Page 39 of We Can Do
“Yes,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “I like you. A lot.”
The words are everything I wanted to hear and more. They’re gold, they’re sunshine, they’re the answer to every question I’ve been afraid to ask. I want to play it cool, want to give off the impression that I haven’t been thinking about him constantly since our last kiss, checking my phone every five minutes hoping for a text from him. But I’ve never been that good of an actress, and Noah’s honesty, his authenticity, makes me want to drop all pretense.
“Wanna show me how much?” The challenge comes out breathier than intended as I lift my chin.
He moves even closer, eliminating the last inches between us until our hips are pressed together. The heat of the kitchen is nothing compared to the warmth radiating from his body. His hands find my waist, steady and sure, and when he speaks, his breath ghosts across my lips.
“Would you like to come upstairs?”
The question sends electricity shooting through me, pooling as heat low in my belly. My “yes” would be inadequate, too small a word for how much I want this, want him. So instead, I just look into his eyes, letting him see everything—the desire, the nervousness, the trust I’m placing in him.
He reads it all, his pupils dilating, his grip on my waist tightening just slightly. Then he takes my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine in a gesture that’s somehow more intimate than the kisses we’ve shared.
He leads me through the kitchen, past the ovens and the cooling racks, through the back door I’ve never used before. The exterior stairs are painted the same green as the bakery’s awning, and they creak slightly under our feet as we climb.
Through the kitchen. Out the door. Up the stairs.
Up, up, and up.
Chapter Fifteen
Noah
My heart pounds against my ribs as I lead Alexis up the exterior stairs to my apartment. The weathered wood creaks under our feet, each groan making me more aware of how different this place is from anywhere I’d normally bring someone like her. The metal railing wobbles slightly under my hand, paint flaking off where countless hands have gripped it before mine.
No one else has been up here since I moved in six months ago—and certainly not a woman. The realization hits me like cold water. What am I thinking, bringing her to this barely furnished space that screams “bachelor who works too much”?
I pause at the door, my key halfway to the lock. The faded green paint is peeling near the bottom, and there’s a small dent near the doorknob from when I moved in and misjudged the width of my mattress.
“Uh, just so you know, my apartment is nothing special.” My fingers fidget with the keys. “I don’t spend much time in it, so it kind of looks like I just unpacked.”
Alexis’s eyes stay steady on mine, not even a flicker of judgment crossing her face. “That’s okay. I get it. I lived that waymyself for a while. It wasn’t until I moved to Pine Island that I even thought about making my house a home.”
The tension in my shoulders eases, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thanks. Feel free to still judge me, though. I won’t hold it against you.”
She laughs, the sound warm in the evening air, and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. If I don’t like what I see, I’ll go to my office desk and write a scathing review about it.”
My hand flies to my chest in mock horror. “Ouch.”
“Too soon?”
“No.”
It’s perfect, actually. Every joke we make about our complicated past—the review that nearly destroyed my restaurant, the article that brought us back together—makes it feel less like a weight between us and more like shared history. The fact that she can laugh about it, that she takes it lightly enough to tease, sends a rush of pure joy through me.
I spin her around, my hands finding her waist as her back meets the door. The old wood is solid behind her, and I can smell the faint vanilla of her shampoo mixing with the evening air. My mouth finds hers because I can’t wait—not even the few seconds it would take to fumble with the lock and get inside.
Her lips are soft and inviting when they sink into mine. Her taste an intoxicating mix of sweetness and something uniquely her. My head spins as her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. Every nerve ending comes alive where she touches me. I want to map every curve of her body with my hands, memorize the way she sighs into my mouth, learn what makes her breath catch.
But we’re standing on the landing in full view of the street below. Anyone walking by could see us pressed together like teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other. The thoughtbrings me back to reality, though it takes every ounce of self-control to pull my hands away from her warmth.
My fingers shake slightly as I work the lock. The door sticks—it always does—and I have to shoulder it open.
“Home, sweet home.” The words come out more sheepish than I intended.
Alexis steps inside, moving slowly through the open space like she’s taking inventory. I see it through her eyes—the bare white walls without a single photo or piece of art, the secondhand couch that came with the place, the trunk/coffee table I found at the yard sale and cleaned up, TV off to the side that’s rarely turned on. The kitchen counter is empty except for a French press and a bag of coffee beans from downstairs. A small dining table with a couple of mismatched chairs from the flea market.
The apartment looks exactly like what it is—a place where someone sleeps and occasionally showers, nothing more.
