Page 37 of Until Then

I’m also introduced to Alexis’s brother—a retired MLB pitcher—and his wife.

“Oh, you’re an OT?” She leans forward. “I’m a PT, but emphasized on sports medicine.”

Skye Knight is her name.

“Jude is obsessed with their girl, Ever,” Noah whispers when Skye goes on to explain the differences in physical therapy and occupational therapy to the others.

True enough, Noah’s nephew is seated by a little toddler with curly blonde hair, sharing his new treats. The girl even signsmoreto him.

My heart cinches. It’s wholly adorable.

Stunt double Carter has a sister there, since she married the former catcher for the Vegas Kings. They seem like opposite siblings. Where Wren Marks is bookish and subtle, Carter seems boisterous and bold.

“These handsome guys are Ryder and Dax.” Noah steps behind the final two men. Both are seated beside pretty wives too. Noah grips both their shoulders. Dax—the darker haired one, I think—laughs. Ryder—the broader, scowley one—swats at him to get off. “They’re the geniuses behind the community outreach through the Kings. They helped me get started with the drama clubs I’ve been running here.”

“Oh.” I shake both their hands. “I think that’s a really great thing.”

Ryder nods, but seems like he doesn’t particularly enjoy being chatty.

“It’s been awesome,” Dax says. “It was Ryder’s idea, but with Noah and other organizations, these outreach clubs have exploded across the country.”

I look at Noah. He’s buried in a conversation with the drummer’s wife. A smile teases the corner of my lips. He seems so at ease with these people, so unaffected by fame and wealth.

This is Noah Hayden.

Just Noah.

I can’t help but like what I see.

Somehow, before I even realize, I fall into conversation with a table of celebrities. Strange, but I almost forget. They are so different from the images life has imprinted in my own mind.

The only reminders come when the band speaks about their tour, or Parker Knight and Ryder talk about coaching. They both still work with their former team.

We eat, toast the new bride and groom, listen to speeches, laugh, and laugh, and laugh. When the floor is opened for dancing, more than one couple at the table joins in.

Noah stands. For half a breath he pauses, then holds his hand out to me. “Dance with me, Wildfire.”

Goodness. Keep making demands of me in that deep rasp and any drop of independent woman will dissolve.

I curl my palm in his and allow him to lead me to the dance floor. Part of me wonders if Noah waited for the music to slow, the other part is singing the man’s praises for it.

“They’re a lot sometimes,” he says against my cheek, voice low. “Didn’t mean to overwhelm you with everyone.”

“They’re amazing,” I admit, a crack to my voice. In truth, this entire evening is toppling most of my preconceived notions about people in their positions. I don’t admit it. To confess the truth about my hesitation toward celebrities and their intentions, will lead to questions, and questions will lead to heartbreaking realities.

I have no intention of spoiling the night.

Noah’s hand is scandalously low on my back, and I don’t care. The longer the song goes on, the closer I press against him.

By the final note, there’s no space between us and I’m forced to arch my neck to look up.

Noah’s blue eye flashes, his brown eye melts me.

Gentle fingers trace the edge of my jaw. “You weren’t a notch.”

“What?” My voice is too rough.

“You believe you would’ve been nothing but a symbolic notch in the bedpost, right? You wouldn’t be. What would’ve happened if I had your number is I would’ve called you. I would’ve annoyed you with memes and funny animal videos all day. I had no intention of saying goodbye to you.”

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