Page 5 of Just My Type (The Boston Hearts #3)

CHAPTER THREE

HANNAH

“ G oddammit,” I mutter, pacing my makeshift office, Twizzler in hand, willing my characters to talk to me for the tenth time in what feels like forever, practically stomping my foot like a toddler having a tantrum when my brain won’t make words.

Again.

But Brett’s voice sure makes an appearance.

Dinner is long over, and it’s pitch-black outside.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost midnight, which means I’ve been at this for three hours with nothing to show for it but four sentences, a nearly empty Twizzler package, and a ruined ponytail, since I’ve spent most of the last three hours raking my hands through my hair.

I knew sitting back down at my computer again after dinner was a mistake, even as I did it.

I knew I would end up spinning my wheels, and that I would have been better off curling up on the reading chair with a book written by anyone but me or binging one of my comfort shows.

But writers have no sense of self-preservation on their best day, and this is far from my best day, which means I’m bordering on desperation.

I groan up at the ceiling and then roll my eyes when my stomach growls.

On top of everything else, I’m hungry again.

I’m really regretting not eating that last taco I considered, but my little interlude with Noah played in my head all through dinner.

That, along with the way he sat right next to me, brushing his hand against mine when he passed me food platters in a way that was way too casual to be anything but intentional and knocking his knee against mine under the table and just generally being so completely there with his smiles, his laughter, and his generally cheerful disposition ruined my appetite.

Just one more thing to be irritated about in a long list of irritations.

It seems I can’t do anything about the writing, and pacing a groove into the floor while willing the words to come doesn’t seem to be helping.

I can’t do anything about the taco unless I want to sneak into Amelia and Elliot’s apartment, and believe me, I would consider it if I didn’t know what those two get up to after dark.

And any other time they’re within two feet of each other.

And I can’t do anything about the fact that Noah Wyles seems hellbent on getting under my skin at every possible opportunity.

And I definitely can’t do anything about the fact that even though I want to hate it, I don’t.

But I can get a snack.

In the kitchen, I study my emergency snack cabinet.

I take a single Twizzler out of the open package on the shelf, and then I grab a package of Double Stuf Oreos and a jar of peanut butter and take a Sprite out of the fridge.

My eyes bounce around the apartment, considering my seating options.

Parking it at the kitchen island means I’ll either be scrolling my phone or sitting here alone with my thoughts, and neither of those options holds much appeal.

I could turn on the TV, but I’m just not feeling that kind of distraction right now.

A glance out the window at the Boston night makes my decision for me. Detouring back to my desk, I grab my phone and give my open laptop the finger before heading straight out the front door and up the short flight of stairs to the roof.

I found the rooftop on my first day in this apartment. It was late winter, and I had just run away from Pittsburgh and Brett. I knew Jo was at the Wyles’ house for our monthly book club that I was supposed to join on video. But instead, I surprised everyone—myself included—by showing up in person.

Hand to god, I can’t even remember getting from Pittsburgh to Boston.

All I remember was leaving my Pittsburgh apartment after a moment that scared me absolutely shitless and then showing up at the Wyles’ front door.

I just meant to come be with Jo, but sinking into the combined comfort of my sister, Pam Wyles, Cece, and Amelia felt strangely like coming home.

Like nothing bad could happen to me as long as I surrounded myself with those women.

Later that night, long after Noah dropped to his knees in front of me in his mom’s living room, growling over the bruises that circled my wrists, and Jo tried—and failed—to get me to tell her where the bruises came from, and Cece showed me the most perfect top-floor apartment in the Wyles brothers’ brownstone she said could be mine for as long as I needed it, I found myself wide awake and restless at two in the morning.

Rather than tossing and turning for hours, I decided to go for a middle of the night walk to burn off some of my restless energy, but as soon as I opened the door to the apartment, I saw the short staircase, with the ornately carved wooden door at the top, like a portal to another dimension.

The curiosity I’ve always had in spades carried me straight up that staircase, and when I opened the door, it wasn’t another dimension I stepped into, but it was close.

