When in Rome(7)

“Also never said I was a fan.”

Right. Wow. Okay.

Silence drops between us like a grenade. He doesn’t feel compelled to say anything else and I’m uncertain of what to say, so we just stare. Propriety tells me I should feel upset right now. Offended even. Curiously, I’m not. In fact, there’s a giddy sort of sensation building in my stomach. It makes me want to laugh.

We watch each other closely for a long moment, chests inflating and deflating in a perfectly mirrored rhythm. I know why I’m cautiously taking him in, but what I can’t figure out is why he looks so concerned. As if I’m about to snatch his throw pillows and lamps and run away with them in the night. The Pillow Bandit on the run.

Okay, so he doesn’t want to come to my concert, but surely he knows I can afford my own throw pillows?

The longer I stand here and watch his flexing jawline, I get the distinct feeling that he’s not only Not A Fan, he’s the opposite. The normal glowing adoration I see in people’s eyes is replaced with annoyance in his. Just look at that deep crease between his brows. It’s surly. Grumpy. Agitated.

I don’t suspect he’s going to hurt me, but he seems to have a low opinion of me. Maybe it’s because I parked on his grass. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, it’s absolutely and wonderfully new for me, and because it’s late and I’m slightly hysterical, I decide to press his buttons.

I mimic his pose. “I see what it is. A ticket’s not good enough?” I give him a smile like we’re in on his secret together. “You want me to throw in a signed poster, too, don’t you?” I wiggle my eyebrows. There’s no part of me that believes he wants a poster.

He blinks.

“Two VIP tickets and a signed poster? Wow. You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll comply for my biggest fan.”

His face doesn’t change a bit, but something in his fierce eyes sparkles. I think he wants to smile but won’t let himself. Sometimes people decide not to like me for the most arbitrary reasons. Sometimes it’s just because I’m famous, and successful people make them uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s because I voted differently than them. And sometimes it’s because I frowned outside their favorite yogurt shop and now they want to cancel me forever because they think I’m against yogurt. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve found one of those very people. Usually my very elaborate security detail is around to protect me, but there’s no one standing between me and Noah right now, and I can’t say I hate it. A thrill zaps its way through my veins.

Noah shakes his head lightly and looks down to pick up my bag again. He’s done with this conversation.

“Follow me,” he says.

Two words. A command. No one commands me anymore—oh, they still tell me what to do, but they phrase it so that it sounds like it’s my idea. Rae, you must be exhausted. The guest room is right down that hallway, perhaps it would be nice to go on to bed now and get some rest?

Noah Walker is too confident for manipulation. Follow me.

He takes my bag with him down a hallway off the foyer and disappears into a bedroom. I want to wander around a little, but most of the house is dark, and it seems like invading someone’s home and flipping on lights, opening some cupboards and digging around might be a weird thing to do. So I settle for walking down the hallway after Noah just as he instructed. Follow me.

I stop when I get to two rooms opposite each other in the hallway. One door is shut, and one is not. In the open room, I find my bag sitting on the floor, and Noah parachuting a fresh white sheet onto a queen-size bed.

I watch him in the doorway for a minute feeling very dreamlike. I ran away from my life of fame today, and now I’m standing in a strange man’s house watching him make up a bed for me even though he dislikes me. His actions are as much a paradox as that butter soft sheet is to his scruffy jawline. Susan would undoubtedly at this moment tell me to get out of this house immediately and go somewhere safer.

“Noah,” I say, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. “How do you feel about yogurt?”

He pauses and sends a look over his shoulder at me. “Yogurt?”

“Mm-hmm. Do you like it?”

He turns his attention back to the sheets. “Why? Are you going to offer to throw in a tub of yogurt with the tickets and poster and money if I say yes?”

Aha! There is humor under that annoyance. I thought so.

“Maybe.” I smile even though he’s not looking at me.

“Well, don’t. I don’t want yogurt or the other stuff.”

I take a big fat Sharpie and mark off Angry because of yogurt shop picture.

Noah spreads a well-loved patchwork quilt onto the bed. It looks like it’s been passed down through several generations of loving family members. My heart tugs and twists to get away from the feelings the sight of that quilt evokes in me. I wonder if my mom even read my text message earlier.

“Can I help?” I ask, taking a daring step into the same cage as the bear.

He glances over his shoulder again and when his eyes land on me, his frown deepens. He turns back toward the bed and begins tucking the top sheet under the mattress. I don’t tell him I’ll immediately untuck it before I get in. “Nope.”

I was reaching for a corner of the quilt, but when his single-syllable answer barks at me, I raise my hands and take a step away. “Okay.”