Page 248 of Hell Hath No Fury
I stop in my tracks, having to scramble to keep my towel in place as I see that it is, in fact, not my best friend at the door.
Noah Reed stands in the summer sun, his hair almost as damp as mine, in board shorts and a tank, his sculpted arms at his side as if they’re just nothing special.
I shake my head, forcing away my surprise, and subtly check my mouth for drool.
“Um…hi?” I clutch my towel tighter around me, awkwardly lifting and lowering it in an attempt to get it to adequately cover both my breasts and ass. It barely does the trick.
I don’t miss his hazel eyes widen in interest for the briefest moment before he blinks and focuses purposefully, intently on my face.
“You haven’t been around,” he says simply.
I don’t know what to say, so I simply shrug, the move forcing me to frantically adjust my towel, yet again.
“I haven’t been feeling well, I guess,” I murmur uncertainly. It isn’t untrue, but face-to-face with the one person who knows it has nothing to do with the sniffles, I feel more naked than if my towel had accidentally dropped to the ground.
Noah nods thoughtfully. “Figured.”
What does that mean?
“Not sure you should be holed up alone, though. Jill said you had a cold.”
He asked about me?
My mouth opens, then closes, not sure what to say.
Noah’s brows furrow in a contemplative, worried way that makes him look utterly adorable. Not for the first time, I wish he wasn’t so good-looking. That he didn’t affect me in this strange, unfathomable way. It’s been that way since long before he showed up this summer.
“I just, uh, needed some time, I guess,” I half-explain.
“He hasn’t been around,” Noah says. “Berry.” As if I needed him to explain who he’d meant. “And you shouldn’t have to avoid him, anyway. He’sin the wrong, not you.” His eyes are suddenly fierce, adamant. He’s never liked Jonah, but his current expression reads more as utter hatred than dislike, and it almost frightens me.
“I’m not avoiding him, I just…” I trail off, because that’s exactly what I’m doing, and Noah knows it. He’s the only one who knows it, besides Jonah. I shake my head, trying to get ahold of myself. “Look, do you want to come in? I need to get dressed real quick.”
The slightest, barely-there half-smile appears on his perfect face before he buries it back under his concern. He doesn’t answer with words, but opens the screen door wider to lethimself in, and I back up into the modest entrance hall, inviting him into my space.
It feels strange. Like he’s too big for my small, cozy house. It’s been just my mom and me here for a couple of years now, and I’ve almost never had Jonah over here. And even when I did, Jonah has always seemed like a boy. Noah is all man, and the last time a man was here, it was my father.
I shake off the uninvited wave of melancholy and grief, and gesture to the old sofa in the living room. “Do you want something to, like, drink?” I offer, playing hostess.
Noah stifles a smile, like he doesn’t think this is the time or place despite himself, and declines. “Nah, Liza. I was just hoping we could talk a bit.”
Talk? Okay. I can talk.
“Just give me a minute.” I gesture to my towel in explanation, and Noah’s eyes follow, his gaze darkening in a way that I feel travel down my spine, and lower.
He catches himself quickly though, coughing unconvincingly and averting his gaze like some kind of gentleman. It’s quite novel considering the last guy I dated.
You’re not dating Noah Reed!My mood-killer brain reminds me. And of courseI’m not. He’s just stopped by to check that I’m okay after what he witnessed the other night. He probably just pities me.
As much as that sentiment makes me want to prove that I can take care of myself, I realize it’s a moot point right now, and I’m still way too naked under this towel. I hurry upstairs and throw on my favorite red bikini, pathetically trying to convince myself it isn’t for Noah. I throw on a worn pair of cutoff jean shorts and my Dad’s old NYU tank top—my favorite—over it, and forcibly refrain from checking myself in the mirror before heading back downstairs. Noah doesn’t care how I look. He probably just feelsresponsible for me or something, like I need him to protect me from Jonah. The thought is nauseating.
Noah stands when I return, looking me up and down as if he’s pleased with the view. I hate the way my cheeks redden so blatantly. Such is the struggle of the natural red-head.
I dip my face, as if trying to hide from him, and I don’t understand why. I don’t hide from anyone.
Noah approaches me, and before I know what’s happening, his hand is on my cheek. I meet his gaze in near-shock, confused by the emotion in his own. I barely stifle my gasp.
“Liza…”
