Page 18 of When in Rome

Just like this morning, he’s behind me again. His arm reaches around my shoulder and he disconnects the landline, dropping the little curly cord to the floor. The ringing stops and I feel helpless to do anything but look up at him.

He’s not quite smiling but he’s not frowning, either, as he says, “Cavemen don’t need phones anyway.” He places a pair of pj’s into my hands.

I unfold the bundled fabric, and why am I not at all surprised to find that he’s handed me a matching, button-up, top-and-bottoms sleep set. Flannel fabric—slate blue with white vertical pinstripes. They look exactly like the sort of pj’s Gregory Peck would have worn inRoman Holiday. Sophisticated, wholesome,classicpa-ja-mas. Of course Noah would own these.

He sees me smiling at the pj’s and automatically knows why. “I have sisters,” he admits, and it’s truly a joy to witness his embarrassment. “They bought them for me as a gag gift at Christmas, because they say I’m like an old man.”

“Careful. That was a lot of words. I might think you like talking to me if you keep that up.” I smile faintly and raise the fabric to my face, running it lightly across my cheek, reveling in the softness. It’s a weird thing to do—and I don’t know why I feel comfortable enough to do it right in front of him.

He studies me closely for a moment and then looks over his shoulder, trying to keep me from seeing his smile. But I see it. “I have someone I have to meet for lunch before I go back to the shop.”Oh.Is that why he was lingering instead of going right back to work this morning? He has a lunch date? He said he was single, but I guess that doesn’t mean he’s not casually dating. And WHY does that make me clench my jaw?

He picks up his keys from the counter. “So um…there’s stuff in the fridge if you get hungry, and you know where the town isnow, so there’s a bike out back if you need to go in for anything. Call 911 if there’s a fire.”

“Stop, drop, and roll,” I say with a grin.

He nods a few times. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll see ya later.”

“I guess you will.”

Chapter 9

Noah

Beady eyes follow me everywhere I walk. Like annoying little gremlins that won’t leave me alone.

Amelia has been at my house for almost three full days now, but other than Mabel, no one has been able to confirm her existence because she hasn’t ventured out from under my roof, and I’ve kept a firmno-commentstance. I don’t know what in the hell she’s been doing there over the last two days because I’ve avoided her like I avoid Harriet at the…well, everywhere. But clearly speculation about Amelia—or Rae as they know her—has spread rapidly through the locals because my pie shop has had more foot traffic over the last two days than it’s had all month.

No one around here really listens to mainstream music, because they prefer songs with a country twang and lyrics about a man and his beloved dog driving over dusty roads. So no one’s been fanatic about seeing her or anything. No, they’re only in it for the juicy taste of gossip on their tongues. They hope to stir their coffee in Sunday school while coyly distributing details of the famous star like they’re graciously handing out hundred-dollar bills to the poor and needy.

Plus, they remember how it all went down with Merritt, and they want front-row seats to the potential sequel of my terrible love life. I’ve got news for them, they’re going to be sorely disappointed because I’m not going anywhere near Amelia.

Those are the only reasons they’re lurking around here. Everyone knows what pies I offer. They each have a favorite and I can name every town citizen’s usual order while flat-out drunk. And yet, they have all lingered and stared at the pie case like these little round pastries are a fresh invention.

“And this blackberry pie is filled with…?”

“Blackberries,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Well, I know that, but it doesn’t have any secondary berries in it?” asks Gemma, who owns the quilting shop across the way.

“Nope. Same ingredients it’s had for the last fifty years.” Gemma is around fifty years old herself, and also a town native, so she knows this as well as anyone.

She wrinkles her nose, admitting her stalling techniques have come to an end. I stare at her without a smile, willing her to just pick a damn pie and leave.

Phil and Todd are sitting at the high-top table, nursing the coffees they ordered an hour ago and eating bites the size of crumbs. I’ve seen mice tackle a larger mouthful. Thank goodness I can close up in about thirty minutes, and…wait, no, I can’t go home.She’llbe at home. What am I even supposed to say to her? How will I avoid her with so many hours left until I can justify going to sleep? I’ve been going to James’s house every day after work until I’m ready to go to bed just so I don’t have to spend any time with Amelia. But he told me—not very politely—to quit being a coward and that I wasn’t welcome this evening at his house.

I’ve been kicking myself for agreeing to let her stay the weekend. Should have turned her away immediately. It’s not like she’s homeless or penniless. And when I stop and ask myself why I did let her stay, I’m not comfortable enough to answer. Because I’mpretty sure it would have something to do with the way I lingered in the bathroom over her bottle of body lotion like a freak. I told myself to leave it alone. Just leave it ALONE. But it was sitting there next to her hairbrush and makeup bag and it was too tempting not to pop the top to sniff it like the pathetic piece of shit that I am. Even worse, I felt disappointed when I smelled it because I knew—from standing too close to her on too many occasions—that the scent was all wrong. It changes when it’s on her skin. Turns deeper, softer, and warmer.

I’m annoyed.

I’m angry.

I’m frustrated.

And I lean into those emotions like old friends because those are the ones that keep me from making a careless mistake like growing attached to a beautiful, talented woman with a great personality and a life farfaraway from Rome, Kentucky.

Gemma finally leaves the shop with her apple bourbon vanilla pie (the same one she always gets, by the way), and most everyone else, except Phil and Todd, clears out. I’m wiping down the counter when I spot a woman rolling up in front of the shop window on a bicycle…

No. What is she doing here? And why is she wearing my hat?

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