Page 19 of Guarded
I rummaged through the pile of discarded clothes on my bed. “These ones?”
“Yup.” Quill slurped some milk from his spoon. “With the forest green T-shirt.”
That one hadn’t even made it out of my drawers during my mammoth session of trying on almost everything I owned. “Quill, that one is two sizes too small. I shrank it in the tumble dryer, remember?”
Modern appliances were something we’d all had to adjust to living topside. Washing machines anddishwashers were so practical. The tumble dryer wasn’t something I could say I’d missed out on in Hell. It was so hot down there that your clothes often dried before you hung them up.
The same couldn’t be said of London. During our first week here, I’d merrily thrown everything into the machine, not realising that not all materials could be dried that way. Several items of my clothing had paid the price. I’d been meaning to sort through and get rid of them all, but I’d been too busy.
Too busy running away from my mate and gallivanting pointlessly around the world instead.
“That’s the point.” Quill pointed his dripping spoon in my direction. “You’ve got the muscles; you may as well show them off.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I kicked off the jeans Quill had deemed not good enough and pulled on the black ones. Quill didn’t bat an eyelid at my stripping. We’d lived in close quarters for centuries. Not that we’d been lovers—Quill was far too much like my brother for me to see him like that. But we’d certainly seen each other naked often enough for it to not bother either of us. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
That wasn’t technically accurate. I didn’t want to come across as desperate.
Even if I was.
From the second I’d got the message from Noah yesterday, I’d been overanalysing absolutely everything. Trying to figure out how to act. What to say. What not to say.
Basically, what I needed to do in order to not fuck this up again.
“From what you’ve said, the issue is you not trying hardenough in the past.” Quill shrugged. “You may as well go in the other direction.”
That made too much sense for me to argue with it. Stripping off my shirt, I hunted through the drawer for the green one. Pulling it on, I turned to face the mirror and groaned. “Quill, you can literally count my fucking abs.”
“Can see your nipple piercings too.” Quill nodded emphatically. “It’s perfect. Trust me.”
I eyed myself doubtfully. I did trust Quill, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was trusting myself to not mess this up.
Again.
Picking up my phone, I reread the brief exchange with Noah for the millionth time.
Unknown number
I’ll give you one hour. Tomorrow at Boswell’s Café on Bournemouth Road. 1 pm.
I’d texted him back immediately, not even stopping to save his contact details first.
Jeremiah
I won’t be late. I promise. Thank you.
He hadn’t responded immediately. He’d left me waiting for another three hours. Three hours of me pacing the hallways of our house and generally pissing off everyone in my vicinity.
After adding him to my contacts, of course.
Noah
I don’t care if you’re late. I’ll be there from 1-2 pm and not a minute longer. If you want to waste some of your hour because you can’t be punctual then that’s on you.
His messages had me adding another detail about him to my list. Two, actually.
Noah believes in second chances.
Noah sets boundaries.
