Читать книгу Her Festive Flirtation - Therese Beharrie - Страница 12

WHEN HE’D STUDIED photography after school it had been because he’d had a passion for it. He’d enjoyed the challenge of seeing things in new ways. In ways others didn’t. He’d created a website to show off his work, and when he’d received that first enquiry to use one of his pictures he’d realised he could use his passion to make money.

Soon his photos had garnered more attention. And then a photo editor for a popular nature magazine had reached out to him about a job in Namibia. And suddenly he’d realised he could use his passion to give in to his wanderlust.

He supposed his surname had given him a push that most twenty-year-olds didn’t get. The Giles name was still synonymous with the media empire his great-great-uncle had created. The empire that had been passed down to his grandfather, when his great-great-uncle had died childless, and then down to his father.

Having an empire and money behind him had meant he could take only the jobs that interested him. That he’d been able to use his skill and passion for jobs that meant something to the world. That he’d been able to use the money he didn’t need to invest in properties back home in South Africa and wherever else his heart desired.

All while avoiding the pitfalls of settling down. The trap he’d seen his father fall into over and over again since his mother had died. But he couldn’t deny that it felt good to have a place of his own. Not somewhere he just stayed, but somewhere he lived.

He’d only been back in Cape Town for a fortnight, but it was a source of pride for him. And never more than at this moment, as he showed Ava to his spare bedroom.

When she’d disappeared into the bathroom he went to his own room and put some of the spare clothing he had there in hers. And then he went back to the kitchen, to start on the meal he’d promised her. Which, he thought even before he reached the kitchen, was a stupid idea. On his best days he could manage to fry an egg. And it would usually end up deformed. Edible, but deformed.

It would definitely not be the kind of warm meal he’d promised Ava, so he called the twenty-four-hour deli up the road. He was almost out through the door to go and fetch the food, too, before he realised he looked like crap. He’d changed out of his firefighter’s uniform before going to the hospital, but he was still sweaty and grimy. And fairly certain he would not have wanted to meet himself, let alone hand over food to someone looking like he did at that moment.

He went to his room, threw off his clothes and headed to the shower. He heaved a sigh when the water hit his body. It kneaded muscles he hadn’t realised were tight and painful. It also reminded him that he’d stuffed a cat into his jacket and the cat had not appreciated it.

He washed his hair, his body and then, feeling faintly human again, put on clean clothes. But before he put on his top he realised he should probably put something on the scratches on his stomach. They were deeper than he’d first realised. So he grabbed his top, heading to the kitchen where he kept the first-aid kit.

‘I thought they fixed everything at the hospital.’

He was halfway through putting salve on the scratches when she spoke. He glanced back, and his throat dried when he saw her in his clothes.

They were too big for her, but they looked better on her than they ever had on him.

‘Uh...they did. But they also took me at my word when I told them I had no external injuries. I forgot about these.’

She walked around the counter and he got a whiff of the fruity scent of the shower gel he’d put in his spare bathroom. It smelled a hell of a lot sexier on her than it did in the bottle.

Oh, boy.

‘Which external injuries?’ she said, and then, though he tried to angle his body away from her, she sucked in her breath. ‘Oh, crap,’ she said on an exhale. ‘Did Zorro do this to you?’

‘No,’ he said dryly, struggling for normality. ‘It was some other cat I put next to my stomach.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and then she took the salve from him and began to smear it gently on his scratches. He felt his torso tremble—saw it, too, though he tried to ignore it—and hoped Ava wouldn’t notice.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Is it painful? It’s a lot more enthusiastic than I’d expect from Zorro.’

‘It’s fine.’ He gritted his teeth as her hand moved lower, down to the scratches near the waistband of his pants.

‘Clearly it isn’t.’

Her touch was still light, still gentle, but when she moved lower still he grabbed her wrist.

‘It’s fine, Ava.’

The words were said in a harsher voice than he’d intended, and her eyes widened. But that was better than having her move any lower and having his body respond in an unpredictable way—or a very predictable way. He was only just clinging to his control as it was.

‘I’m—I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

He was still holding on to her hand, but he softened his voice. And then she looked at him and his world tilted.

Uh-oh.

What the hell was she doing?

She’d acted without thinking. Or she had been thinking, but not about how it would feel to be touching Noah’s bare torso. No, she’d been thinking about how her cat had hurt him. How her cat had hurt him because of her. Because Noah had gone back to save Zorro so she wouldn’t have to.

But she wasn’t thinking about that now either.

In fact, she couldn’t be sure that she was thinking at all. Because now she was caught in Noah’s gaze when she was pretty sure she shouldn’t be. He was so close she could see the grey flecks in his blue eyes. She could see the emotions there, too.

The caution. The interest. The desire.

It had her remembering that he still had her wrist in his hand. And that realisation sent a heady heat slithering from the contact, up and around her arm, settling much too close to her chest. To her heart.

Her other hand was still braced on the lower half of his body. Much too close to his—

‘Um...’ she said, pulling her hands from his body and stepping back. ‘It’s probably okay now.’

‘Yeah,’ he replied in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat. ‘It was fine before you came in.’

‘Of course.’

There was an awkward beat of silence, but Ava took solace in the fact that it came from both of them. She hadn’t been the only one acting stupidly. She hadn’t been the only one affected.

But thinking about it like that didn’t comfort her as much as she’d hoped.

‘Could you pass me my top?’ Noah asked after a few moments.

‘Yeah, sure.’ She paused. ‘Where is it?’

‘Behind you.’

When she turned back to hand it to him there was a slight smile on his face.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, pulling on his top.

Disappointment sailed through her as she said goodbye to his abs.

