Page 1 of Just My Type (The Boston Hearts #3)

NOAH

THREE YEARS AGO

F uck, I have to pee.

Badly.

Like, if I don’t find a bathroom soon, I’ll probably wet my pants have to pee. And while I often find myself in the center of attention for all manner of ridiculousness, peeing in my suit pants at the post-funeral reception for my oldest brother Jordan’s fiancée seems over the top, even for me.

I glance over at Jordan, who is slumped in his chair, one of his hands wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey and the other resting flat on the table, his shoulders a tight, tense line.

My mom leans down and speaks quietly to him, and whatever she says has Jordan’s breath hitching, his free hand curling into a tight fist.

My own heart clenches, my eyes burning as I watch my brother struggle to hold onto his control.

He hasn’t broken yet. Not since the night Allie died.

And he won’t. Not here, at this bar, surrounded by his friends and family.

It’s why my other brothers Elliot and Cooper and I decided to stay here in Pittsburgh with Jordan for a couple of weeks instead of going straight back to Boston.

Because the breaking will come later, and when it does, we’ll be here. Jordan will need us, and the Wyles brothers never leave one of their own in need.

But first, I really have to pee.

Glancing over at Elliot and Cooper, I tip my head towards the hallway where the bathrooms are and slide my eyes to Jordan. In the wordless communication of brothers, they both nod. A silent gesture of we’ve got him .

Breathing a sigh of relief, I stand, squeezing Jordan’s shoulder as I walk past him and back to the bathroom.

If I didn’t have to pee so badly, I would probably take a minute to appreciate the cozy, homey vibes of Fireside, the bar Jordan’s college best friends Ben and Jeremy built from the ground up right after they all graduated.

Jordan and his friends are a tight, close-knit group, and this bar has always been a special gathering spot of sorts for them.

Right now, his friends are scattered around in small groups with matching shell-shocked expressions as everyone tries to absorb the enormity of this loss.

“Can we leave now? Jesus, Hannah, you barely even knew the dead girl. Why are we still here?”

The male voice that manages to sound both bored and condescending stops me in my tracks just before I turn the corner to the bathroom, my stomach twisting at this asshole referring to Allie Hayes, the love of my older brother’s life and the closest thing I had to a sister, as the dead girl .

“Allie was one of my sister’s best friends, Brett. Hallie is devastated, and I want to be here for her. It’s what sisters do.”

Hannah .

I met Jordan’s friend Ben’s sister-in-law, younger sister of Ben’s wife Hallie, earlier this morning before the funeral.

The pretty brunette with a long ponytail, forest green eyes, and a reserved sort of energy about her spoke to no one but her family, giving almost all her attention to Hallie.

The protective way she had her arm wrapped around Hallie’s waist, as if she was propping her up in her grief, spoke to me, because I was doing the same.

I noticed how Hannah never left Hallie’s side.

I noticed how she took care of her sister with an efficiency that my chaotic nature didn’t quite understand but appreciated nonetheless.

I just noticed her .

Probably wrong to notice a pretty girl at a family funeral, but being just on the wrong side of inappropriate is very on brand for me.

And right now, I notice the pleading note in Hannah’s voice.

The way she seems to be begging this guy to let her support her sister instead of telling him to fuck right off with his gross display of assholery has a weird sort of dread pooling in my gut.

My protective instincts, already on high alert from supporting my brother through his darkest hours, scream.

Something isn't right here.

“Hallie has all her friends. She doesn’t need you.

I need you. You’ve been so wrapped up in your little romance book writing hobby that you’ve barely had any time for me lately.

Today was supposed to be our day, but instead, you dragged me to a funeral, and now I’ve been sitting in this bar full of depression and sadness for an hour. Enough is enough.”

My brain clocks and files away the words romance book writing hobby, but it’s the contempt in this guy’s voice that takes center stage in my mind and has my rage spiking so fast that my feet start to move before I realize it.

But before I can turn the corner, Hannah speaks again, stopping my forward motion.

“Just another hour, Brett. Please. Then we can do whatever you want. I promise.”

At the absolute defeat in Hannah’s tone, my hands curl into fists, and this time I do turn the corner.

I’m still partially hidden by the wall dividing the main bar from this back area, so I can see them, but they wouldn’t notice me even if they weren’t so wrapped up in whatever it is I’m witnessing right now.

When I peek around, what I see has me freezing all over again.

Hannah is standing against the wall, a tall blond guy in front of her with one hand planted by her head and the other gripping her waist. If I hadn’t just heard what I heard, I would have assumed this was a romantic pose, but my eyes take in all the little ways this is the opposite of that.

Hannah’s hands, flat against the wall, pressing so hard that the tips of her fingers turn white.

The rigid line of her shoulders.

The tightness around her eyes.

Everything about her says back off , and this asshole doesn’t seem to be getting the message as he leans in just a little closer.

“No, Hannah. Not another hour. Not five more minutes. We’re leaving right now.

Maybe we can salvage some of this day before you go back to hiding in your little writing cave and forget I even exist, like you always do.

Because why spend time with your real boyfriend when you can write about fake ones, right? ”

Boyfriend, Jesus fucking Christ. This guy needs a lesson or five in how to treat a woman.

