Page 19

MILLIE

Don’t argue with me

I love the warmer, humid months, but they come with hazards. Violent storms, deadly fires and right now? Floods.

A dangerous weather event is predicted for later today after three days of consistent rainfall.

Part of me itches to throw on my rain gear, grab my camera and set up a spot to take photos of the rolling storm clouds, but I know that’s stupidity talking.

Roads are under water, people have been advised to lock away outdoor furniture, and some homes have even boarded up their windows.

Growing up on the eastern seaboard, I know how wild tropical storms can get.

They’re no joke, with people getting caught in flash flooding and experiencing severe damage from weather events every year.

Ellis and I are closing Beans until the storm passes and locking everything down before we head home.

“That’s good enough, El,” I tell her, deadbolting the last window. “We need to get home before the weather gets any worse.”

Ellis closes the back door after bringing in the last of the outdoor furniture. “I really hope this storm doesn’t screw us.”

“We’ve got insurance,” I remind her. “If anything comes flying through those windows, we’re covered.”

“The insurance company always makes you fight for it,” she grumbles. “I’d rather not have to deal with any of that.”

She makes a valid point. We’ve spent our fair share of time on the phone with companies over the years. Paperwork for guardianship of Donna, Donna’s medical claims, getting our information on this lease. They were time-sucking, soul-destroying experiences.

Maybe you could slap them to speed things along? My subconscious has not stopped scolding me for my antics a few nights ago. I can’t believe I was so reactive. I’ve never been physical with anyone like that before.

I clear my throat. “How many people would you say you’ve given a good smack to in your time?”

“At least five incidents I can think of.” Ellis purses her lips in thought. “Matty Jenkins when he made fun of you. Bethany Butthole in grade nine. What a mole. I was in an all-in brawl at the underage disco?—”

“Ah, yes. I remember. Donna was so pleased.”

Ellis grins. “She grounded me for three months. I’ve slapped several men, all of whom either pinched my ass or a friend’s. God, maybe it’s in the double digits.”

Ellis has never shied away from a fight. She might look like a stereotypical Gold Coaster, with long, platinum-blonde hair and fake nails, but she’s scrappy as hell.

“You don’t regret it?” I ask, leaning down to pat Winston, who’s collapsed at my feet. “In this climate, with everyone crying out about assault and all that?”

She shakes her head. “Every single one of them deserved it. I’d do it all over again. Every single one.” She tips her head, surveying me with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

I shrug. “No reason.”

Ellis raises her arms and clenches her fists into a fight stance. “Did you get your dukes up, Millie?”

“I slapped a stranger the other night,” I blurt out. “It was obviously not my finest moment. He was rude to Noah, and I snapped.” I omit the comment about dying cancer patients.

Ellis looks mildly impressed. “How’d the guy react?”

“Stared at me in shock while Noah got us out of there.”

“Aww,” she sings. “You were standing up for your boo.”

I was standing up for myself, really. “Ugh. Gross.”

Ellis looks at me quizzically. “There’s no shame in standing up for loved ones. And he is your boo.”

“Stop calling him that.” I run a hand through my already tangled hair.

“I’m not ashamed I stood up for anyone. It’s the slap.

I slapped him. Imagine if he’d reacted and launched himself at me?

What if the cops show up here to charge me with assault?

He knows who Noah is. He might try to get a heap of money out of him. ”

Ellis’s eyes soften and she steps forward to grab my hands.

“I know you’re beating yourself up. Ha. Beating yourself up.

But give yourself a break. You’re self-aware enough to know it wasn’t your best decision and I’m almost certain you’ll never do it again.

From what you said, that dickhead deserved it.

Own the moment for what it was and let it go.

Stop creating scenarios that haven’t even happened. ”

I exhale a long and deliberate breath before leaning and resting my head on Ellis’ shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

Ellis pats my back. “What did Noah say?”

I lean back with a small smile. “He was impressed. Said he was half a second away from punching the guy himself.”

“There! See? He’s onboard too. I knew I could like him.”

“You do like him.”

As if his ears are burning, the front door to the store bursts open and we jump in surprise. Noah stands in the doorway, drenched. His black t-shirt sticks to his torso, outlining every ripple and muscle. “Good, you’re still here.”

I tear my gaze away from his body. “What’re you doing here?”

“Taking you to my place,” he pants, doing his best to shake off the excess water. “I don’t want you driving home in this weather.”

I still in surprise, waiting for a joke or a wink to come my way, like it usually does when we refer to our little secret. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Noah crosses the room to us and kisses my forehead in greeting. I grip the back of the chair in front of me.

“Ellis, you can come too,” he offers.

Ellis raises an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s very kind, but I’d rather give myself a thousand paper cuts than third wheel with the two of you.”

Noah snickers, running a hand through his dark curls. “You’d get your own room so you wouldn’t need to hang with us.”