‘I was just thinking it’s going to be an interesting wedding.’

‘That’s one way to put it.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘I think that I need to get through it in any way that I can. Which,’ she said, considering, ‘might involve alcohol.’

‘Ah. You’re old enough to drink now, aren’t you?’

She cocked an eyebrow. ‘You say that as if you weren’t the one who handed me my first beer.’

His smile widened. ‘See—interesting.’

‘You and I have very different definitions of that,’ she replied, and walked back around the counter. Her breath came out a little more easily now that there was space between them.

‘Probably. But I think it might have the same results.’

Which was precisely what she was worried about. Because after the short, but very eye-opening interaction they’d just had, she was beginning to think her crush was no longer a secret.

Or perhaps she was more concerned that this unexpected flare-up of her crush was no longer a secret. Because if she’d managed to keep it secret after she’d asked him to kiss her for the first time, she certainly hadn’t after she’d thrown herself into their second kiss.

But in the seven years since they’d last seen one another—years during which she hadn’t even heard from him—she had managed to hide her feelings. And if what had just happened between them meant that Noah shared those feelings—

Noah? Sharing her feelings?

She nearly laughed aloud at the ludicrousness of it. She’d always known the reason he’d kissed her the first time had been out of pity. And the second kiss had just happened because he’d been heartbroken and hadn’t known what he was feeling.

Anything they’d shared was in her imagination. Back then and now. No one wanted Ava. No one wanted someone who spoke before she thought. Who was prickly for most of the time and defensive for the rest.

Just because Milo said it doesn’t make it true.

But it does, she corrected the voice in her head.

Milo hadn’t wanted to marry her after being with her for five years. He was the best person to know the truth. And if he hadn’t wanted her Noah sure as hell wouldn’t either.

The sooner she realised that, the better.

He was back from the deli in less than fifteen minutes. Ava had graciously allowed him to leave without commenting on the fact that he was buying their food. But maybe it wasn’t grace. Maybe she just needed space to deal with what had happened between them, just as he had.

It was a natural reaction to being around a beautiful woman, he’d told himself on the way to the deli. He hadn’t dated in so long he couldn’t remember. His body had just been reminding him that he had needs; his mind just responding as any person who had needs would.

But when he returned and saw Ava sitting on his balcony, staring out over the mountains visible to most residents of Somerset West, he faltered. Had she looked this forlorn before? This defenceless?

Now she seemed nothing like the spitfire who had tried to save her cat from a blaze and everything like that little girl he’d once saved from being bullied. And when his heart turned in his chest and his arms ached to pull her into his arms, Noah worried that his reaction to her earlier hadn’t just been natural. That it had been...more.

It didn’t help that when her eyes met his—brown and steady—he instinctively knew she wasn’t that little girl who’d needed saving. Her gaze wasn’t as innocent, as trusting, as that little girl’s had been. It was weary, cautious—as if she were ready to defend herself at any moment.

‘This place is just as beautiful on the outside as it is on the inside,’ she said into the silence.

Grateful for the distraction—his thoughts bothered him more than he’d thought they should—he nodded. ‘This particular view sealed the deal for me.’

‘I can imagine.’ She pushed out from the table she’d been sitting at. ‘I’d love to enjoy it some more, but I’m hungry. Like, really hungry. What do you have in there?’

He swung the deli bags out of her reach when she tried to peek inside them, and thought about how similar this was to how they’d been before he’d left. How similar it was to how she’d been before. And how it didn’t make him feel like he needed to protect her.

‘You’ll find out when I serve it.’

‘Spoilsport.’ She followed him to the kitchen. ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

He smiled at the disbelief in her voice, and then took his time removing the takeaway dishes from the plastic bag and placing them on the kitchen counter.

When he saw her hovering, he said, ‘Have a seat.’

‘You’re really refusing my help?’

‘Yes.’ He opened his fridge, showing her different drinks one by one until she eventually nodded at the fruit juice he took out. ‘I didn’t ask you here so you could help me cook, Ava.’

‘I think you’re using the word cook wrong,’ she commented dryly, and then took the glass he offered her and went to the couch.

He could almost see her body sag into its softness. He was glad he’d refused her help.

‘You know, the last time I was at your house—and this was when you still lived with your father—you didn’t know what “cook” meant then either. I think you gave me and Jaden leftovers from the night before.’

‘How do you know I didn’t cook the night before?’

‘Because it was delicious.’ She smiled brightly at the look he gave her. ‘And because your father’s made me a few more of those pasta dishes since you left and it was definitely not your cooking.’

His hands paused. ‘You’ve seen my father since I’ve been away?’

He saw her cheeks pinken. ‘Yeah... I mean, occasionally...’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been helping him with some stuff. We’re...friends.’

The pink turned into a deep red, and if Noah hadn’t been so perplexed by the whole thing—if his heart hadn’t been racing in his chest—he’d have found it charming.

‘So, just to check that I’ve heard you correctly,’ he said slowly, when his brain refused to process what she’d told him, ‘you say you’re friends with my father?’

‘Don’t make it sound so outlandish, Noah,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. Her embarrassment seemed to have worn off. ‘Your father is incredibly interesting. And he’s young for his age. I can barely tell he’s in his sixties.’ She sipped her juice. ‘And, while we’re at it, I might as well tell you that by “occasionally” I actually mean at least every two weeks. More often if my schedule—and his—can manage it.’ She lifted her shoulders at the look on his face. ‘We enjoy each other’s company, Noah. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

All the blood seemed to drain from his body.

‘Ava,’ he said, his voice strangled. ‘Are you trying... Are you trying to tell me that you’re in a relationship with my father?’