouth…when the doorbell goes off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I bite out, looking down the stairs at the front door, which I can see from where we are.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers, and my eyes fly to hers. I know in an instant that not only is she freaked, but she’s also going to bolt the second I take my weight away.

“Bridgett.”

“I’m so sorry.” She tries to scoot back on the couch.

“Babe.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Look at me, Bridgett.”

“I just—”

“Babe.” I grab her jaw, not hard but enough to get her attention. “Look where you are.”

“What?” She blinks, and I place my face over hers.

“You’re under me. ”

“I—”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since you told me the difference between expensive chocolate chips and the cheap shit you get at the grocery store.”

“You have?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

“Oh.” She swallows, then jerks when the doorbell goes off again.

I swear to God, I’m going to kill whoever that is.

“Are we good?” I keep my eyes locked on hers, then wait for her to nod before moving and helping her up.

“I’m going to, um…” She smooths her hair, now in disarray, then starts down the stairs. “I’m going to put away the groceries.”

“I’ll get the door.” I follow behind her, then catch her around the waist when she stumbles on the steps going down. “You okay?” I ask against her ear—not meaning to, but it happens. The way her body responds in a shiver says she likes it, which makes me want to do it again.

“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I’m okay.” I let her go, then stay close until we reach the bottom landing. As soon as she’s on solid ground, she rushes toward the kitchen while I head to the front of the house, adjusting myself.

Not that I need to do that. Because as soon as I look through the peephole and see my mother on the other side of the door, my dick deflates.

Fuck.