Page 4

Chapter 4

Knighted Wingman

June

T he Timberline Keg is packed.

It always is after a town-wide event, but tonight? The place buzzes.

Every table is full, the floorboards vibrate under boots and laughter, and someone just duct-taped a hand-drawn sign to the wall that says:

CEDAR FALLS—NOW ON THE MAP.

The ink’s barely dry, but folks are already quoting online articles—local blogs, racing fan sites, even one online motorsport magazine—talking about the Grand Opening of Mega Max like we’ve hit global fame.

I’m wedged between Scott Maddox and the jukebox, sipping my cider, pretending I don’t notice how my knee keeps tapping like I’m wired.

Tonight, I am revved up after spending an entire day in Noah Verelli’s proximity.

Too much adrenaline. And too many memories of one infuriating, cocky, dream-wrecking billionaire who kissed me like I was his.

“Alright, Kennedy,” Scott says, nudging me with his hip. “Let’s give the people what they want.”

I glance at the karaoke mic, then back at him. “You’re seriously dragging me up for a duet right now?”

He’s grinning at me. And I can see why every woman in town sighs a little when he walks by—he’s easy to like, and easier on the eyes. That lazy confidence, the warmth behind his jokes, the way he’s always game to make someone laugh. I get why they all think he’s the obvious choice for me. But I also know better.

Scott’s always been that guy—solid, dependable, and annoyingly heroic. The kind of man who’s never met a stray dog or a broken taillight he wouldn’t rescue. He’s all broad shoulders and firefighter heat, with a jaw so sharp it could double as a bottle opener and that easy kind of charm that makes moms swoon and kids feel safe.

He’s also my best friend. The one who shows up with coffee on bad mornings, whose truck I’ve had to bail out of breakdowns more times than he’ll admit, who once jumped into the lake fully clothed because I dropped my phone during a picnic.

I’ve rebuilt his carburetor twice, rewired his stereo, and once pulled a busted nail out of his tire with my teeth when we were stuck at the overlook in the middle of a lightning storm.

He's my ride-or-die since we were teenagers. The guy who’s always had my back and somehow never crossed the line.

And despite the town’s obsession with making us Cedar Falls’ next fairy tale, I’ve never looked at him and felt a spark—not the kind that steals your breath. Not the kind that ruins you for other people.

So, with all that goodness wrapped in muscle, I’ve never once looked at him and felt the sizzle.

He’s safety. A constant.

He's not my chaos. And I'm not his fire to put out.

He may be the town’s hero. But he’s not mine.

He doesn’t make me feel the way I did after that Verelli kiss that’s still feels imprinted on my lips—like I’d been marked and claimed. And I hate that my body remembers that kiss more than I want it to.

"Fine." I roll my eyes, but the truth is—I don’t mind. Singing with Scott will take my mind off him. It’s dumb fun. It’s what we do.

We climb onto the small stage, the crowd already whooping as the first notes of Rihanna's "Stay" roll through the speakers.

Scott leans in, his breath warm near my ear. "Nervous?"

I snort. "Please. I’ve survived seventh-grade talent shows and oil leaks on white jeans. This? Child’s play."

We always do this—mock duet, zero shame, fake romantic tension for the town's amusement. It’s a game.

"All along it was a fever..."

My voice comes easy, smooth. I love to sing, and when I do, I fall into it.

Scott takes Mikky Ekko’s part. He’s not half bad tonight—gravelly, raw, and surprisingly in tune.

We meet in the middle of the second verse, our voices sliding into each other like they’ve done this a hundred times.

And then it hits. The harmony.

The crowd hushes. A few people murmur “dang” under their breath. Someone lets out a low whistle. It’s electric.

And that’s when I see him.

Noah Verelli, standing near the bar.

Hands in his jacket pockets. Eyes locked on me.

And that look— that look—is fire and hunger and something I can’t name.

My breath catches mid-line.

Because he’s not watching the performance. He’s watching me.

And I can feel the heat in his stare like it’s crawling up under my skin.

Then I hear it.

From the back row, someone stage-whispers, “They’re gonna be the next Lily and Levi, just you wait.”

Laughter follows. Casual. Teasing. Because the town’s been watching us grow up like it’s their favorite long-running sitcom.

I cast a quick glance at Scott but he doesn’t react. He’s too in the song.

But me?

I nearly forget the next lyric when I glance at Noah again.

And that’s when I wonder—is he thinking Scott and I are singing this to each other?

Does he think those words—“I want you to stay”—are meant for Scott?

His jaw is tight. His expression unreadable.

On stage, Scott grabs my hand and gives me a twirl, planting me right into his embrace.

Then, I see it. The shift. A change blooms in his eyes like wildfire. Noah’s face darkens. Eyes sharp. Jaw flexed.

Worse? He’s looking at Scott like he wants to scrap him for parts.

We finish the song, voices trailing into silence. The crowd erupts.

People get up to slap Scott’s back, hand us beers, someone jokingly yells, “Just get married already!”

