Page 8 of Until Then

Noah is humble, he’s gentle. He wears cowboy pajamas for goodness sake.

“I’m a total theater geek.” Noah says, lifting those eyes back to my gaze. “But it was an outlet growing up. I’d like other kids to have the same.”

I’m going to get down on one knee and ask this guy to marry me. “I work with kids a lot too. They’re my main clientele.”

“Yeah?” Noah dips his lips to the other side of my neck, kissing me a touch harder. One of his palms travels around my waist and holds me tightly against his chest. “I knew you were perfect.”

I let out a breathy laugh and cup the back of his head when his mouth travels to my jaw, the corner of my lips.

“Hayley,” he whispers, almost like he needs to say my name. “I want to kiss you.”

“You . . . sort of are?”

He grins against my skin. “Want me to stop? Or do you want me to take that pretty mouth of yours?”

Okay. Okay, he’s demanding and . . . halfway to dirty talk. I pull back for half a breath before robbing him of the decision and crush my mouth to his.

Noah moans and clasps both sides of my face between his palms. His kiss is deep and rugged and tastes of mint and ocean air. I part my lips, tasting him, and I can’t think of anything better than this moment.

Honestly, I can’t think of any kiss that could possibly top this.

Those long fingers thread through my braid, unraveling the crimson strands. Noah kisses me and kisses me and kisses me. His teeth scrape over my lips, his body holds me hostage.

I don’t know how long we claim each other on the balcony, but when he slowly walks us back toward his sliding door, when he guides me through his penthouse-condo—never breaking our kiss—I don’t protest.

I don’t think of anything but taking more of Noah Hayden.

Even if it’s only for tonight.

FOUR

Hayley

I sneak down the hallway, hair a tangled mess, sleep still crusted over in my eyes. Somewhere in this mammoth of a condo, my phone is blaring again, and again.

Gray dawn streaks through the glass panes of the door to the balcony. There’s enough light to find my deep purse. It’s more a satchel than anything, but there are endless pockets, and my head is bogged down from sleeping like a corpse, the phone stops ringing and starts again by the time I find it.

A soft curse slips over my lips when I read Greer’s name.

“G?” My voice cracks when I answer.

“Hayley Mae Foster! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and texting you all night. I’m two seconds from selling my blood to cast a tracking spell or something like that.”

I rub my brow. “Greer, I sent you a text with the license of the guy and told you I was going out.”

“With Noah The-Ab-Gods-Adore-Him Hayden! Pretty sure he dated your model bestie once. How are you so calm? Where are you? Were you drunk? Coerced? Swept up by a moment of starstruckness? Mostly I can’t decide if I’m totally in awe of your grit, or if I need to ask what you’ve done with my flannel-obsessed, introverted friend? I didn’t even know you were a fan of the TV show. Thought you were a die-hard crime show girlie.”

TV Show? Calm? Starstruck?

My stomach starts to swirl. “Okay, I need you to speak to me like I’m new to life. One, how do you know Noah has abs? Two, why do you think I should be freaking out?”

Greer says no less than half a dozen swears, all focused on my obliviousness. “Haze, I love you, I really do, but you live in L.A. You know that, right? You know there are these things like billboards, advertisements, god-like people who have this lucrative career called actors.”

No. No. Look, I know I rarely go to downtown L.A. I know I don’t keep up with the TV. I prefer to read—it’s book releases I stalk, not TV and movies. Nan prefers black and white Cary Grant films, and Mom will take Robert Redford over Tom Hardy any day.

I only check one Facebook and Instagram account, and it’s for my therapy services, not me.

My hand squeezes the phone and my voice is nothing more than a rough whisper. “Is Noah famous? Tell me straight.”

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