Page 39 of Play On

I stop walking and my heart thumps excitedly against my ribs. I know that voice calling me.

It’s Noah.

I turn around and find him walking up to me, a huge smile lighting up his handsome face. Noah’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, perfectly casual for a coffee date, but he’s dialled it up a notch by wearing a huge platinum watch on his left wrist and some black leather bracelets on his right wrist.

So. Freaking. Hot.

“Good morning,” I say, smiling at him as he approaches.

Noah stops in front of me, and I’m grateful he’s not wearing sunglasses this morning because I can see his eyes. They drink me in, and I can tell he likes what he sees.

“You look beautiful,” he says, putting his hands on my waist. I feel his fingertips lightly brush across the sliver of skin I have exposed with the cropped shirt, and heat fills me.

I put my free hand to his face, lightly tracing my fingertips cross his cheekbone. “You’re kind. I’m sure I look like a zombie,” I tease.

He grins. My heart flutters knowing I put it on his face.

“You and I have different ideas of what a zombie looks like, then,” Noah says cheerfully. “Because I’ve never seen a zombie as gorgeous as you.”

“Interesting,” I say.

“Interesting how?”

“How many zombies have you seen, Noah? I think I should be alarmed by this comment.”

I’m once again rewarded with that smile.

“Fair point,” he says. “Come on, let’s get coffee. And something to eat. I’m hungry.”

I nod and he escorts me up to The Biscuit Cutter, opening the door for me and once again placing his hand on the small of my back as I enter the shop. God, I love how hands-on he is. It makes me feel cared for.

And it’s something completely new and wonderful to me.

The familiar scent of hot, buttery pastry and sugar hits me the second we’re inside. The tables at the front of the shop are filled with all kinds of treats to go, and as we navigate around them to get to the counter, I spot boxes of iced biscuits in the shapes of tennis racquets and balls to celebrate Wimbledon. Stacks of palmiers wrapped in cellophane and tied with a purple ribbon. Boxes of Chelsea buns, beckoning to be brought home. There’s nobody queuing at the till, so we can take our time studying the offerings for today.

I barely picked at my toast this morning because I was so excited about this date. But now that I’m here with Noah?

A girl has to eat.

“I’m going to get food, too,” I declare as I study the array of baked goods in the display case. Then I look up at the specials on the menu board, and immediately spot what I want. A brioche french toast, filled with crème pâtissière and jam, then topped with strawberries and whipped cream.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Noah asks, rubbing his hand on the small of my back in a circular motion.

I stop thinking the second I feel his touch. “What?” I ask.

“What do you want to eat?”

Oh right. There’s food I need to order. “The strawberry french toast. And a hazelnut latte with oat milk.”

“I’m about to make my decision,” Noah says, his eyes flickering over the menu board. “I’m torn between a cinnamon roll or the chocolate orange scone.”

“I’d get the scone. Not that you’re asking me, of course,” I say, grinning.

“No, I wasn’t, but I’ll carefully take your feedback into consideration anyway,” he teases.

I giggle at that, and the second I do, his whole face lights up into a big smile. As if it was the greatest reward in the world for him to hear me laugh. I drink in this little moment. I’ve never had a man smile at me for something so simple.

It’s magic.

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