Through the door was a rooftop patio—an empty square of concrete surrounded on all sides by a tall railing and a view of Boston that took my breath away.

It was freezing cold outside, and the patio was covered in snow, but I stood there for an hour, staring out at the view, contemplating all my life choices.

Ever since that day, the rooftop is where I go when I need to escape.

When I stand up here, surrounded by the city, it makes me feel like even though I don’t have any of my shit together, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Up here, there are no manuscripts I can’t finish or angry ex-boyfriends who still blow up my phone at all hours of the day.

There are no curious sisters and no readers clamoring for my next book release.

There are no couples in love that make my chest ache and no cheerful, blue-eyed man who I tell myself I find irritating but don’t really.

All that’s up here is the city I’ve come to love and the future, stretching out ahead of me, ready for me to make it mine. When I’m up here, that doesn’t seem quite so scary.

Pushing open the door to the roof, I set my snacks on the ground. Like I always do, I walk straight to the railing, taking a deep breath of the sultry June air and staring out at the view that never fails to settle my soul.

After I say hi to the city, I sit cross-legged, right in the middle of the patio, lit only by the lights of Boston, tearing open my Oreos, opening the peanut butter, and digging in.

At various points over the last few months, I’ve considered putting furniture out here.

A chair, at the very least. But then I remember that none of this is mine to keep, and it’s better not to put down any roots, even if those roots are a towel on the ground or a beach chair I order on Amazon.

If I don’t really make it mine, I can’t miss it when I’m gone. Or something like that.

I make a face, popping open my Sprite can and, in a long-standing habit, biting the ends off my Twizzler, plunking it in the can and sipping through it like a straw.

The rooftop patio isn’t the place for big thoughts.

It’s the place for the opposite of that.

The absence of thoughts. The place where big thoughts go to die.

The sugar and the night air work their magic, and in seconds, my stomach unknots the rest of the way, and my breathing evens out.

My shoulders relax from where I’ve unknowingly had them hunched around my ears, and my heartbeat slows.

It’s just me and my snacks and the late-night air, exactly how I like it.

I’m so relaxed that I pay absolutely no attention to what’s going on around me, and when a hand comes down on my shoulder, I let out a shriek, my own hand flying up and accidentally launching the Oreo I’m holding straight into the air.

“Fuck yes, Oreos!”

The deep voice has me whirling around, hand clasped over my galloping heart, and looking straight into Noah’s annoyingly gorgeous face. He grins, dropping down next to me and taking a bite out of the Oreo he must have caught in mid-air.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him as he chews. Is it possible to chew cheerfully? If it is, Noah’s got that move down pat.

Noah shrugs, reaching into the open Oreo package for another cookie. “I live here.”

“Not up here you don’t.”

He grabs the peanut butter jar, digging his Oreo straight in and bumping my shoulder with his. “Stellar food choice, Han. Oreos dipped in peanut butter is the absolute gold medal of late-night snacking.”

I grab the peanut butter jar from him, setting it on my other side out of his reach, trying to ignore the way Noah’s woodsy scent makes my stomach swoop and definitely trying not to notice how his white T-shirt stretches out over his well-defined chest, and the way his wavy brown hair is tousled in an effortlessly sexy way that makes me want to run my fingers through it just to see how it feels.

How the city lights play across his face, making him look even more gorgeous than he already is. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He swallows, stretching his legs out in front of him. “What question was that again?”

“Why are you up here? ”

Noah glances around, like he’s taking in the view from the patio, small smile on his face. “I love it up here. I come up here all the time.”

Confused, I study him. “No, you don’t.”

He gives me a sly look as he slides the Oreos closer to him. “Gorgeous, I’ve been coming up here since I was a kid and had to sneak over when my brothers and I would go visit Cece next door. This patio is mine. My favorite place in the entire city. Especially at night.”

I yank the Oreos back to me. “I’m not sure how that’s possible because this is my place. I come up here all the time, and I’ve never seen you here.”