Page 64 of Chasing Infinity

Noah and I haven’t really had the chance to sit down and talk about what this looks like for us long term. To be honest, I’m a little worried about how he’ll respond when I bring it up. I know Noah feels just as strongly about me as I do about him, but he’s got so much on his plate that I’m unsure where I fall on the hierarchy of priorities. I’m important to him, I know that, but important enough for him to stay?

He said tonight he’ll tell me about everything going on with this mess about his father. I am curious to see if that involves him divulging his plan for what happens after. If not, I’ll have to pull on my big girl jeans and force him to tell me what his goal is. For now, I’m pleased living in this little romantic bubble we’ve created. Still, the thought of losing him again makes me sick to my stomach, and that’s only going to get worse the closer we become to each other.

I tangle my fingers together, the worry returning and knotting low in my belly, thinking about why Noah’s father wanted to see him tonight. Noah’s kept me out of the loop regarding his father for the entirety of our friendship-slash-relationship. All I know is that Mayor McCoy has some pretty significant skeletons in his closet. With that in mind, it can’t be for a good reason that the mayor has summoned his son.

My eyes glance at the clock again. It’s only been a few minutes since I’ve set foot in the door, but it feels like hours. I’ve had one hell of a day. Making a decision, I go to the refrigerator and pull out my chilled bottle of wine. I pour myself a healthy glass and then strut towards the bathroom to run myself a bath, bottle and drink in hand. I’m sure Noah will be gone for the better part of the evening, so I have time.

I turn my favorite playlist on my phone and settle into the warm water once it’s drawn. I let the heat pull out the tension of the day as I lay back and try and relax, sipping on my wine. I stay in the tub until the water grows cold, then I get out, feeling like a significant weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

After getting dressed in my favorite pair of pajama pants and Noah’s t-shirt from yesterday, I glance around the apartment, looking for something to do to keep myself busy. I take another sip of wine as my eyes fall on Noah’s old duffle bag that is still sitting by the couch. My mind comes up with a plan, and I grin.

He’s been sleeping with me in my bed the last few nights. I have no desire to kick him out anytime soon—I might as well move his stuff into my bedroom, so he doesn’t have to wander all the way out here whenever he needs anything. I can clear out some space in my drawers for his things.

Plan set in stone, I get to work.

First, I clear out a space for him in my dresser, and then I go back out to the living room, aiming for his stuff. I wrap my arms around the large duffle bag, struggling to pick it up. It’s awkward to carry, and all of his clothes start spilling out of the top.

“Shit,” I mutter, losing my grip and dropping it all. His clothes fall all over the living room floor. I grumble to myself as I get down on my knees and shove them back into the duffel bag.

I really should throw everything in the washing machine before I store them in his very own drawer that I cleaned out. I think about it for a second and then decide that I’ll just put everything away so Noah can be surprised, and then I can wash things as he uses them.

My fingers wrap around a pair of his jeans, and I pull them towards me when I notice a black leather wallet underneath. I frown, reaching for it. Did Noah forget his wallet when he went to his father’s? When I pick it up, the weight feels uneven. I sit back on my heels and press my lips together.

Curiosity wins out, and I flip the wallet open, my eyes going wide as I take in the contents, my stomach starting to churn. It’s not a wallet, not at all. As I hold it in my hand the light from the ceiling glints off of the gold badge. I should’ve known what it was upon first glance since my father always used to carry one around. I just never expected Noah to follow in his footsteps. All these years, this is what he’s been doing, and I had no clue.

“Oh, Noah,” I whisper to no one in particular. “What in the world have you gotten yourself into?”

Chapter 17

Noah

The tires of my car crunch against the gravel of the driveway leading up to my father’s house. He’s still living at the property that I grew up in, but it’s been alongtime since that place has been my home. It’s located more on the outskirts of Willow Heights rather than being right at the heart of the small town. The house is a grand colonial-style manor, built on such a large plot of land that it has a private driveway barricaded by a black iron fence.

I pull up to the gate and hit the call button. Not a moment later, the iron gate creaks and opens, allowing me entrance into the grounds. As I direct my beat-up car down the long drive, it’s hard for me to grasp that I actually grew up here. My life is not nearly as privileged as it was when I was a child, and to be honest, I’m better off for it.

I park my car on the circle drive and then walk up the stairs to the front door. I give a tug to the bottom of my suit jacket, making sure it’s straight. Now that I’m here, I regret not bringing along my badge and weapon just in case this night takes a turn for the worse, but it’s too late now. I dampen my nerves as best as I can before taking a deep breath and bracing myself to knock on the door. I wait for a minute or two until the front door is pulled open by one of my father’s housemaids. She bows her head to me, holding the door open so I can enter.

“Mr. McCoy is expecting you,” she says, reaching for my coat as I shrug it off, and I grimace at the formality of the encounter. “He’s waiting in the sitting room. Dinner should be served shortly.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, and she dips her chin and then scurries away to go back to her work.

I stick my hands in the pockets of my slacks and stand in the entryway, looking around uncomfortably. Steeling myself, I walk further into the house towards the sitting room, which is just off to the left of the foyer. My father is lounging on one of the couches reading the newspaper. He looks up when I enter and folds the paper upon his lap. His beady brown eyes appraise me as he offers me a sardonic smile.

“Welcome home, Son.”

I grit my teeth but manage to stay polite. “Thank you, it’s been a long time.”

“That it has,” he says with a dark chuckle and then stands up, stepping towards me and extending his hand as a peace offering. I ruefully shake it. “Shall we head into the dining room? I’ve got the chef searing up some filets.”

“Sure, lead the way.”

My father steps around me and crosses the foyer into the large formal dining room. Memories of the many dinners I had to endure in the room flood my mind. My father always sitting at the head, as regal and untouchable as ever. My mother would sit to his right, and me to the left, his loyal subjects. How many nights did I have to sit there and listen to him sing his own praises?

Too many.

Not to my surprise, he takes his usual seat at the head and motions me towards his left, with a spark in his eye. “Just like old times, huh?”

I press my lips into a line, knowing he’s trying to taunt me, but I don’t respond as I settle into my seat. The house staff comes out of the kitchen carrying plates and covered dishes, setting them in front of us and quickly disappearing.

---