Chapter 13

Iwalked into the hotel room with every intention of ignoring Noah until we leave for the airport tomorrow, but he was so excited. But jumping into his arms? What's wrong with me? I know better. Or I thought I did.

I just can't seem to learn my lesson. Every time I try to put some distance between Noah and myself, he looks at me with those unfairly cute dimples, and I completely fold. I must be under a spell. I'd always thought that I was stronger than this. I would watch those silly romance movies where the girl leaves her dream life to be with a medium-ugly man from her hometown and scoff and roll my eyes.

Never in a million years would I be charmed by a man simply batting his eyelashes and smiling.

Think again.You hadn't met Noah Laurier yet.

In my defense, at least he's interesting to be around. He has a decent vocabulary. He's interested in lots of obscure things which I enjoy listening to. He can make light of any situation. He can participate in a literary debate. It's fun. But that's what makes it so dangerous. Him so dangerous.

"—then my sister explained everything in a PowerPoint one Christmas, and there's actually a lot of lore about it. So, basically?—"

He's pacing the common room floor, halfway through a family-sized bag of chips, giving me a rundown on celebrity dating lives while I sit silently, unmoving, on the couch.

I have to fix this—now.

But how?

I've tried the honesty route. Didn't stick. Same with guilting and the silent treatment. And, clearly, he's not affected by aggression—passive or otherwise. If he was, I'd have been rid of this excitable golden retriever hours ago.

"—and then there was a snowmobile accident that's famous to this day because she wrote an iconic song about it and?—"

His constant ramblings are sweet, I admit. But they're too much. They leave me no room to think right now. I can feel myself being slowly drawn into him, my heart attaching itself despite my very best efforts. I have to stop it.

"—so then at the Grammys?—"

"Noah, shut up, please. I've got a headache."

I don't know why I thought that would work. I'm not lucky enough for it to be that easy.

When he stops and stares at me, I almost start to feel bad. But the only reaction I get is a pause in the flood of information, a little smirk, and then he's right back to his rambling.

"As I was saying, the Grammys. So people started booing him and?—"

I have no choice but to plug in my headphones and drown him out because I'm oddly starting to like the soothing tone of his rambles. God help me.

I thought I could control my own feelings. I thought I was above hormonal impulses.

I guess I was wrong.

I've been wrong entirely too much lately.