“I’m on a deadline, Brett; you know that.”

He scoffs. “Deadline. Whatever. You managed to find the time to come here, so whatever deadline you have clearly isn’t that important. Now cut the shit and let’s go.”

At Brett’s cut the shit , Hannah’s entire demeanor changes. She straightens, her shoulders squaring and her eyes narrowing.

“No.”

Brett stares her down. “What do you mean no ?”

Hannah puts a hand on her hip. “I mean, I’m not leaving. Not now. Not until I fucking feel like it. My sister and her friends are having the worst day of their lives, and I’m going to be here with them as long as they need me. If you want to leave, leave. I’m staying.”

Fuck yeah, that’s my girl.

I mean, no. Not my girl. A girl. This girl. This very pretty girl with a steel fucking spine. Girls with steely spines are straight sexy. I’m allowed to think that even if this day is filled with grief, Hannah seems to have a boyfriend—even if he is a fucking asshole—and I still have to pee.

“The fuck you are,” Brett sneers. “Let’s go.”

He grabs Hannah’s wrist and tugs, trying to yank her with him, and she gasps.

“Ow, Brett, what the fuck? That hurts.”

I’m in motion in less than a millisecond. Asshole guy is one thing. Asshole guy who puts his hands on a woman is something entirely different. “Take your fucking hands off her.”

Hannah and Brett both spin around. Hannah’s face shutters, an embarrassed flush crawling up her cheeks, but Brett rises to his full height, staring me down, his hand still wrapped around Hannah’s wrist. “Who the fuck are you?”

I cross my arms over my chest and widen my stance, that protective instinct roaring back.

“I’m the guy telling you to drop her wrist and take a step back.

She obviously doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, and honestly, with the way you’re acting like a first-class fucking asshole, who could blame her? ”

“Noah, seriously, it’s fine. We’re fine,” Hannah stammers, her eyes bouncing around the small space, looking anywhere but at me.

“Yeah, Noah,” Brett says sarcastically. “We’re fine. We were just leaving, right, Hannah?”

Hannah cringes like she has no interest in leaving with this guy, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let her walk out that door alone with him.

“Right, Hannah?” Brett repeats sharply.

I look at Hannah, silently begging her to look back at me, but she doesn’t. “Hannah,” I say softly, ignoring Brett completely. “Stay or go?”

She pauses, still not looking at me, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And then.

“Stay.”

She whispers the word, but I hear it, and obviously Brett does too, because with a disgusted sigh, he releases her arm, dropping it with just enough force to knock Hannah back a step.

“Fuck, fine,” he says, his voice laced with irritation. “Stay if you want, but I’m out of here. Don’t call me later. I’ll be busy.” He turns and, without a backwards glance, stalks towards the front of the bar and straight out the door.

Hannah’s sharp intake of breath has all my attention whipping back to her.

With a shuddery exhale, she slides down the wall until she’s sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, and her arms wrapped around her legs.

Without a second thought, I crouch in front of her, placing a slow and tentative hand on hers.

When she doesn’t move away from my touch, I slide a finger under her chin, tipping it up so her eyes finally meet mine.

The air leaves my lungs, and my heart knocks in my chest at the sight of Hannah’s deep green eyes, full of anger and devastation.

My world tips on its axis as I take in her pretty pink lips, the light spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the way a few pieces of hair escape her ponytail to frame her face.

She’s so beautiful.

Just my type, but so completely not mine, I remind myself, picking up her hand to study her wrist.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask gently, running a hand over the thin skin on the inside of her wrist.

Something about the question, or the way I’m touching her, seems to activate Hannah. She shoots to her feet so fast I almost careen backwards.

“I’m fine,” Hannah spits, brushing off her dress. “I don’t need saving. ”

I stand, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’m not here to save you—you look like you can save yourself just fine. But I saw him put his hands on you, and, well, I can’t see that and do nothing. I’m just not that kind of guy.”

Hannah slams her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting lasers. “And exactly what kind of guy are you?”

I go for casual even though what I am is undeniably turned on by Hannah’s fire, with a side of worry in my gut because she is probably going home to Asshole McAnger Issues tonight, and no part of me likes that.

“I’m just a guy, standing in front of a girl, asking her if she wants to get another drink at the bar. ”

Hannah narrows her eyes at me. “Are you really quoting Notting Hill to me right now?”

I grin, thrilled she got the reference. “Gorgeous, if one has a choice between quoting Notting Hill and not quoting Notting Hill , you quote Notting Hill . It’s Julia Roberts at her absolute finest.”

“Most people say that’s Pretty Woman .”

I shrug. “Most people would be wrong. So, drink? It’s been a long fucking day. And I can get Ben to grab some ice for your wrist.”

I mentally kick myself in the balls the second Hannah’s face goes stony. That was exactly the wrong thing to say. “My wrist is none of your business. None of this is your business. I’m fine, and I have to get back to my sister. Just forget what you saw and go find someone else to bother.”

With that, she sweeps past me, the smell of vanilla invading my senses as she walks away, hips swinging in her black dress and her golden-brown ponytail bouncing.

As I stand there, eyes glued to her back as I watch her go, I know two things with absolute certainty.

Hannah Evans has officially taken up permanent residence in my brain, and I still really, really need to pee.