Page 33

Chapter

Twenty

“Hey, you.”

The words are a low rumble in Noah’s broad chest, a playful greeting as he eases the glass door open with his shoulder and welcomes me back into Alchemist on Monday morning.

Even as a part of me melts to see his crooked smile, I’m careful not to let our fingertips brush as I hand over his latte. “Morning, Noah.” I’m worried the contact would ignite the sparks of anxiety crawling under my skin.

It’s the first time we’ve spoken since yesterday’s game.

There’s a sense of expectation that buzzes inside my skull, a tension that has my head spinning and my heart punching inside my chest. Truthfully, I’d wanted to see Noah—alone—immediately after our game, but the girls had stuck around to gush about the session’s events, and Noah ran off to work after an unnervingly quick goodbye.

He’d stressed to us that Dan was keeping him busy with all sorts of ideas for events to host at Alchemist, hoping to entice new customers, and his eyes had grown big and apologetic when he’d caught my gaze on the way out the door.

It had almost been enough to convince me that my semi-confession hadn’t scared him away.

Almost.

But now he comes to stand at my side, hands on his hips and face tilted up toward the wall. “Today’s the day, isn’t it?”

“Today’s the day.”

As I stare up at the looming expanse of brick, dusty with lines of chalk, a sense of calm focus soothes some of my nerves. It’s just me and a blank canvas.

Today, I start painting.

I already know exactly where I’ll begin, which layers I need to map out first, which can of paint to crack open—but before I get lost in the exercise, Noah draws my attention back to him, brushing his knuckles against the skin between my shoulder blades.

“I need to run a few errands for Dan,” he says. “Anything I can get you before you start? More containers? Some music to work to? The ladder?” He pauses, and his jaw flexes briefly. “Actually, please don’t use the ladder until I get back.”

His concern almost distracts me from the dim disappointment of him leaving again.

“No, I’m good,” I say, my eyes still on the wall. But then the corner of my mouth ticks upward. “Actually, can you play some fantasy shit before you go?”

Noah barks out a laugh. “Can you define ‘some fantasy shit’ for me?”

“Yeah, you know, like—the stuff Liam plays during games.”

“You’ve given me too much to work with, Sadie.

There are so many subgenres to ‘fantasy shit.’ Do you want to feel like you’re riding into battle, or like you’ve been invited to Her Majesty’s midwinter masquerade ball?

Or maybe you’re in a tavern, being serenaded by a handsome elf bard?

” He sips at his coffee, and his sky-blue eyes do that blissful squint again.

Overcast. “Mm. Or maybe something to make you feel like you’re wandering through the forest, exploring.

On an adventure.” It isn’t a question. He knows.

“Yeah. That exact brand of fantasy shit.”

Before ducking out the back door, he turns on a video game soundtrack I don’t recognize. For now it’s enough to distract me. I let the ethereal chords from a harp lull me into a dreamy daze, setting the perfect tone for the scene I’m about to bring to life.

At the end of the day, this is what I’m really here for.

I turn and set my brush, dripping with inky indigo paint, to the wall for the first time.

“But how scared were you?”

“I spent that half hour of exile pacing around Liam’s coffee table and trying not to shit myself,” I admit.

I’m surprised Noah had actually been able to hold back from talking about it for the past few hours of work.

He’d returned around lunchtime with sandwiches for us, but with one look at my focused, determined brushstrokes, he’d left me to my task and gone back to work in the office, an amused smile curling at his lips.

I’d been so engrossed in painting the base layers of the mural that I hadn’t made space for any other thoughts.

I was shocked that I’d managed to curb my own lingering questions and nerves, but everything went blessedly quiet while I painted.

The curiosity behind Jaylie’s resurrection, the need to check my email for news about my next Paragon interview, the pull of Noah’s orbit and my fears about why he was keeping me outside of it…

Gone. Quiet. All I’d been able to focus on was the whisper of the brush against the wall. It had always been that way.

Now I sit atop one of the kegs with my half-eaten sub, admiring my progress.

I’d managed to lay out the entire mural in thick blocks of free-form color.

The trees that border the scene are a pale olive green cut down the middle with broad strokes of violet-black trunks.

The campfire circles the unlit fireplace in approximate tongues of pale yellow flame, which I’ll darken and give depth.

The subjects of the mural—the lone wanderer, his horse, and the stag in the background—have only been outlined in a soft gray.

I could have taken them further, but I want them to be the last things to come to life.

I glance down at the tablet in my lap, referencing the mural’s original design in my files.

“Did you think there was a chance she wouldn’t come back?” Noah presses, his voice drawing my attention back to him. He stands in front of me, his gaze intent on my face.

“Sure did. I tried to plan for it, too—tried to brainstorm ideas for a new character. But it started making me too sad, so I stopped.”

“So you’re glad we brought her back?” I love how earnest his voice sounds.

From my vantage point atop the keg, I have a good couple of inches on him for once. I narrow my eyes, skeptical. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you did it.”

Noah’s face freezes. His lips are still parted from when he’d initially asked the question, and he closes his mouth with a snap of his jaw and lets out an amused exhale through his nose. He still has that open, honest look in his blue eyes.

“Did what?”

Coy.

“How did you bring Jaylie back from the dead?”

“I told you, Loren’s got tricks.”

“Unless you’ve paid off Liam for some secret magic that we don’t know about, then there’s no way any of his tricks would have worked. Jaylie was too far gone.”

“Clearly she wasn’t.”

Though the words themselves are irritating, his tone is gentle and goading. He’s poking fun at me—and avoiding the question.

“Uh-huh.” I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. I press at his shirt with one stiff, accusing finger. “I’ll make it worth your while if you tell me.” My hand relaxes, palm unfurling until it lies flat against his chest.

