Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“No. I have him for two more months.”
It came out wrong, but it rang true. And Joe immediately caught on to the fear that clung to the words like a stink. When it came down to it, I had no clue how Noah felt about me or if he would want to keep seeing me after our time was up. And I was too damn scared to start the conversation about that, because this was the first time anyone had made me happy, and I’d rather live in the dark than ruin it too soon.
“Gavin,” Noah said.
I dropped my hands and stepped away from Joe, but I was shaking with anger. His face was an icy mask, and when he looked at Noah, it was with pure loathing. But he was Joe, master of masking his feelings and remaining coldly neutral, so he took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and the hatred vanished. He yanked the envelope from my hand.
“Mel will be here in a couple of hours. And the chef is on his way.”
Noah finished descending the stairs but stood away from both me and Joe. It looked like he’d scrubbed himself clean yet again, and had thrown on jeans and a flannel shirt. Without his glasses and with his hair slicked back, he looked younger. Which made the unease in his eyes all the more noticeable.
“I’ll get going,” he said. “I don’t want to get in the way.”
“I thought we already talked about this,” I said. “You said you would stay.”
“That was before . . .”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Joe said with a sneer. “It’s not my house. I’m just here for the football and Chef Turner’s turkey.”
Noah nodded slowly. He watched as Joe strode out of the room. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”
I sucked my teeth and tried to draw him close to me, but he resisted.
“Noah, don’t be that way. Who gives a fuck what Joe thinks?”
“You,” he said. “Even if you act like you don’t, you know it’s true. He’s been with you for almost eight years. And even though you grumble about him being a smarmy douchebag, he’s like family. Which is why you spend holidays with him.”
“We spend holidays together because no one else likes us,” I countered.
Noah just shook his head, not even cracking a smile. “I really think I should get the fuck out of here before Mel arrives. He’s going to tell her, and I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving feeling like everyone is glaring at my scarlet letter.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic,” he said sharply. “I know what he thinks of me. And now that I know you’re bi, I bet he never wanted me for this position because he was afraid of exactly what he walked in on.”
“Yeah, and that doesn’t matter. You’re here, we’re fucking, and he can’t change that. It’s fine.” I snagged his arm and succeeded in pulling him to me. “We’re fine. All right?”
Noah pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. I rubbed his back, hoping to ease the tension, but he leaned away from me as if me touching his flannel was somehow worse than Joe watching our comeplay.
“I’m trying to be optimistic here,” I said. “Can you throw a motherfucker a bone? I want to spend this day with you. Please don’t make me beg.”
“Sorry.” Noah melted against me. After a tiny pause, he even drew me into a quick hug. All wiry arms and tightly clenching hands as the smell of him surrounded me and I got a chance to inhale his clean hair. “I’m just worried.”
“Don’t be. We’re fine.”
Noah didn’t look convinced of that, but he stopped fighting and followed me into the living room. I tried not to let it bother me that he sat as far away from me as possible. As long as he was here, I would take what I could get.
***
Noah
Chef Turner prowled the kitchen like a machine. Stirring, roasting, chopping, sautéing, baking, and making the kind of Thanksgiving I’d never seen before. Holidays in the Monroe household had consisted of a roasted bird that hadn’t been basted enough, stuffing that was a little too burnt on the outside, mashed potatoes without enough butter, and frozen corn. And we were all suckers for Entenmann’s pumpkin pie.
People always shamed us for our love of Entenmann’s, but it was our thing and we liked it. But that had been back when I was a kid, before my mother had finally decided to end my parents’ mostly platonic marriage and try to find something that would make her happy. Now they were long-distance friends, and I’d spent Thanksgiving either eating turkey sandwiches with my dad or flying out to see my mom so I could choke down the Tofurkey she’d taken to preparing.