Page 96 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
“Have you lived here for long?” she asks.
“A few years.”
This is followed by a conversation about the extortionate rents in the city. It’s an unsexy conversation, but when she leans over to put her glass on a coaster, her arm brushes mine, and I don’t think it was an accident.
That’s the thing about Noelle: she’s adeliberateperson, certainly more than I am. Even when she flirted with me in the taproom, it felt that way. Every time I see her, I can’t help wanting to muss her up, just a little. I think it would be immensely satisfying.
When our food arrives—lamb for me, chicken for her—we eat at the small dining room table, and whenever some sauce clings to her lip, she immediately wipes it away with her paper napkin, not letting it linger.
I clean up, then ask if she wants dessert.
“The bear didn’t eat whatever you have planned?” she asks.
“No, it didn’t make it into the freezer, fortunately.” With a flourish, I gesture to the ice cream selection. I couldn’t cook the curry, but I can still do this. “I can make you a sundae. Which ice cream would you like?”
“Vanilla,” she says, which is what I expected.
I might not have known Noelle for long, but I figured she’d be a fan of the classics, rather than, say, chocolate hazelnut brownie. Well, perhaps she’d have a scoop by itself, but not in a sundae. I’m pleased to have predicted her ice cream choice correctly.
“Okay,” I say. “Now sit at the table and face the wall.”
“Face the wall?”
“So you can be surprised by my creation.”
She looks dubious, but she does as directed.
I set about making her sundae in a glass bowl. Two scoops of vanilla ice cream, fresh berries—very curious that the bear didn’t eat those—a drizzle of chocolate sauce, a chocolate wafer roll, and chocolate sprinkles.
Then I make mine.
“Can I look now?” Noelle asks, just as I’m about to bring our bowls over.
Rather than speaking, I set down our sundaes, then gently spin her around.
“If you don’t like it,” I say, “you can switch with me.” I point to my bowl, which is filled with chocolate hazelnut brownie ice cream and rainbow sprinkles and multiple broken wafer cookies.
“No, I think I prefer mine. Thank you.”
She digs into her ice cream, and as I watch her slide a spoonful of vanilla ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce and a raspberry, into her mouth, I feel like I’ve seen her eat ice cream before.
Except I know I haven’t. We’ve only had two dates before this, and I remember them well. There also wasn’t any consumption of ice cream the times she came into the taproom.
How bizarre.
Setting that thought aside, I begin eating my own ice cream. It’s better than plain vanilla, though I don’t tell her that, even if it would be cute to see her scrunch up her nose.
Once we’ve finished dessert, I ask if she wants blueberry tea, and she says regular, nonalcoholic tea is fine with her, so I make a mug for each of us and we retire to the couch. As the tea cools, I pull her legs onto my lap. She releases the softest of gasps, and I’m acutely aware of the fact that we’re inside. And we’re not in public.
An Olivia Rodrigo song begins playing, and I ask if she wants to dance.
She shakes her head. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“All right, you can stay seated.” I cup her ass and move her so she’s straddling me. I sway to the music, and then I pull her closer and press my lips to hers.
She makes another of those delightful little gasps.
Kissing her, as always, feels strangely familiar, but no less exciting for it. The romantic part of my brain believes it’s a good sign, a sign this is meant to be.
