Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Frustrated, I push the covers off and get out of bed, padding down the quiet hallway toward the kitchen. Maybe a drink of water will help settle my mind.
But when I get there, I stop dead in my tracks.
Noelle is standing by the open fridge, bathed in the soft glow of the light. She’s wearing light pink sweats that hug her hips and a tiny white tank that shows off just enough of her smooth skin to make my heart pound. Her hair’s loose, tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves. And for a second, I’m not prepared for the sight of her like this. She’s so casual, so natural, and so unbelievably stunning.
I blink, trying to gauge if this is some kind of dream. But no, she’s real, standing right there, looking effortlessly beautiful in a way that knocks the breath right out of me. It’s a far cry from the put-together Noelle I’ve been around all day, and it does something to me. It hits me hard.
My gaze locks onto her, and for a second, I don’t know what to say. My throat tightens as I try to swallow the rush of emotions crashing over me. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, to maintain the facade, but seeing her like this—just Noelle, with no pretense, no cameras—it makes the line between what’s real and what’s fake blur even more.
She looks up, noticing me, her eyes wide with surprise. And suddenly, I feel like I’ve been caught staring at something I shouldn’t be, but I can’t look away.
"Hey," I manage to croak out, my voice rougher than I’d like.
"Couldn’t sleep either?" she asks softly, a small, sleepy smile tugging at her lips.
I nod, still feeling like I’m in some kind of daze. "Yeah. Thought I’d get some water."
But really, the last thing on my mind right now is water.
Chapter 12
Noelle
The way York Steele wears gray sweatpants should be a meme… though not a funny one. Maybe a GIF on Tumblr or one of those sites where women browse for hot guys, admiring the kind of specimen that makes you stop and stare. Actually, I bet if I Googled "York Steele," a ton of swoon-worthy photos would pop up.
And I should know. I’ve got my own secret folder on my laptop, filled with pictures of him that I may or may not have saved over the years. But none of those photos, none of the magazine shoots, or the candid snaps of him at games, comes close to what I’m seeing right now.
York, in front of me, in those gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, is a whole new level of breathtaking. It’s like someone took all the best parts of him—the chiseled jawline, the strong arms, that unfairly perfect athletic build—and amplified it in the glow of my kitchen’s dim light. It feels like he’s straight out of a dream, like he was sculpted by some higher power just to torment women like me.
I’m frozen, gripping the fridge door for dear life as I stand here in my sweats and tank top, feeling ridiculously underdressed for this encounter. It’s late, and we’ve both been pretending all day, but here he is, looking better than ever without even trying.
I’m not sure if he realizes the effect he has on me. Or maybe he does. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than normal, and I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. I try to act casual, like I’m not inwardly freaking out over how unfairly attractive this man is, but it’s hard. Really hard.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and just the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine.
“No,” I manage to reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “A lot on my mind.”
He nods, his eyes still locked on mine. “Yeah. It was a rough day, ya know?”
I nod, like that makes sense, but really, all I can focus on is how close we are in the quiet kitchen. The tension between us is thick, the air buzzing with something unspoken. We’re supposed to be pretending, but right now, with the house so still and no one watching, it feels like everything is real.
Too real.
And as he steps toward the fridge to get his drink, I can’t help but feel the electric charge between us. It’s been there all night, simmering just beneath the surface, but now it’s unavoidable. The room feels smaller, more intimate.
He inches closer, so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My heart stutters in my chest, every nerve in my body buzzing with anticipation. It feels like he’s going to kiss me, like he’s about to close the small gap between us and make every fantasy I’ve ever had about him come true. My breath catches as I tilt my chin up, waiting for him to make a move, ready for it.