Page 132 of Aria

“You know I would have brought out the whiskey for that.”

His eyes sparkled with flirtation while my mind wandered back to the last time I’d had whiskey with Noah. Illicit memories swept through me, causing my cheeks to flush hot.

“Where’s your drink?” I inquired, biting my lip.

His eyes darted toward the kitchen. “On the table.”

Faltering briefly, I walked over to find two plates of spaghetti and a bottle of champagne set up at the quaint table. It was adorned with silverware, napkins, and a sea breeze candle burning in the center. Soft music played as romantic ambiance kissed the air.

My lips parted to speak, but no words escaped.

Was this… a date?

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

NOAH

Monitoring Chelsie’s reaction, I waited for her to speak.

Or smile.

Or breathe.

She didn’t seem to be doing any of those things.

Did I misinterpret everything?

“I just figured we could relax and talk things out over wine and food,” I tried to explain. “I hope it’s not weird.”

Chelsie looked up at me, her eyes as wide as emerald saucers. “I don’t know what to say.”

Well, fuck.That was not the reaction I’d been hoping for.

“It’s honestly nothing.” I scratched at my overgrown hair, my balance steadied by the railing. “Rosa made some spaghetti before she left, so I thought maybe you’d want to have a late dinner with me.”

“I do. Of course, I do…” she said, nodding swiftly. “Sorry, I was just… caught off guard. This is a sweet surprise.”

I tried to read her. Her knuckles had gone white from her deathlike hold on the champagne flute. There were mascara smudges under her eyes and her hair was still damp from the rain, spilling golden waves over her shoulders. She looked nervous, frazzled. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Maybe it was too soon, and I’d dropped the ball.

Chelsie flashed me a smile. “It’s really great, Noah.”

I began to relax until I noticed her face crumble into a mask of tears.

Double fuck.

“Shit, Chelsie.” The bubbly liquid swished back and forth in her glass as her body shook with sobs and she buried her face into her opposite hand. I stood there, frozen to the floor, unprepared with how to handle the situation.

Should I hold her? Run away? Jump off the roof?

“Damnit, Combs, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just spaghetti.”

“It’s not the spaghetti. I love spaghetti,” she cried, sniffling into the palm of her hand. “It’s everything else.”

The roof was sounding appealing.

“What did I do?” My voice cracked with vulnerability. This was not how I’d pictured the night unfolding.

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