Until Then

3. Hayley

THREE

Hayley

Is it possible to fall in love on a first date?

Is this even a date?

Me, with a drop-dead gorgeous guy, still in his running clothes, slurping lemon sorbet off a spoon while we watch the sunset from his penthouse condo.

He keeps saying it isn’t, but this place is absolutely a penthouse.

It’s not the money Noah clearly has, it’s how deliciously humble he’s been all night. Not once did I suspect the man had seaside property that looks like he’s quite accustomed to having an unlimited credit limit.

He’s relaxed.

He’s so . . . easygoing.

Every new thing I learn about him only adds a new puzzle piece into the vibrant picture I think I’ll see at the end.

Noah asked about my horseshoe tattoo on my wrist with my grandpa’s birthday—a memorial to the man who taught me to ride. I know he’s afraid of needles and insists he would pass out even with a micro tattoo.

He’s gotten a glimpse into my Clint Eastwood crush, and I’ve learned his favorite movie is Jimmy Stewart’s, It’s a Wonderful Life .

“A Christmas movie?”

Noah gives me the sly smirk that’s becoming a new obsession. “December, June, I don’t care. It’s a good movie and a good reminder.”

“Of what?”

His eyes simmer with a playful sort of gleam. “That our lives are worth living.”

Okay. I think my heart is screaming at my brain something about love and soulmates and wedding bells. Brain promptly tells Heart to calm herself before we freak him out.

“You’re unexpected, Pretty Boy.”

His brows shoot up. “Pretty Boy?”

“Are you saying you aren’t?”

“No.” There’s a playful curl to half his mouth. “I definitely like hearing it from you, though.”

Conversation never lulls. Soon, I know his dad and stepmom moved out to California and his twin lives in Las Vegas. I know he loves strategy board games like Chess and RISK?. I know he lost his mom when he was a little kid, and we commiserate on being raised by single parents. The only difference was I had my grandparents until Pops died. Now, it was me, Mom, and Nan left.

I strategically avoid talk of my dad.

Let him assume the man was dead—he might as well be.

The night has been a perfect first date.

I hate to admit when I saw his neighborhood, I didn’t anticipate perfection. Caution built hurried walls, and I anticipated heaps of boasting and dull conversation filled with his own accolades.

Instead, I’ve had laughter, inside jokes, and a strange, intoxicating heat in my blood whenever our fingers brush.

A ripple of anxiety creeps up the back of my neck when I glance over at Noah, currently licking away the last bite of sorbet off his spoon. Crap. Now, I’m looking at his tongue and thinking things I shouldn’t think on a first date.

And I’m back at the original question—is this a date?

“So, you have a ranch.” Noah’s smooth voice cuts through my rapid thoughts. He twists on the swinging bench he keeps on his balcony. “I have a confession.”

“Oh, no. Don’t break the bubble of a perfect day by telling me you hate horses.”

He chuckles. It’s a deep, soothing sound. I’d like to bottle it up and use it as my morning alarm.

“No.” He stands, sending the bench swing rocking. “Hold on. I’ll show you. I think you’ll appreciate this.”

With long strides, he slips back through his glass door and fades somewhere in the labyrinth of his definitely-a-penthouse condo.

I abandon the bench and lean over the rail of his balcony. Across the horizon a deep, blood red sun sinks over the ocean. The breeze is heavy with brine. Couples and families saunter along the beach, sandal straps hooked on their fingers as they take in the gentle California evening.

Okay. Screw the question if this is a first date—it’s a freaking date because I’m not sure another will compare to this.

Never have I felt so seen or at ease in my own skin.

Not even with Jasper.

I glance down at my gentle curves. I’m top heavy, have a corset waist, and hips that are fit for sprinting on stallions. My wardrobe consists of tees and tattered jeans with one or two pairs of sweats. I rotate through three hairstyles—braid, ponytail, and humid-bird’s nest.

None of my familiar insecurities have even had time to rear their ugly heads. Noah has cast them all away with every laugh, every secret glance that says he’s really seeing me, and the stolen touches to the small of my back or knuckles that popped straight out of my own rom-com.

The sliding glass door shifts. I spin around, back to the railing, and prop my elbows on the top.

He looks like a movie star. Sharp jaw, perfect stubble, messy hair that looks natural. I can’t get enough of this man’s eyes and the way his veins pop on his hands and forearms.

He’s beautiful and sexy and every woman’s daydream.

But tonight, he’s mine.

“Okay.” Noah leans against the closed glass door, keeping something behind his back. “Once upon a time, I was obsessed with being a cowboy. My brother and I always played Sheriff and bank robber. He was always the bad guy.”