“Don’t try to woo me with your giant house, King,” she retorts. “I can handle a storm in my own home. I grew up here.” She turns to me, a cheeky grin on her face. “Plus, Dahlia’s already at our place.”

I smirk. “You kept that quiet.”

“We’ll follow you to your place.” Noah rubs a hand of his stubbled chin. “Let’s go.”

Ellis raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Let me go grab my stuff.”

She heads into the back room, and I turn to Noah. “What are you really doing here?”

He frowns. “I really don’t want you out in this. Some of the roads to your place are closed, or about to be. It’s safer for you to come to mine until the storm passes.”

I tilt my head, unable to shake off the unease. Noah notices and he sighs. “Maybe it’s a good time for us to have a sleepover.”

I snort. “There it is.”

“It can’t hurt for us to post a couple of Instagram stories of us hanging out at my place,” Noah hisses.

“Yes, there’s nothing I want to do more than take fake photos on my unexpected afternoon off,” I huff.

“I don’t care if we take one photo and then sit in separate rooms until the storm’s over,” Noah grits out. “You are coming to my house. Get your shit and get your ass in my car.”

The demanding tone in Noah’s gravelly voice catches me off-guard and I falter in my resolve. “I don’t have any clothes packed. My skincare, fresh underwear?—”

“You’ll survive for a night,” Noah assures me. “And you can wear my clothes.” Ellis returns from the back room and Noah leans in. “Don’t argue with me, Maelstrom. Get your stuff. Now. ”

I glance at Ellis, who smirks in surprise at hearing the tail-end of our conversation. Noah calls to Winston as Ellis sidles up to me. “Is that what he’s like in the bedroom? Because good lord.”

I shove her playfully as I get my belongings, ignoring how my cheeks are tingling for a reason I can’t quite pinpoint.

Noah’s house feels different in the moody darkness of the storm, with rain splashing down the giant windows and flashes of lightning igniting the horizon.

Noah’s insistence of having me come over might’ve been annoying, but he’s been nothing but sincere and gentlemanly since we got here.

He showed me to one of the many guest rooms, gave me a change of clean clothes and a fresh towel so I could have a shower.

He even left a packet of sour candy on my pillow, which had me grinning more than I’d like to admit.

I sip on the mojito mix I whipped up for us, waiting for a microwaveable bag of popcorn to be ready.

Well, I’m trying to sip on my drink. Right now, we’re pressed against each other on his enormous couch, because Noah is trying to find the perfect at home with my missus during a storm photo for his Instagram.

“Tilt your glass to the right more,” he orders, his phone hovering between us. He’s pulled me to his left side, his arm around my neck and our feet up on our table. I’m basically stuck snuggling him while he takes shots of our glasses and legs and tries to get the raging storm in the background.

“Nothing like soft launching your fake girlfriend on social media with feet.” I hold my tumbler up. “People love feet.”

“Shut up, I’ll blur the feet.” Noah’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth. “The focus is your hand around that glass.”

I glance at his screen. “You’re doing it wrong.

Give it to me.” He hands me his phone. “Turning on the grid should be your first step and then you follow the rule of thirds. Where these grid lines intersect is where you should put the subject, and this horizontal line needs to line up with the windowsill.” I adjust his settings, locking the focus on the glasses we’re holding and lowering the exposure. “That’s better. Hold still.”

I snap a few photos, adjusting the blur to make sure our feet are covered, before handing the phone back to him.

Noah swipes through the photos. “Holy shit, you really are a photographer.”

“Thank you.”

Noah leans forward and, with one hand, swiftly removes his t-shirt and tosses it across the room. My mouth goes dry at the rippling muscles in his back. “It’s so muggy. Do you want the air conditioner on?” He leans back, waiting for my response.

Now we’re sitting arm to arm, with his tanned, taut flesh exposed and screaming at me. Do you know how hard it is to not run your hand over an eight pack when it’s right there , asking to be touched?

“I knew you liked me with my shirt off.” My gaze snaps to Noah’s face which is smirking with victory—he’s sprung me drooling over his half naked-body.

“Get over yourself,” I snap, my cheeks burning. “I studied pharmacy. The human body is fascinating to me.”

“Oh, so you’re examining me for scientific purposes?” His smirk has got even smirkier.

“Yes. I was thinking about how the word muscle comes from the Latin term meaning little mouse . Ancient Romans thought flexed biceps resembled mice and I was thinking you look like you have a heap of mice sitting under your skin.”

I’m waffling. I don’t know why I’m waffling. I don’t care when people see I’m checking them out. I can appreciate Noah’s physique and not have it mean anything.

“Right,” Noah says slowly, peering down at his abdomen.

Beeps shriek from the kitchen and I jump to my feet. “Popcorn’s ready!”

I duck into the kitchen, doing my best to not think about any more of Noah’s muscles.