I laugh, playing it off, but my gaze keeps drifting.

Noah hasn’t moved. By now, people are coming to him—shaking hands, thanking him for the camp and the Grand Opening.

“Appreciate you being here, man.”

“Saw that article already—Cedar Falls is famous now!”

“You’re a worthy F1 legend, Verelli!”

And still, his focus doesn’t shift from me, even when his hands are busy signing autographs.

Heat prickling behind my knees. A pulse low in my belly I didn’t ask for.

I feel it. Everywhere.

Scott hands me a beer and leans in. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

“You sure? Verelli seems to have that look.”

I arch a brow. “What look?”

Scott shrugs. “The one you hate. Flashy. Cocky. Like he’s about to say something clever and undress you with his eyes. Or throw you over his shoulder. Not sure which.”

I blink and try to divert his attention. “You know, you’re basically describing yourself with the other ladies?”

Scott laughs but doesn’t back off. Instead, he lingers nearby—close enough to be a buffer if needed, far enough to let me handle myself. It’s what he’s always done. My shield without making it a thing.

I’m leaning against a post near the dance floor when Noah’s shadow falls over me.

“Hell of a performance, Songbird.”

My body tightens. Every nerve goes on high alert. "Thank you."

“That's it?” he murmurs, stepping closer, reading me like he’s hoping for a tell.

“Sounded like a love song.”

I scoff, but my mouth goes dry. “It is a love song. But you’re imagining things.”

He tilts his head. “Am I?”

Before I can answer, Scott’s beside me too.

“Scott Maddox,” Scott says, offering his hand to Noah.

“Noah Verelli,” Noah replies, voice smooth but steel-threaded.

They shake. It’s polite. Firm. Like a male-coded warfare, a silent showdown with plaid and precision jawlines.

“You enjoying the hometown hospitality?” Scott’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Noah steps forward deliberately, claiming the space between us like he owns it.

“Only if June will dance with me,” he taunts—right there, in front of Scott.

Scott’s jaw ticks—just slightly. He hears the challenge. Knows exactly what this is. But instead of answering it, he turns to me with that same steady look he’s always had. “You need a refill?”

I’m good,” I say, half wishing he’d leave me alone long enough to figure out what the hell I’m feeling.

He watches me for a second longer—checking. Like he’s asking without asking if I want him to stay.

When I don’t stop him, he gives a small nod and slips into the crowd.

Noah’s eyes cut to Scott. Then back to me. “So… he’s the hometown hero?”

He nods toward Scott, voice low, almost amused. “Your knight-in-shiny-armor? Everyone seems to think he’s the sure bet.”

My chest tightens. “He’s my best friend.”

“So, not your type.” Noah states quietly. Not a question but a read.

I don’t reply. Because my body’s already betraying me—skin flushed, thighs clenched, mouth still aching from remembering his kiss.

Then the slow song starts.

And Noah? He doesn’t ask this time.

He just steps forward and offers me his hand.

I hesitate a second too long. I notice Scott’s keeping tabs a few feet away. Then, with a nod from me, Scott takes a step back.

Noah pulls me into him, one hand at my waist, the other capturing my hand like it’s his.

The music swells.

We move slow. Close. My chest brushes his, and I swear I feel every breath he takes.

“You look good tonight; first time I’m seeing your hair down.” he murmurs.

“You say that like it’s news.”

His hand slides a little lower.

“I keep waiting to have a chance to talk,” he whispers. “But you keep running.”

I swallow. Hard. “That’s because you’re not safe.”

His grin is pure sin. “Tell me something I don't know.”

My head spins. My body is pure heat.

And when his mouth grazes my ear and he whispers, "Still pretending I didn’t wreck you with my kiss?”

I nearly lose it.

My fingers tighten on his shirt. My knees threaten to buckle as the shape of him brands into me—thick and solid, heat bleeding through every layer between us.

Oh my! I need a chaperone or a fire extinguisher.

And right on cue, my firefighter best friend, Scott appears—always just in time. His hand hands on my shoulder… and not-so-subtly nudges Noah’s away in the same motion. His voice? Cool. Clipped.

“Hey, June. Your mom’s looking for you.”

It’s a lie. We both know it.

But I go with him anyway, nodding, stepping out of Noah’s arms with every cell screaming at me to stay.

And inside, I know—if Scott hadn’t pulled me away, I might’ve done something reckless. Like lose my damn panties on the dance floor of the Timberline Keg. And the worst part? I wanted to.

I wanted to stop overthinking. Stop obeying the lines I drew for myself a long time ago. Just for once.

And the second I admit that, my whole body goes still—because I can’t believe I mean it.

Noah Verelli is exactly a vacation fling wrapped in a designer jacket.

He’s not staying. This is just a pit stop for him. He’s something temporary.

I don’t do flings. I don’t hand my heart to men, especially one with one foot already out the door.

It terrifies me—because part of me doesn’t care.

Part of me wants to fall anyway, just to know what it feels like to be caught.

Get it together, June!