Page 16 of The Photo
My palpable surprise must be obvious because he says my name again. “Rowan.” The way he says it is sexy, smooth and confident. It makes my lashes flicker and my pulse flutter.
I weirdly lift my hand like I’m answering a roll call. It gets as high as my shoulder, and then I lower it again. “That’ll be me.” My heels lift, so I'm on the tips of my toes, trying to appear taller than I am. It’s him. This guy makes me act ditzy and nervy.
Noah holds out a rectangle cardboard box with a clear plastic window on the top. “You didn’t get that donut you were after earlier. I’ve no clue what your favorite is, so I got one of each.”
I tip forward and peer inside to find three rows of assorted donuts. There must be twelve in total. Glazed, iced, powered, sugared and sprinkled. He brought the donut shop to the convention.
“They’re for you,” he confirms.
“All of them?” I say, trying to hide my astonishment. “You bought those for me?”
A tremor jars the universe. Perhaps it’s an apology for blowing my world up earlier, but either way, I’m floundering in the aftershock. He’s here. With donuts. And a voice that’s unbearably arousing.
In one sanguine step, he closes in. “Are your hands okay?” Beneath his cap, thick brows draw together, and he reaches for my wrist. My breath catches when those eyes, a shade of mesmerizing, study the wound. “I’m sure it stings.”
I bluster out a laugh, acting cool. “Pfff! It’s just a minor flesh wound. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You hit the ground like a meteorite.”
“Well, you were kinda hard. Is it any wonder?” I say innocently.
He tilts his head, and his lips stretch to a subtle smirk. “Yeah, I guess I was.”
In slow motion, he raises the heel of my palm to his lips and places a chaste kiss below the scrape. I freeze. My heartbeat loses control, slamming against my ribs like a woodpecker on steroids.What the hell is happening?I whistle out a breath and cradle the kissed hand. He touched me. And not only that, he touched me with his lips.
“Oh bravo! This genius offers perfection in shutter timing versus atmospheric ambiance. The depiction of light against the traversing arc is purely magical.”
I should turn to the flamboyant critic and thank them for noticing my skill, but all I can think about are the hot lips that were just on my skin. The contact still tingles. They were soft and warm and compelling. My head spins. And he smells so freaking fantastic. A blend of sugary sweetness and masculinity. Musk and clean clothes. Coffee and donuts. If ever there was a cologne to sell billions, it would be the scent of Noah Adams.
“I owe you a coffee,” I point out when my brain settles. “But the coffee served over there is gross, unfortunately.”
Noah looks at me and then to the wall of frames. “I’m good. We got another flat white when I went back inside to buy these.” He nods to the box.
“We?” I ask.
“You met my manager, Alexa,” he says. “She loved your dress.” The smile to beat all smiles, hands down, stretches across his face.
“Oh,” I reply. My thoughts have left me. Any coherent comments that could be made, have gone poof.
There isn’t one thing I don’t like about him, now that he’s a few shaky breaths away. He’s something else in real life, even more vivid and detailed than all the photographs I’ve examined. Noah doesn’t need filters or soft lighting, he’s a rare anomaly of sublime–drop dead gorgeousness.
I dart a quick look, hoping he can’t see the pulse in my throat tapping out the “River Dance.” “I unfollowed your account by the way. I think it’s best given the circumstances.” I take the box and keep my focus on the contents. “Thanks for the donuts. I particularly like maple custard. Chelsea loves strawberry glaze. I see there’s a good selection in here. You nailed it.”
“What circumstances?” he questions, staring at me when I look up.
“Oh, eh, the whole mistaken stalker thing. I’m in Ontario because my professor submitted one of my photographs for this event, and they selected it.” I twist my head around in the wall's direction and nod at the pictures. “I’m not the woman from that physiological thriller,Misery, if that's what you’re thinking. You've seen the movie, haven’t you? The one where the fan holds the author guy captive and forces him to write stuff.”
“I wasn’t comparing you to her, until now,” he drawls, clearly wondering if I am that very woman.
“I swear, I’ve no intention of locking you away in my bedroom.” I flip the lid on the box and sniff the icing.
Noah raises a hand to his mouth and laughs like he’s amused. He thinks I'm a freak. Broad shoulders roll back when his arms fold over his chest.
“Are you telling me you’re not a psychotic fan?” he asks. My statement has interested him.
“Nope. Not me.” I shake my head and pick out a donut. My hands need something to do, and my mouth needs corked.
“And you don’t want me in your bedroom?” he questions, eyeing me closely.
