Page 38

Maybe I didn’t want to. Not until I figured out how I was supposed to feel.
Because what if he’d texted already? What if he hadn’t?
What was I supposed to do with that?
My stomach turned just thinking about it. I wasn’t used to games, wasn’t built for the guessing that seemed to come with modern dating. I was old-fashioned in ways that made me feel both proud and embarrassed, depending on who was asking. Men were supposed to call. They were supposed to pursue. That’s what Mama always said—“If he wants you, he’ll show you. And if he doesn’t, baby girl, don’t you dare go chasing him.”
But Noah Dane wasn’t exactly the kind of man you could fit into a neat little Proverbs 31 box.
If I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait. I wanted to hear from him. I wanted to know if he’d woken up thinking about me like I’d woken up thinking about him. I wanted that second date—God help me, I wanted another kiss. But would calling himmake me seem desperate? Forward? Would it change the way he looked at me?
Then again … maybe a man like Noah didn’t care about who made the first move.
Maybe he liked it.
The thought made something low in my stomach flutter—half anticipation, half dread.
And then there was the other thought, the one I’d been trying to ignore since I fell asleep last night with the taste of him still on my lips.
What would Daddy say?
The image hit hard: Noah—leather-jacketed, gun-calloused, jaw sharp as judgment—standing in our living room in Estill, sitting awkwardly on Mama’s floral sofa while Daddy offered him coffee in one of those mismatched mugs from the church kitchen. I could picture the silence stretching tight, Daddy’s eyes taking him in like a threat wrapped in flesh.
Would he even shake Noah’s hand?
Would Noah let him?
I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. Only that it would be the most painfully awkward meeting in the history of the world—and I’d be caught between the two men who saw me completely differently. One as a daughter to protect. The other as a woman to want.
I pressed the phone against my chest, still powered off, heart thudding like it was trying to outrun the choices I hadn’t even made yet.
Maybe I’d call him.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
Either way, I had a feeling this wasn’t something I could ignore for long.
But I still didn’t turn the phone on.
I carried it with me to the bathroom, set it facedownon the edge of the sink like it wasn’t burning a hole through my palm. I peeled off my robe and sleep shirt, stepped into the shower, and let the warm water beat down on my shoulders until the mirror fogged up and my thoughts stopped spinning long enough for me to breathe.
I took my time.
Washed my hair. Shaved my legs. Moisturized with the good lotion, the kind Mama always said was for Sundays or special occasions. Not because I was trying to impress anyone—at least, that’s what I told myself. But because I wanted to feel like I was still in control of something.
If it was Noah calling, he could wait.
He was the kind of man used to commanding every room he walked into, every conversation he started. And maybe that worked for most women. Maybe they jumped when he called. Maybe they answered on the first ring.
But I wasn’t most women.
I didn’t want to be.
So I towel-dried my hair, pulled on a soft cotton dress, and did a few things around the apartment before I so much as glanced toward my phone again.
Only then—when I was good and ready—I powered it on.
The screen lit up slow, that little vibration buzz of booting to life crawling up my spine. My breath hitched when the missed call alert flashed at the top.