Intimate Friends (2 page)

He was none of those things. He was bumbling, shy, nerdy Noah. He brought sack lunches to work, had trouble matching his shirts and ties, and drove a tan sedan that had belonged to his grandmother before she died. He was as sophisticated as a Muppet.

Lost in thought, he was surprised to hear the chime of his cell phone on the table by his feet. He glanced over and saw Emma’s text message:

My passport finally came in the mail today. I look like a drug addict in my pic! :(

She attached a snapshot of her passport to the message. A bark of laughter escaped Noah’s lips. It was definitely a horrible picture—the flash was too bright, her skin looked pale, and her hair was a curly, unruly mop atop her head. He grabbed the phone, started typing a zinger, and then stopped. Deleted. Sighed. Typed again.

You’re beautiful.

She was. Even in a horrible passport photo she was beautiful. Because he loved her. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing ragged, images of her boarding a plane to England causing a burning tightness in his throat.

Ha! Are you myopic, or do you need to borrow money? Either way, I love you! ;) See u tomorrow!

He knew she loved him. As a friend. He needed to accept that and get on
with his life.

Chapter Two

Emma leaned against the bike rack in front of the coffeehouse and stretched her calves until they screamed for mercy. She always treated herself to a latte after her long Sunday afternoon run, and today her brain was anxious for the sugar/caffeine double feature. She finished her stretches, entered the café, and made her way straight to the register, so engrossed in the smell and heat emanating from the barista station that at first she didn’t take in her surroundings. But as she turned to grab the ten-dollar bill from the pocket of her hoodie, she saw them.

Greg. And Greg’s woman. The Other Woman. Emma’s heart skidded up to her throat, and she turned away instinctively, praying they hadn’t seen her. She really needed to get the hell out of here, latte be damned. She looked up, peeked in the mirror behind the cash register, and saw them, leaning in tightly towards each other, their foreheads almost touching. Talking. Laughing. He kissed her cheek.
Ewww.

She needed to get the hell out of here
now.

Emma retreated quickly, chin tucked firmly in her chest, hands stuffed tightly in the pockets of her hoodie. Screw the drink; she could make a latte at home. Or a gin and tonic. On second thought, two or three gin and tonics would do.

“Emma!” She heard Greg’s deep voice boom across the shop. Mere steps from a perfect exit. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

She turned slowly. “Greg,” she called back, feigning surprise. “Gosh, I didn’t even see you.”

Greg stood up, clearly expecting her to come back and engage in some kind of conversation. With him. And the woman he’d screwed while they were still together.
Lovely.

“Man, it’s great to see you, how are you doing? You remember Melinda, don’t you?” Emma made her way back towards them, with all the enthusiasm of walking the Green Mile. She smiled briefly at Melinda the man-eating whore.

“Sure.” Melinda eyed her up and down, and Emma suddenly realized how awful she must look—hot, sweaty, devoid of make-up, her hair pulled back in a messy, wind-blown ponytail.

“So what are you up to? I heard through the grapevine that you’re moving to London,” Greg said jovially, the picture of relaxed charm. Jesus, did he not feel even the least bit awkward? Talking to his ex-girlfriend, in front of his slutty new girlfriend? He acted like these kinds of encounters happened to him all the time.

“Umm yeah. Grad school. King’s College in London.” She couldn’t seem to speak in anything other than short spurts. She glanced down, pissed at Greg for not acting more uncomfortable, when her eyes caught the sparkle of something shiny. On Melinda’s finger. A big, gaudy, diamond-encrusted engagement ring.

Holy crap, she needed to get the hell out of here.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, already pointing a finger towards the door, “I’m late for an appointment right now. With some…grad school friends. We’re planning…you know, stuff that we need to do…to prepare for…” she trailed off miserably. Curse her lack of lying skills.

“For grad school?” Greg finished, eyebrow cocked knowingly. He knew what a terrible liar she was.

“Yep,” she answered, already walking backwards towards the exit. Just a few more steps and this nightmare would be over. “So I guess, I’ll… you know…”

“See you around?” Greg finished for her again. Melinda the engaged man-eating whore was looking at her like she was completely insane. Emma nodded, waved quickly, and shot out the door, doing her best to keep to a steady walk, her lungs taking in huge gulps of calming oxygen.

