Page 90 of The One Night Dash
Hand in hand, we cross the street to the coffee shop and walk in. I inhale the scent of espresso and cinnamon sugar, the kind that seeps into your bones and whispers’ good morning,’ soothing the screaming sound of your alarm that wakes you and makes you hate mornings, but instead allows you to feel joy about a new day,a new chapter.
We wait in line with him behind me, in the same position we were during the awards at the trot—his arm loosely stretched across my shoulders, one hand on the other, chin on my Yankees hat, and not that … thing Mom had us wearing, me leaning into him.
“Hey, Noelle,” Elliot says when we finally get to the front of the line, offering an easy smile. “Long time.”
“Happy Sunday, Elliot.”
Dash’s body stiffens behind me, and I look over my shoulder. His brows knit, his jaw sets, and I canseeit happen—the instant recognition. He knows. Somehow, he knows this is the one. The man I turned into words. The muse for my book.
Shhhiiiittttt.
Elliot draws my attention back to him, asking, “How was the wedding?”
I feel Dash’s hand tighten just a bit, steady but also … claiming. Protective. And all I can think is,How do I explain this without unraveling everything?
Think, think, think …
“It was a wedding.” I laugh lightly. “But we had fun, regardless.”
Elliot finally looks up at Dash, and then his head snaps in recognition. “You’re Dash?—”
“Noelle’s boyfriend.”
Swoooooon.
TWENTY-TWO
DASH
Noelle’s boyfriend.
I said it without thinking, maybe even a little too sharply, but hell if I’ve ever remembered liking the taste of words more. Boyfriend. Hers. Mine. Ours. We’re a fucking team. Team Pembrooke-Sterling, or hell, Sterling-Pembrooke sounds even better right now.
Elliot blinks, as if he’s been caught staring too long at the sun. Good. Let him. Because I’ve got no problem burning this image into his brain. Me and Noelle, how at ease she is with me close to her like this. The kind of closeness anyone can see and fools like him can think they can mimic with a girl like her.
Inside, though? My head is a goddamn carnival ride—lurching, looping, throwing me upside down. I know who he is. Not in a name, not in a history, but in her pages. He’s fucking Emmett. The one she wrote when maybe she couldn’t allow herself to feel. The man who lived in her imagination as a hero. And I hate him. Not Elliot—he seems to be catching on that he’s just a guy who makes lattes and probably listens to indie bands nobody’s heard of and would never get down to Taylor Swift. I hateEmmett.The placeholder. The safety net.
Okay, maybe hate is a strong word, and not really what I’m feeling. Why? He’s the fantasy that kept her believing in love when my estranged cousin—that piece of shit—stole things from her he had no right to.
My jaw aches. I force myself to unclench it. The last thing I’ll ever do is make her feel cornered. Not by me. Not physically, not emotionally, not ever. If she wants out, I’ll let her walk, even if it kills me. But it won’t last. We belong together. I should go see that old Mama Fratelli-looking bitch and tell her she didn’t ruin me, my mother, my sisters, my family. In fact, in a horrific way, her hate did what hate does until love eventually erupts in such a way that the whole world can see it.
We take a small table by the front window, sun pouring in, bowls steaming between us. She asked if I wanted to take it back to her place, and maybe the smart, quiet choice would’ve been yes. Private. Safe.
But no, not today. Today, I want Elliot to see. I want him to clock the way she curls into me, the way my hand rests easily over hers, the way her eyes—those eyes—find mine every time I speak. I want him to know he’s not just some muse anymore. She’s my life. My present. My future. I want him to commit it to memory.
Inside, I’m promising myself that nothing—no one—is ever going to make her feel trapped again. Not Elliot. Not Emmett. Not my cousin’s ghost. Not even me.
So, I lean back in my chair, stretch my legs out under the table like I own the whole damn shop, and grin at her. Out loud, I say, “This is good, right? Protein bowls. Starting our day off right.”
She looks at me, slightly amused, and responds a little louder than she’d normally speak. “Yeah?”
I narrow my eyes, realizing she’s caught on to my play, and she cocks her head to the side.
“I have about a dozen unfinished manuscripts. One about Rocky, the sanitation worker. Another about the single daddy crossing guard name Clarence. Oh, and one about a shifting squirrel.” She nods toward the window. “I filed that away when Milo, my favorite squirrel to watch from my window, got flattened by Rocky’s truck on a quiet yet smelly Monday when Clarence missed work for the first time since I moved in.”
I bite back a laugh. “I wasn’t worried about you.” I motion between us. “We’re long game, unbreakable, Noelle Pembrooke. Just gonna make sure Elliot knows that.”
“Really love that you have that kind of faith in us.” She sips her coffee with a smirk, then smiles past me, and I look back. She whispers, “That’s Sandra. She’s got a huge crush on Elliot, who has yet to realize how awesome she is.”
