Page 20 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
My stomach dips. "He?"
But she's gone, slipping into a motorboat with James, waving cheerfully over her shoulder as I climb down toward the dock where a purple dragon boat bobs in place.
I freeze.
Noah Morgan is seated in the back of the boat, arms resting across the paddles, life vest snug over that shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and chest like sin incarnate. His sunglasses hide his expression, but when he turns his head and sees me?
He jolts. Just slightly. But I see it.
A flicker of surprise. Irritation. Something that might've been heat. Then his lips twist into something that's not quite a smile.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.
"I thought I was with Hannah." I hesitate at the edge, awkward and flustered.
"So did I," he says dryly. "But apparently, the universe has a twisted sense of humor." A beat, then he sighs. "Get in, Bennett. Let's get this over with."
I climb in carefully, trying not to wobble the boat or look too obviously like I'm checking him out—which is hard because,good God, the man fills out a T-shirt better than any firefighter has a right to. And the casual shorts emphasize how stupidly fit he is, every muscle coiled and efficient.
We push off toward the starting line. I grip the side of the boat, trying not to notice how close his knee is to mine.
"Just follow my lead," he says, eyes forward.
"You always did like giving orders."
His lips twitch—but there's no humor behind it. "You used to enjoy following them."
The words land hard and sharp with something darker threaded beneath them—anger, regret, a flicker of something that hasn't burned out despite ten years and an ocean of silence between us.
My paddle dips awkwardly into the water. "People change."
Noah's jaw flexes. He doesn't look at me, but I feel his attention like a heat lamp trained on my skin. "Did you clean the kitchen?"
I blink, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"After the fire," he says flatly. "Did you?"
"Yes." A flush creeps up my neck.
"Alone?” His voice drops lower. “Or did you rope Mabel into helping you?"
"I did it myself."
His gaze slices to mine, intense, unreadable, and then something shifts. The hard line of his mouth softens, just barely, and he gives me a single nod.
"That's my girl.” The words are low, rough velvet, and they detonate in my chest.
My lungs stop working. My thighs clench instinctively. Because that voice? That quiet, private tone? That's the one he used to save just for me. When we were alone. When the rest of the world fell away, and it was just us—two people who understood each other without having to explain.
My fingers tighten around the paddle, the water forgotten.
His eyes linger on mine just long enough for me to wonder if he remembers. The late nights. The long drives. How I used to come undone for him with nothing more than a look and a whispered word. But then he shifts forward in the seat, turning away to scan the lake ahead.
"Don't screw up this race, Bennett," he mutters, voice clipped. "I'm not diving in after you."
Too late. I'm already drowning.
The starting horn blares, and we launch forward—if you can call it that.
