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Itilt my head and squint, do my best to feign confusion. “Did you say Mr. Sawyer? I thought your last name was Meyer?” It’s the closest to Sawyer I can come up with under pressure. It’s a big, fat lie, of course, but from the uncertainty in his gaze, he can’t tell for sure. That also means he doesn’t necessarilybelieveme . . .
He’s about to step back, step away from me and distance himself, which is a sign of mistrust. I act without thinking. Again.
“I hate to admit this, make the math even easier to figure out my age, but high school was like twenty years ago. I don’t even remember the names of teachers Ididhave.” I close the little space between us, grab his forearm, yank his body against mine. His chest is hard as a rock, and I trail my fingertips from his defined pecs to the ridge of his hip, and lower.
He hisses when I dip under his shirt and scrape my nails along his smooth skin.
“I can think of better things to do than stroll down memory lane,” I whisper. “How about you?”
The smile comes back to his face. I bet I could get him to agree his last namereally isMeyer, given a fewmore minutes. Sex has always been my way to forget, and clearly I’m not alone. The conversation we were just having about his father is about to become a distant memory for Noah.
But this isn’t only about distracting him now. My own body trembles with real desire.
I sweep my other arm around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. He doesn’t resist. Just the opposite. His tongue dips inside, taking the lead like the other day at Mom’s house. Noah groans as his hand wraps around my back, and he clutches me tighter to him.
For a moment, we pull back and just breathe, heat building between us, our foreheads pressed together. Our eyes meet for a moment, those eerily familiar eyes . . . and I lean in, take his bottom lip between my teeth, and bite down hard.
“I like that,” he growls. “When you do that. When you”—I lower my mouth, nip at his collarbone, bite his neck—“take control.” He gasps.
I pull back. “That’s good. Because that’s what I need right now.” I smile and reach for the bulge between his legs, tracing the shape, teasing. Even through his jeans, I can feel how hard he is. Noah’s teeth clench, and his eyes light up.Mr. Sawyer who?
He steps forward, reaches for me, but I smack his hand away and shove him hard. He wasn’t expecting it, so he doesn’t brace himself, and his back hits the wall with a loudthump. The impact knocks one of the photos from the shelf, and it falls to the floor, dragging my attention with it. The close-up framed photo of Mr. Sawyer is staring back at me. My pounding heart screeches to a halt, and I take a step back, hand covering my chest as I work to breathe.
“Are you okay, Elizabeth?”
I look away and shake my head. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry. We’re moving too fast again.”
“I was just followingyour lead . . .”
“I know you were. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to play hot and cold with you.”
Noah rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a deep breath. “It’s fine. I understand. How about we sit down? Just relax. Want a beer?”
I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen. He comes back a moment later with a smile and passes me a bottle of beer. But my body feels tight now, anxious, like a snake coiled to strike. I just don’t know what or who to strikeat.
“So, darlin’. Um . . .” He gulps the beer, gives me a kind smile, and I start to think I should have just kept things going. Talking is dangerous when I’m not in the right frame of mind. “Why’d you move up north, anyway?” he asks.
I stare too hard at the label on my beer. It’s Shiner Bock, the golden sticker peeling at the corner. “Family problems. What else?” I take a sip and wince at the taste. I don’t really like beer, and right now I could use something stronger than this stuff.
“Yeah. I understand that.” He sighs heavily. I wait for him to go on, elaborate on exactlyhowhe understands, but he doesn’t, and I take a long moment to just look at him. Even now, at this moment, when I’m questioning my own sanity for being here, there’s something about Noah I like. His easy way of going about things, his calm demeanor—I can feel it. Like it’s seeping into me, making me calmer, too. I no longer feel like I want to bolt, escape him as fast as I can. I feel a pull toward him—physically and otherwise. But I need to keep focus, remember the conversation I had with Ivy. I’m here to get close to this man and get to the truth. Maybe I can still turn this night around.
“Did your mom ever remarry?” I ask.
He snorts before taking another swig of beer. “Nope. My mother, God rest her soul, was devoted to my father. She never got over him dying.”
“That . . . thatmust’ve been hard.”
Noah goes quiet for a long time. Eventually, he nods and asks, “Your parents still together?”
I look away, considering. “No. My father left when I was young. It was just me and my mom growing up. She’s an alcoholic.” I pause, looking at him while he’s busy staring at his own beer bottle. He seems reflective, like maybe I hit on something he’s familiar with, so I keep talking. “I don’t really remember my dad. He just took off one day. And Mom—I’d get home from school, and she’d already be passed out. Those were the good nights. Because if she was passed out, I wasn’t left alone all night while she went with the new ‘uncle’ of the week.”
I never talk about this stuff. It’s been bottled up tight for so many years that I didn’t think the rusty cap would ever come off. And yet the words come too easily from my mouth. Like now that the top has been twisted off, now that someone’s finally listening, the memories can’t rush out fast enough.
“Well . . . that must have been hard, too,” Noah says when the silence has stretched too long. He shifts uncomfortably. “I had one good parent, at least.”
I blink, wait for more. It doesn’t come.
“Which one?” I ask, my voice soft. Like I care. And maybe, oddly, I do a little.