Page 13

savannah

An hour later, and we’ve only managed to dust off seven more questions because every answer ends with a laugh, a tangent, or a deeper explanation.

Informing Noah that I plan to eventually work with hockey players, but never date one, was exactly the reminder that I needed.

I can work—possibly even play—with Noah.

I can stop being annoyed every time he makes me laugh, and I can stop beating myself up every time I sneak a peek at those trouble-maker eyes or his slutty little hoop earring.

So long as I remember that nothing more will ever come of this, I can let myself relax a little more with him.

“Favorite holiday?”

“Would it be so boring if I said Christmas?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s my favorite too, and what’s the alternative—New Year’s?”

My cheeks hurt from the hour I’ve spent unable to stop smiling. I spin my water bottle between my hands before setting my chin on the lid. “I just really like the lights. They make everything seem… better.”

“Better,” he echoes .

“Yeah. Even the boring shopping center that you never think twice about feels better in November, when they wrap the lampposts and stop signs in Christmas lights. Maybe it’s the warmth from them? I don’t know, but they always make me happy.”

When I look up, remembering who I’m talking to, I expect to find an amused smirk on his face, but Noah just sits there listening.

“Umm, next question.” I point to the sheet.

He stares at me for a beat longer before looking back down at the paper. “Do you have a favorite quote?”

“Yes.” I nod my head, not having to think about it. “Trust the vibes you get; energy doesn’t lie.”

Noah’s lips move silently, like he’s replaying the words in his head.

“It’s—”

“Hey, Savannah.”

My blood slows at the annoying voice, and it takes me a second longer than it should to recognize who it belongs to.

“Tucker.” I force a smile, nodding at the guy now leaning against the table, looking down at me. “Do you know Noah?” I gesture across the table, knowing damn well he knows who Noah is.

“I do, but we’ve never officially met. Hey.”

Noah lifts his chin in greeting, but says nothing else. Maybe he’s taking my words to heart and reading Tucker’s bad energy.

“So listen.” He turns to me, lowering his voice. “I was thinking we could grab dinner sometime and catch up. It’s been a long time.”

Not even for every single dollar in the world.

“Maybe.”

He clears his throat, looking over his shoulder and then back to me, before showing off a smile so fake it resembles a plastic diamond .

“Cool. Alright—well.” He stands, looking down at me with hope in his eyes, like I might ask him to stay. When I don’t, he gestures to the table. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you were working on.”

I don’t say goodbye and Noah just tilts his chin again and waits for Tucker to leave.

“Another person you sometimes hang out with?”

Another person I got played by.

“Nope,” I say, popping the P.

Noah leans back in his seat, his arm draped over the table, flipping a pen between his fingers like he’s waiting for me to continue.

I can’t tell him that Tucker is someone I dated freshman year—until I found out he was using me to get noticed by my dad—without also disclosing who my dad is.

So I just watch the pen spin around his fingers in quick, smooth flicks.

“Ex-boyfriend then?”

“Not really,” I mumble.

Noah’s pen stops and I realize I said that louder than I intended. I groan, rolling my eyes, and plant my hands firmly on the table. “We went on a few dates. It didn’t work out. The end. Now.” I snatch the papers from in front of him. “Do you want to answer more of these questions or not?”

He watches me for a minute before he flips his pen again and nods for me to continue.

“What’s your favorite meal to cook and why?”

“Probably spaghetti. Mostly because it’s the one thing I can make perfectly every time, but also because I have some really nice memories of watching my mom make it.” He smiles, likely replaying some of those memories, and I bite down on my inner cheek. “What about you?”

“I uh—” I blink and look back down at the paper, pretending to read it. “I don’t cook.”

“At all? ”

I purse my lips, shake my head, and catch Noah’s attention dropping down to my orange peels.

“I never learned how.” I shrug, hoping my face comes off more nonchalant than I feel.

“Your momma never taught you how to make spaghetti?”

I look from Noah, down to my fingernails that I didn’t realize I was chipping the black paint off of. “She…” There’s a weight in my chest, but when I look back up at Noah it lessons. I take in the lines of concern etched all across his perfect face. “She never got the chance.”

“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Savannah, I’m so sorry.” His usual sparkling eyes land on me, but they’re dull—filled with an unspoken pain.

“Don’t be, you didn’t know.”

“I don’t…” He drags his hands through his hair, digging his elbows into the table. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice is nothing more than a broken whisper.

I reach across the table and cusp his forearm. He startles at the contact, lifting his head, his attention dropping to where our bodies are currently touching.

“Noah.” I gently stroke my thumb over his sleeve and he watches me like he’s never been touched or soothed before. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago.”

He covers my hand on top of his just like he did the night we met, and it feels the exact same way as it did the first time. Like he’s holding me to him. When he looks at me, I see the raw hurt in his eyes. He’s sad for me.

And even though I’ll never admit it to him, in this moment, I recognize Noah Kingston for who he is.

A fucking good guy.