Page 20 of Just My Type
CHAPTER SEVEN
HANNAH
The early morning sunlight is filtering in around my blinds, and I’m talking myself into getting out of my very warm, very comfortable bed to make coffee when my phone chimes. I reach over to grab it and see Noah’s name on the screen. My stomach does an involuntary sort of shimmer, and I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t kind of like it.
If I didn’t kind of like him.
I don’t lie to myself. Not anymore.
Yesterday was a really good day. The best day I’ve had since I came to Boston five months ago. Maybe the best day I’ve had in years. From the minute Noah showed up with coffee and donuts, to our walk through the Commons, laughing when Elliot’s dog went bananas over her pup cup, visitingMake Way for Ducklingsand laughing again when Noah recited the entire book from memory, stopping for ice cream on Newbury Street, having an early dinner at some outdoor café, and then giving Noah all the reasons why he didn’t need to take one extra flight of stairs to walk me to my door and him doing it anyway, I felt the most myself I have in a long time.
Years, probably.
And then, when I got home, I sat down at my computer and wrote five hundred words that I didn’t immediately hate, and Brett’s voice was nowhere to be found. Five hundred words may not seem like much, but since I haven’t even been able to write ten words without existential angst and second guessing everything in months, five hundred words felt like a revelation.
Maybe Noah is on to something with this little plan of his.
It’s a weird flex, and I don’t hate it. Not even a little.
I click on my phone, navigating to my texts.
Noah
Check your front door.
Me
Why?
Noah
Just do it, Gorgeous. I left you something.
Ignoring the way my stomach flutters at that ridiculous nickname, I toss back the covers and head to the front door. I pull it open and don’t see anything at first, but when I look down, there it is. A mason jar full of what I’m sure is an iced latte, and a small, white paper bag. I reach down and grab both, peeking into the bag and seeing a chocolate chip muffin. My heart literally stutters. Shit.
Taking it all to the couch, I settle down into the cushions and pull a blanket over my legs before I click on my phone.
Me
No donut?
Noah
You said you liked muffins better. I made some late last night.
Me
You made this?
Noah
I had some time on my hands. I love to bake.
Me
A girl could get used to this kind of treatment, you know.
Noah