Noah’s eyebrows shoot up as whatever implication he’s imagining plays out in his mind. “And how might you do that?”

I ball my fist in his shirt and tug him toward me. “If you tell me,” I promise, “I’ll use the secret to make sure that when Loren dies, he’s not left in the dirt.” I push forward suddenly, and Noah stumbles back with a laugh.

“Blackmail, Sadie? I thought you were above that.”

“The curiosity is killing me.”

“Can’t you just be grateful that she’s not dead?”

“No, I need details.”

He paces forward, arms crossed over his chest. As much as I like all his flannels, I like it more when he doesn’t wear them. I like to see how his biceps stretch the seams of his shirts.

Forget it, Sadie.

I’m reluctantly tearing my gaze back up toward his face when he releases a whistling sigh and says, “I suppose I could show you how Loren did it.”

“Really?” I frown, suspicious.

He tilts his chin up, playfulness etched in every line of his face. “Sure, if you really want to know.”

He’s up to something, but I’ll play along. “Show me,” I urge. I hold my tablet out toward him. I’ve already queued up the D&D reference guide, full of spells, magic items, and other secrets, ready for him to unlock the mystery.

But he sidesteps the tablet and gently nudges my arm out of the way.

He moves forward until his boots knock against the wood of the keg I sit on, until his eyes are a few inches from mine.

With his free hand he curves his fingers behind the nape of my neck, tilting my head gently to the side.

“It went something like this.” As his breath curls against my cheek, I catch the musky scent of some sort of dark caramel beer before his lips press—just barely —to mine.

There’s a moment where I think he might have reversed the spell as the shock of the gesture freezes me to a stonelike stillness. And just as the urge blooms in my chest to reach for him, just as my lips part to deepen the kiss—he pulls away.

A beat of silence hangs between us. His fingers toy with the small hairs at the base of my head while my hands flex rapidly where they sit in my lap.

He wears a small smile nearly hidden by his beard, while his eyes are bright with a curious, nervous sort of energy.

I realize after a moment that he’s gauging my reaction.

I swallow. My voice comes out just above a whisper. “Now show me how Noah would kiss me.”

It’s a challenge—and a question. I have to know.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The first difference I notice is the pressure.

Where his imitation of Loren’s kiss had been gentle and light, full of reverence and respect, Noah’s touch is hungry.

Confident. His palm skims along the side of my jaw, calloused fingers gripping my chin to pull my face down toward his.

This time when he kisses me, I can feel the tickle of his beard against my cheek as his mouth moves against mine, and I can’t help the hum that escapes the back of my throat as his tongue traces a line of heat over my lower lip.

I deepen the kiss immediately, suddenly desperate to taste the caramel I’d gotten a hint of before.

His free hand runs down my spine, curls around the curve of my waist, and tugs. I gasp in surprise as he pulls my body forward on the keg, my legs parting to either side of his torso as he presses his chest to mine. I can feel Noah smile against my lips before he draws back enough to meet my eyes.

A surge of amused frustration courses through me. Fucking tease —always pulling away just when I’m getting started.

But I won’t let him get away with it.

“You did that on purpose,” I accuse. I try to sound harsh, but my breathlessness makes it difficult.

“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to do that on purpose for a while now.”

“No, I mean—” My cheeks heat, and I fix him with a wry smile. “You did it to distract me. You’re avoiding telling me how you brought Jay back.”

“Is it working?”

Damn him.

I don’t bother to respond with words—it’s enough of an answer to lean forward and press my lips to his again.

I can feel more than hear his laugh in the vibrations of his broad chest, and I twine my arms around his neck as I wrap my legs around his middle, hooking my ankles together behind his back.

Taking my hint, Noah brings his hands from my waist to curve under my thighs.

Without even a grunt of effort he lifts me from the keg, and before I know any better, I breathe a moan of delight into his mouth.

I tighten my arms around him, but he holds me as if I weigh nothing at all, his fingers digging into my paint-stained jeans and sliding down to cup my ass.

My eyes had fluttered closed ages ago, so when my back meets the cold brick of the wall— the wall I’ve been hired to paint, I think distantly—I inhale sharply in surprise.

“You’re okay,” Noah murmurs into the shell of my ear.

“I’ve got you.” He draws a line of kisses down the side of my neck to my shoulder and then hums against my skin on the way back up.

I bite back a whimper as he exhales against my throat, goosebumps rising on every spot of bare skin that his beard brushes.

An eternity later—or perhaps just a few heartbeats, I can’t tell—Noah slowly eases me back to the floor. My knees are weak, and it takes a moment for me to feel grounded. Even as Noah takes a small step back, the air between us feels charged, like one more stray spark will send us colliding again.

I draw in a shaky breath and glance sidelong at the part of the mural I’ve completed. “So,” I say, a note of laughter threading through my words, “same time, same place tomorrow morning?” It’s a joke, in part—and a gentle test of the waters. How much does he want from…this? From me?

And how much am I willing to give?

Noah huffs out a quick laugh then shakes his head. “Let me take you out, Sadie.” He reaches forward and gathers my hands in his. “This weekend.”

“Oh.” My chest is so full of heat and warmth and light, it feels like I’ve swallowed the sun. “Okay.”

He bends his head so that his gaze meets mine evenly. I worry the heat from my cheeks might fog my glasses, as much of an impossibility as that is. “Like a date, ” he says meaningfully. He squeezes my hands on the last word for emphasis.

“Like a date,” I echo. I let the words hover in the air between us before I nod my head. “So you’re sure.”

He laughs. “I’m sure.”

“Then—I’d like that.”

“Good.” He uses his hold on my hands to tug me forward a little until he can press another kiss into my cheek. I love the way his beard feels against my skin. “Me, too.”