Page 39 of When in Rome

His eyes don’t open again, but he does smile. I can’t help but sit here and stare at him as his breathing turns heavy and his hand falls away. I want to figure him out—but I’m afraid I never will. He’s gruff and curt, and also poetic and kind. He doesn’t want me in his house but he goes out of his way to make sure I’m comfortable and taken care of. He’s strong and calloused, but tender and affectionate. He’s not interested but he asks for another kiss.

I finally clean up the glass and cover Noah with a blanket, and when I’m buried under the soft patchwork quilt on my bed, I fall asleep to the smell of Noah’s cologne and the misplaced hope that one day we’ll kiss again.

Chapter 18

Noah

Morning hits like a brick to the head.

Apparently at some point in the night I stumbled my way to my bed. It’s weird how drunk versions of ourselves can feel like totally different people. For instance, now that I’m sober, I’m able to cringe that I was so drunk I only managed to pull my shirt off over my head and out of one arm. It hangs limply off one shoulder until I rip it all the way off and throw it across the room to my laundry hamper. Just that slight movement makes me wonder if someone replaced my brain with a spike ball. Hangovers hit different after the age of thirty, which is why I never get drunk anymore. And definitely not at game night with my sisters. It was the only way I could get through it, though. They continued to pelt me with questions about Amelia and it was all I could do to stop thinking about her. Alcohol was my only shield, which actually turned out to be the knife I stabbed myself in the back with.

I groan, rolling over in bed and wiping my face with my hand. I feel a soft scratch of something across my face and squint at my palm. A Band-Aid. Annnnnnd there it is. Fuzzy memories of last night come back to me. I remember getting home and breaking alamp when I bumped into the table. I tried to clean it up and then I cut my hand. And then…Amelia.

Oh shit. I woke her up and she took care of my bleeding cut and then I told her how pretty she was and asked to kiss her again. This is unbelievable. All the work I’ve been doing to keep her at arm’s length, and after a few too many beers, I try to pull herintomy arms. I’m such an idiot. Is it cowardly to climb out the window and hide until she leaves town? Even more unfortunate, it’s my day off today. I have someone who runs the shop for me on Sundays and Mondays, but today, I need my employee to go home so I can have my hiding place back.

Also, is that…I sit up, sniffing the air, and yep, that’s definitely smoke. I’m already throwing the covers off my body and launching out of bed when the fire alarm starts blaring. I fly out of my bedroom and into the kitchen where I find Amelia in her oversized pajamas, swearing like a teenager who just learned about cuss words for the first time. She’s surrounded by a cloud of smoke at the stove and fanning it with her hand.

“AH! Noah! Help!” She’s still swatting at the smoking pan.

I push by her and pick up the pan. She’s already turned off the burner, and nothing is on fire yet, so I carry the pan over to the sink and douse it with water. It hisses and pops loudly when the cold water streams over it. I leave the faucet running while I open the front door and a few windows for ventilation. Amelia is now standing under the smoke detector, swatting at it with a dish towel like it cheated on her with her best friend. She’s hopping to reach it over and over again.Hop, swat. Hop, swat. Hop, swat.The sight is too much. Before I realize it, my hands are braced on my hips and I have to angle my face down to keep from cracking up. It doesn’t work. I feel the desire building in my stomach until laughter is rolling out of my mouth.

When the smoke clears and the alarm stops blaring, all that’s left is the sound of my voice. Amelia gasps and walks over to me.Her bare feet enter my line of sight. “You arenotlaughing at me right now.”

“Iam.”

“Well…” she says, sounding righteously indignant. “Don’t! I’m so embarrassed!”

I raise my gaze and look right into her big beautiful blue eyes. They’re blinking and nervous—eyebrows crinkled together. I want to pull her into my arms and hug her, but I resist because that kiss request is still whispering between us. I can’t touch her again. I won’t. “What were you trying to do in here besides set my house on fire?”

Her shoulders sag adorably. “I was trying to make your pancakes.”

“With what? Gasoline?”

“Stop it.” She swats my chest with the back of her knuckles. At the same time, we both realize she’s just made contact with my bare chest. Her eyes drop and her voice softens, making me feel like she just doused me in lighter fluid and struck a match. “It was…” She swallows. “The butter in the pan. I must have left it in there too long.”

I feel exposed. I would not have come out here without my shirt on if I didn’t think my house was about to burn down to the ground. But here I am, standing in the kitchen with Amelia in my jeans and no shirt. Her eyes are eating up every inch of my bare skin. They linger heavily over my left rib cage where my only tattoo lives. It’s a pie nestled in a bouquet of flowers. Most people would think it’s a ridiculous tattoo to have, but Amelia sees it and her smile says,I knew you were obsessed with flowers.And now I feel doubly exposed because not only is she seeing my skin, she’s seeing my…damn, there’s no less sappy way to put it, she’s seeing my heart.

I step away and turn off the sink faucet so I can give myself a mental shake. Next, I survey the mess on my counter. It looks likea flour bomb activated in here. “So was this all an act to get me to feel sorry for you and teach you my pancake recipe?”

Amelia is near me in the kitchen again, and I swear I can’t get away from her even though I’m trying my damnedest to. “First of all, rude. I tried really hard to make these, but I couldn’t remember any of your measurements, and you don’t have internet so I couldn’t research a recipe. But! Before I added the second bit of butter to the pan, I made this whole batch!” Her voice is so proud and full of excitement that I have to clamp down on a smile.

“You’ve never made pancakes before?”

“Nope,” she says happily.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even before you got into music?” I ask in a skeptical tone.

Amelia taps her finger to her lips giving the question a second thought. “Oh wait, yes.”

“So you have?”

She rolls her eyes lightly. “No, Noah! I haven’t. Ask me a hundred different ways. The answer will still be no. My mom was a terrible cook, so we usually just ate cereal or threw a bagel in the toaster for breakfast. I only ate pancakes when we’d go out on Saturday mornings to a restaurant. And before you ask, I have no idea if my dad is a good cook or not because he abandoned us when my mom got pregnant. So, would you like to keep asking me questions that remind me of my fractured relationship with my parents or try my pancakes?”

Hello, foot, meet mouth.I am such an ass. But also, I can’t help but love the way she bites back at me. Every day she seems to be coming out of her shell more and more, and I enjoy it that much more, too. It’s really becoming a problem.

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