“Obviously.” I lift my chin when he takes a step closer to me. Two more and we’ll be chest to chest. “How could you ever be anything but morally golden?”

Another step. “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t know me well enough to see the dark side yet?”

Unbidden, a shiver dances down my spine. Maybe I wouldn’t mind seeing every edge this man wanted to reveal.

“Anyway. I’ve been living a lie for twenty plus years. I told people I outgrew my love of all things Western and cowboy but—now you can’t laugh.”

I mimic zipping my lips.

From behind his back, Noah pulls out flannel pajama pants coated in Texas longhorns, old-time revolvers, and a few tan cowboy hats. “The truth is, I’m still obsessed, and I just pulled these from my dryer because I wear them all the time.”

My lips curl inward, pinched beneath my teeth, but it’s no use. A barking laugh breaks out and I can’t stop.

“Miss Hayley.” A bit of that Southern drawl he must still have from living next to the bayou slips out. In the next breath, Noah has my back pinned to the rail once more, only now his arms cage me on either side. His lips hover close. One slight movement and I might feel his stubble scratch my mouth.

Breaths come sharp, heavy, needy.

His beautiful, different-colored eyes are hooded when he tilts his head to one side, glancing once, twice, at my lips. When he speaks again, his voice is low and dark, and I want him to never step away. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”

“No.” Great. The word slips out more like a gasp than a reply. “I never promised.”

“You’re mocking me.”

I shake my head, mortified by the way my chest heaves like a total cliché once Noah presses the hard planes of his body against mine.

This. Is. Happening.

Long fingers on one of his hands touch the edge of my jaw until he cups one side of my face. “I think you are.”

“I would never mock someone who loves horses.”

“I do,” he says, his free hand dropping the pajama bottoms and sliding down the curve of my waist. “I ride a lot for work, actually.”

“Oh.” There is a small part of me that is convinced I must’ve been hit by a car earlier because this is too perfect. Gorgeous and a horse lover? Thank you, I’ll take him in all sizes, please. “What is it you . . . do?”

I can’t breathe. Officially, Noah’s lips are brushing over the shell of my ear.

He hesitates. “Right now”—Oh, oh, he presses a little, feather-light kiss to the side of my head, drawing his nose across my cheek—“I’m focused on teaching kids to get involved in theater. Sometimes we learn how to ride horses for scenes.”

Unexpected.

“Um, that’s awesome. And a little endearing.”

“Never been called endearing. I’ll take it.”

I close my eyes and fight back a groan when Noah’s face dips and he adds another soft kiss to the side of my neck. “You . . . you like acting?”

The man can’t be a teacher and live here. Maybe he comes from Old Southern money. Or maybe he runs a theater business. Maybe he’s in the film industry like Jasper.

No. He’s too . . . amazing.

Jasper, those he introduced to me, and others I know in the glitz and glam of Hollywood always had a tiny bit of haughtiness no matter what was said or done.

Noah is humble, he’s gentle. He wears cowboy pajamas for goodness sake.

“I’m a total theater geek.” Noah says, lifting those eyes back to my gaze. “But it was an outlet growing up. I’d like other kids to have the same.”

I’m going to get down on one knee and ask this guy to marry me. “I work with kids a lot too. They’re my main clientele.”

“Yeah?” Noah dips his lips to the other side of my neck, kissing me a touch harder. One of his palms travels around my waist and holds me tightly against his chest. “I knew you were perfect.”

I let out a breathy laugh and cup the back of his head when his mouth travels to my jaw, the corner of my lips.

“Hayley,” he whispers, almost like he needs to say my name. “I want to kiss you.”

“You . . . sort of are?”

He grins against my skin. “Want me to stop? Or do you want me to take that pretty mouth of yours?”

Okay . Okay, he’s demanding and . . . halfway to dirty talk. I pull back for half a breath before robbing him of the decision and crush my mouth to his.

Noah moans and clasps both sides of my face between his palms. His kiss is deep and rugged and tastes of mint and ocean air. I part my lips, tasting him, and I can’t think of anything better than this moment.

Honestly, I can’t think of any kiss that could possibly top this.

Those long fingers thread through my braid, unraveling the crimson strands. Noah kisses me and kisses me and kisses me. His teeth scrape over my lips, his body holds me hostage.

I don’t know how long we claim each other on the balcony, but when he slowly walks us back toward his sliding door, when he guides me through his penthouse-condo—never breaking our kiss—I don’t protest.

I don’t think of anything but taking more of Noah Hayden.

Even if it’s only for tonight.