She turned the corner and stopped, covered her eyes with the heels of her hands, and fought the urge to throw up. Or scream. Or punch something.

Five years
. Five goddamn years, and they had never even talked about marriage. Hell, Greg got nervous sharing a dresser drawer with her. And now, after less than a year, Melinda, that bitch…that silicone-enhanced slut…

Tears of frustration and rage welled in the corners of her eyes, and Emma power-walked home, furious with Greg, furious with herself for caring so much. What made Melinda so marriage-worthy, and her so supremely “dump-able”? Sure, Melinda had fake boobs and a lot of money, but was Greg really that shallow?

Apparently so.

After her punishing walk home, Emma took a scorching hot shower, and plopped on the couch with a gin and tonic that was suspiciously light on tonic. Why was she so upset? She was over Greg, didn’t want him back…didn’t even get pangs of longing and loss when she thought about him anymore. Was it Melinda? It couldn’t be, not really, because she didn’t even know Melinda. She certainly hated the
idea
of Melinda, but an idea would not have her this riled up, this furious, this close to tears.

By the time she’d made it halfway through her second drink, it hit her--it was the idea that they were engaged.
Engaged
. God, would she ever be engaged? Would anyone ever love her enough to ask her to marry him? She wasn’t one of those pathetic women who felt incomplete without a man—she had a career, and goals…hell, she was going to London for two years, to study and find herself and all that stuff. She didn’t need a man.

Then why did she suddenly feel like the most unlovable creature on the planet?

Chapter Three

Emma wandered to the kitchen, mixed another heavy-handed drink, and was searching blindly for the TV remote between the couch cushions when the doorbell rang. Still wrapped in her musings over Greg, marriage, Melinda’s breasts, and the beautiful elixir that was gin and tonic, she was momentarily flustered. What the hell? Who would—

Noah. She’d completely forgotten that he was coming over. She made a loopy walk to the door and pulled it open with a jerk. She grinned at him, relieved to see a friendly face, desperate to free herself from her spiralling thoughts.

“Noah! C’min,” she cried, taking another hearty sip of her gin and tonic, wondering why her tongue suddenly felt so swollen. Noah eyed her warily.

“Whoa, are you okay? What are you drinking?” he asked, taking the glass from her hand and sniffing it. His eyes widened. “Is this straight gin?” He took a cautious sip, and his face twisted into a comical grimace. “Oh God, that’s like paint thinner, Emma. Are you okay, did something happen?” His eyes were sweet and concerned, and for some reason they held her gaze for longer than they should have. It was the damn eyelashes.

“I’m fine, fine, jus’ felt like havin’ a little drinky-drink before dinner.” She grinned. He still looked worried as they walked towards the kitchen, and he unpacked the groceries he’d brought while she sat on the edge of the counter, her legs swinging rhythmically, bumping her heels against the cabinets underneath.

“What made you decide to propose to Jenny?” she asked suddenly. Noah stopped short, and looking at her with piercing eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I mean, what makes a man fall so deeply in love that he proposes marriage? Is there a moment when he knows it’s time? Did you just think to yourself one day, ‘Man, that Jenny Dawson, she may be a bossypants, but she’s the one I want to share my life with, have sex with, make babies with, until the day I die.’ Or was it more gradual than that?”

“I proposed to Jenny because she told me to,” he said evenly. “I did everything she told me to do. It was kind of an issue in our marriage,” he said dryly. “Why the sudden interest in proposals?” She shrugged her shoulders, looked down at her lap. “Just tell me, Em, I know something’s up.”

She sighed, and her legs stopped swinging. “I saw Greg and his skank at Village Coffee this afternoon. She was sporting two enormous fake boobs, and one enormous engagement ring.”

Noah’s mouth made a perfect circle, and he executed a silent “ooohh”. His eyes were sympathetic, and she found herself instantly defensive.

“And I’m
not
jealous. And I’m
not
still in love with him. Okay?” She stared at him defiantly, her chin set hard.

“Okay, then why are you so upset?”

