Until Then

2. Noah

TWO

Noah

“All the blueberries.” I nudge a small plate over to Hayley.

Hayley Last Name Unknown. Equine therapist and scone enthusiast who enjoys a nice cozy romance on an overcast day.

That’s all I know about her—oh, except the reason she’s here for my favorite scone. Turns out her douche of a fiancé got caught with his pants down with Red Valentine, a social media model who loves to love.

I’ve met Red twice at different events. She’s not a bad person, and if she’d known the idiot was engaged, Red would never have given him the time of day.

Of course, I don’t share with Hayley I know the other woman who spent a night with her ex. It would give up that I run in the same circles as the Hollywood types. Then, no doubt, my good luck of going unrecognized might shatter.

“You deserve the blueberries,” I repeat. “Sounds like you barely survived a complete maniac. If he could cheat on you, he’s not right in the head.”

The last half spilled out like vomit. It’s a thing my twin brother, Rees, loves to bring up. Rambling Noah. My thoughts move faster than my tongue, and I speak before I think.

Hayley’s cheeks flush in a bit of pink that deepens her freckles. “Well, thank you. That’s sweet. I’m not a model, though.” She makes a gesture to the brown espresso stain on her white T-Shirt.

“I don’t believe you.”

She snorts a laugh into her mug, the sharp, golden streaks across her eyes glimmer like a sunrise. Yes, I said a sunrise. The one that cuts through the ocean mists every morning outside my condo window. Gold mixed with sea blue. Wild and beautiful.

Hayley finishes her drink and leans back in her chair, arms open. “You caught me. I’m an undercover model, dressed like a hot mess to throw off the fans.”

I steal another bite of my half of the scone. “Knew it.”

The thing is, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been pulled so fiercely into the orbit of a woman. And I’ve dated models aplenty. There was something . . . free about Hayley and her determination to steal my scone that looped around my throat like a fishing hook and reeled me in.

Unfortunately, the curse of our society means women like Hayley ended up trapped in the belief they didn’t hold a torch to women like Red Valentine.

All I see is someone who keeps taking my breath away.

I don’t know how long we talk, but by the time my phone buzzes with a text, the scone is long gone and we’ve had two lemonades, two coffees, and are already halfway through a turkey club.

I glance at my phone, reading the text from Carter Warren, my stunt double.

Carter: So, Buster’s at 7, right?

I curse in my head, stealing a glance at Hayley across the café. She’s battling with a napkin dispenser, sort of muttering under her breath when one of the brown paper napkins jams.

Rees and Vienna, my sister-in-law, are going to be in town before he and his band head out on tour. They’ll have my nine-month-old nephew with them.

I grind my teeth together. There isn’t anyone I love more than my little man, Jude. I’m pretty sure he even beats out his dad—my twin, my second half, my best friend until the apocalypse—but I’m not sure I want this night to end.

Me: Um, I might bail tonight, but I’ll be there for that brunch thing or whatever tomorrow.

It takes thirty seconds for Carter to respond.

Carter: You’re ditching on the Judester? Wren and Griff are coming too.

I do love getting into plot conversations with Wren, Carter’s sister. She’s a romance author, and since I’ve been the lead on Wicked Darlings for the last seven seasons, I’ve gotten to know the author of the books we adapted.

I’ve always admired how they spin these tales in their heads from the most random blip of inspiration.

Still . . .

Me: Sorry, man. Tell them we’ll go to the beach tomorrow. I’ll make it up to everyone.

Carter: What’s happening? Are you in trouble? Send a laughing emoji if you’re being held under duress.

I chuckle and steal a glance to the villainous napkin dispenser. Hayley has a crumpled stack and is heading back this way.

Being honest is the fastest way to freedom.

Me: I’m good. Better than good. Pretty sure I met someone. I’m going to ask her out.

The three dots of an incoming text blink for a decent amount of time. My pulse quickens. Hayley is fifteen feet away. I don’t want to text while she’s here, but Carter will find a way to track me if he’s left on read.

Ten feet.

Five.

Finally, my phone vibrates.

Carter: DO IT! But just know . . . I’m telling your brother. You know what that means.

I fight the urge to growl. If Rees finds out I have a date, Vienna will hound me for answers. In the interim, she’ll inform all the band wives—my favorite ladies. But they’re connected, just like Carter since his sister married Griffin, to the Vegas Kings MLB team.

I have a prediction that within the hour I’ll have not only my twin, but all the band wives and baseball wives sending advice and every detail request about the woman who made me cancel on Jude Hayden.

I don’t let anything get between me and my buddy.

I hurry and send a mad face emoji and tuck my phone away.

My smile widens when Hayley sits across from me and tosses a few torn napkins in the center of the table. “I saw you battling that dispenser. Did you win?”

She cocks her head. “I think it’s safe to say I defeated it. I’ve never had an enemy until today.”

I laugh and help her clean up the small disaster we’ve created on the table.

After a pause, I clear my throat. “So, we’ve gotten everything off the menu.”

“Oh, gosh.” She glances at her phone. “I completely lost track of time. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you all day and?—”

I cover her hand with mine, surprising myself, but it calms her hurried words. “No, I don’t want it to end.” I’m Noah Freaking Hayden. A-lister according to the polls, rumored philanderer—keyword is rumor—and I can hardly summon what to say to ask her out. “I was, uh, I was going to ask you if you’d want to . . . get dessert or something.”

Her cheeks flush a pretty red. “Still have room for more?”

Of you? Yes.

I pop a shoulder. “I live by this seaside sorbet shop. A little mom and pop place, but it’s basically my guilty pleasure. It’s about twenty minutes from here, if you’re up for it.”

For a breath, she seems uneasy.

I take a risk. She doesn’t recognize my face, she knows my name is Noah, but I haven’t said my last name.

In one quick gesture, I pull out my driver’s license and slap it on the table. “Here. Take a picture, send it to someone you know. I swear I’m not taking you away to murder you.”

She looks down at the I.D. and grins. “Exactly what a serial killer might say.”

Still, she snaps a picture, and I watch as she texts the license. Inwardly, I groan. Hayley must not follow the TV show—and I’m not mad about it—but maybe whoever she texted does.

Truth be told, I’m relieved when she tucks her phone deep in her bag before a reply can come in, and flashes me one of those shy smiles I can’t stop wanting.

“All right, Noah Hayden. Take me to the beach.”