Page 14 of Just My Type
HANNAH
The banging yanks me right out of a dream featuring wavy brown hair, piercing blue eyes, lean muscles under a fitted white T-shirt, and very dirty things happening on a very dark rooftop patio in the middle of the night. I may be trying to ignore my obvious attraction to Noah while I’m awake, but clearly my subconscious brain did not get the message. It apparently wants Noah, and it won’t be denied.
My entire body buzzes with the kind of arousal I haven’t felt in months.
Okay fine, years. Let’s not pretend the asshole who should not be named had any idea how to get me off.
I slide open my nightstand drawer, rummaging through my expansive collection of toys. When you’re a romance author whose long-time boyfriend can’t find your clit with a map and a magnifying glass, sex toys are practically a business expense. I’m just reaching for my favorite neon pink vibrator when the banging I completely forgot woke me up reverberates through my apartment, making me yelp and drop the vibrator like it’s on fire.
“Han, you up?” The muffled voice coming from my front door clearly belongs to Noah, and my clit throbs in a Pavlovian-type response to the deep, gravelly tone.
“Shit,” I mumble, taking a deep breath to settle that bitch down and wondering what the fuck Noah Wyles is doing at my front door at…I glance at the clock and see it’s not even seven in the morning.
“Hannah! Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, wake up!” Noah knocks on the door in time to his singing of my name, and I roll my eyes at the cheer in his voice. My current half turned on, half annoyed at being woken up situation is really not working for me right now.
I drag myself out of bed and pad to the living room, looking down at my pajamas covered in cartoon books and catching a glimpse of my wild bedhead in the entryway mirror.Fuck it, I think. If Noah is showing up at my door at the crack of dawn, he gets what he gets.
“What the fuck do you want?” I yank open the door, and whatever else I’m about to say dies in a sea of regret that I currently resemble a swamp creature because Jesus Christ almighty, does this man look good in the morning. His brown hair may be sticking up in a million different directions, but it works for him. His jaw is lightly stubbled, like he hasn’t bothered to shave yet today, and he’s wearing another one of those fitted white T-shirts, athletic shorts, and flip flops that I would think are ridiculous on any other man but for some weird reason, on him, they have me going a little weak in the knees.
Clearly, I didn’t get enough sleep.
“My eyes are up here, Gorgeous.”
Fucking hell.
I snap my gaze up to Noah’s face, finding him smirking at me, a knowing glint in his eye like he’s all too aware my mind took a detour straight into the gutter.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What could you possibly want from me before seven in the morning?”
He gives me a lazy grin, not affected in the slightest by my tone, which is more than a little bratty to make up for the fact that he just caught me eye-fucking him like he was the last man on earth.
“Coffee?” He hands me a massive mason jar with a cork lid and a glass straw, but I don’t take it. Instead, I just stare at it.
“What is that?”
“Uh, coffee?” He shakes the glass a little, and the ice cubes clink together. “I thought that would be kind of self-explanatory.”
I glance up at him, and he’s looking right at me. “You brought me coffee?”
He smiles, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flip. Except do I actually hate it? I’m honestly not sure. My brain is having trouble making thoughts right now.
“I mean, I couldn’t exactly wake you up before seven in the morning and not caffeinate you. That’s not logical. It’s an iced latte. I asked Jo for your coffee order.”
I keep staring at him as I realize that this may be the actual first time a man has ever brought me coffee in the morning. My brain does a quick scan of my entire relationship with Brett, and I can’t think of one single time he ever handed me a cup of coffee. He was more of the wake up later than me and then ask if we had any coffee in a way that was actually a subtle request for me to make it for him kind of guy. And I did. Every damn time.
God, I was such an idiot.
“What kind of coffee shop puts coffee in mason jars?” It’s all I can think to ask right now.
“Uh, the one in my kitchen?” He says, voice confused, like he can’t understand what part of this interaction is tripping me up. Well, me fucking either.
I look down at the coffee and back up at him. “You…made this for me?” I’m horrified to hear the way my voice wavers just slightly as unexpected emotion swells in my chest. I bite my cheek as hard as I can and look back at the coffee because I am suddenly intensely worried that I’m about to cry right here in the entryway to my apartment. Fuck, I really should’ve gotten more sleep. And maybe not have dated a complete asshole for four years.
When I look up at Noah, there is understanding on his face, but he just shrugs casually. “I mean, I’m waking you up at the crack of dawn. Coffee was the least I could do.”
His flippant tone is exactly what I need to get my shit together. I take the mason jar from him and mumble a thanks before I spin and stalk into the living room, sitting down heavily on the couch and taking a long sip of the coffee in my hand. Of course it would be the literal best iced latte I’ve ever tasted.
“Good?” Noah asks, flopping onto the couch with his own matching glass of coffee in hand.