“What makes you think I’m upset?” she scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re boozin’ it up at five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon?” He grinned a bit to take the bite out of his words. She sighed again, and dropped her gaze back to her knees.

“I’m just—” She paused, taking another sip of her drink. “I’m just…wondering if there’s anyone out there who will ever love me enough to—" She was mortified to find that tears were blurring her vision, and her throat was dangerously tight.

“Emma,” he whispered, moving slowly toward her.

“Ugh, please don’t.” She half laughed, half sobbed, jumping down from the counter and turning her back to him. “God, could I be more pathetic? Just forget I said anything. Let’s make dinner.” She opened the refrigerator, but he moved behind her and closed it with an arm over her shoulder. Then he spun her around to face him.

“Let’s get one thing straight first,” he said, his voice low and gentle, his breath soft against her face. “You are a beautiful, amazing, sexy woman. Any man would be lucky to have you.” His glasses slid down his nose, and before he could push them back up, Emma pulled them from his face and set them on the countertop, their eyes still locked. And suddenly Noah wasn’t her geeky best friend at all, but a man whose eyes trapped her, whose smell intoxicated her, whose full lips made tingly shivers run down her spine. She leaned forward slightly, and he froze, his eyes flashing with sudden comprehension.

“Emma, wait—“ But her lips cut him off, and then they were kissing. Or rather,
she
was kissing, and he was backing away, until he hit the wall behind them, and grabbed her upper arms, separating their bodies.

“Em, you’re drunk…” he warned, in a low, quivering voice.

“Not that drunk.” She reached for him again, and he scooted to his side, avoiding her arms.

Ouch.
“Umm, okay…I’m sorry. I guess this kind of shoots holes your theory about me being sexy,” she murmured, crossing her arms awkwardly over her chest. “But you’re right, of course. I mean, this is crazy. I—“

Noah grabbed her, dragged her up against his firm chest, and proceeded to kiss her so thoroughly that she decided all previous kisses in her life had been silly, sloppy efforts, lost in the shadow of his mind-numbing worship of her mouth. Her entire body shot to life, pulse quickening, nerve-endings humming, fingers rising and anchoring in his soft curls.

She moaned, and he shifted, and then she was fumbling with his shirt, and he was fumbling with hers, and then their bodies were touching, skin to skin, and she had never, ever, been so turned on in her life. The fact that this was
Noah
turning her on, leaning to tongue her nipple through the slick silk of her bra, clutching her hips and pressing his arousal firmly against her, was too surreal to even think about. So she didn’t.

"Emma...you feel so good," he groaned into her mouth. She let out a tiny whimper in response, unable to speak. His hands moved slowly up her sides, and her body melted into his. He slid his hands around her and lifted her in his arms, still kissing her, hard and wet. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, and she realized that this position made up for their height difference, allowing her hips to fit squarely over his. The both seemed to recognize this new friction at the same moment, as he tore his lips from hers and attacked her neck, spreading hot kisses over her collarbone as her head arched back sharply.

His feet started to move beneath them, and then they stopped. Then started and stopped again. Emma's head lifted to see his brow furrowed, his face unsure.

"Bedroom," she gasped, kissing the worried wrinkles from his forehead. So he carried her to the bedroom.

Chapter Four

They fell on her bed, and Noah ran a shaky hand down her side, suddenly paralyzed with fear. How had this happened? Should he let it happen? Emma was drunk, and clearly upset about seeing Greg. An honorable man would keep his distance. But it was damn hard to be honorable with her knee nudging his legs apart and her hand scraping down his bare chest, making him shiver with terrified desire. They made quick work of their clothes, and rolled towards each other, wearing nothing but boxers and panties. She lifted her face, placed her lips on his neck, moaned his name...and then he was gone.

Eyes tightly shut, Noah felt her hands wander down his slick back, felt her reach under the waistband of his boxers, felt her grab his ass firmly and push him against her. He gasped as she slipped one hand around to the front of his boxers and wrapped it around his cock, hard and hot in her cool hand. Her thumb wandered to his tip, rubbing it slowly, torturously, and suddenly he wasn't afraid anymore, because wherever this was going, he desperately wanted to get there.