Page 97 of Double Fault

“I’m never going to be able to eat again,” I whisper. “And we haven’t even gotten to the main course.”

With an amused chuckle, he nuzzles my neck, his breath warm. “You’ll be fine.”

I’m not quite sure what to make of the man snuggled up beside me. I never would have expected him to be so touchy feely.

His lips on my neck.

His fingers grazing my wrist. Hip. Shoulder.

Every touch only makes me crave more.

“Noah,” I gasp when he nips at the place where my neck meets my shoulder.

“Sorry.” I swear that when he pulls away, his cheeks are tinged pink.

“It’s okay.” I don’t want him to feel like he can’t touch me, but I’m also getting a little too turned on, and we’re in a public setting.

The slight awkwardness is broken when what’s left of the salad is whisked away and replaced with a variety of meats and side options. I try a little of everything, and every bite is as incredible as the last.

By the time our dessert arrives, I’m afraid Noah might have to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of here. I’m glad my dress is so stretchy, because my stomach feels near bursting. The logical side of my brain knows I should turn down whatever delicious concoction arrives, but when a ramekin of crème brûlée is set in front of me, I can’t not have a bite—or five.

Noah pays the bill, careful to hide the cost from my prying eyes, and after a stop at the restrooms, we head outside.

“Where’s the car?” Chin lifted, I peer up and down the street, looking for the vehicle that dropped us off.

“I thought we could walk a bit first.”

Shoulders slumping, I look down at my shoes.

He follows my line of sight, wincing. “Fuck, I didn’t think about that.” With my hand clutched in his, he guides me closer to the street and surveys the nearby shops. The one across the way looks as though it sells clothes, so we wait our turn to cross the street and head inside.

When the salesperson greets us, he says, “I need some comfortable shoes for my girl.”

The casual way he calls me his girl has my stomach doing somersaults. The declaration and the confidence with which he says it are a shock to me. They shouldn’t be, I guess. This is Noah. From what I’ve experienced, he doesn’t do anything halfway.

With a warm smile, the woman leads us to a section near the back of the store where they’ve got a small variety of shoes displayed.

I immediately reach for a pair of chunky solid-black sneakers. Do they go with my dress? No. But if Noah expects me to trek around London, I won’t be wearing the skyscrapers for shoes that Ebba forced me to purchase.

“I’ll check for your size in the back,” she tells me.

Once she has my information and converts it to European size, she scurries to a door nearby.

While we wait, Noah wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me closer like he can’t bear it if we’re not touching, and turns in a slow circle. “Do you see anything else you like?”

I bark out a laugh. “No. You’ve done enough. I’m not a bigstuffperson. I just like being with you.”

There it is—the truth that I enjoy spending time with this man.

As vulnerable as it feels to admit it, the way he lights up eases my apprehension. The genuine joy in his eyes makes my stomach flip-flop. He’s lived in a shroud of sorrow for a long time, but he’s finally coming back out into the sunshine. It’s hard to swallow the idea that I could be even a small source of pleasure.

“You like being with me, Curls?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough already.”

“Hmm,” he hums, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “But I thought you liked my big head.”

“Noah.” I rear back and slap a hand over his mouth. “Shush.”

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