“Got something stronger if you want it?”
“Vodka?”
“Whiskey.”
She grimaced. “Yes, please.”
He collected the bottle from the lounge room and poured a splash into a couple of water glasses. Nicole examined her face in his stainless-steel toaster and yelped. “You must think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t.”
Not true, but he was glad all the same. He handed her a glass. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She held up her whiskey. “To um…’destiny’ is a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “To destiny.”
They tapped glasses and she threw back her whiskey in one. “Urgh. It tastes like a bushfire.”
“You’re not wrong.” Noah took a small sip. He’d had a couple before she’d gotten here and if things went the way he hoped, he needed to stay sharp.
“So...” Nicole toed his kitchen floor with her sneaker. “I need your help with something personal.”
Noah frowned. Did she mean sex? Weird way to phrase it if it was. Also, she didn’t need to run from the park with her makeup all over the place to get at his dick.
Nicole laughed, and despite the clown makeup, or maybe because of it, she looked stunning. He watched, feeling like someone was folding warm metal over his chest, binding him.
“What?”
“You think I’m here for sex, don’t you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No! I mean, maybe.” She ducked her head, still smiling, and the metal pulled tighter; too tight for comfort.
He drank some more whiskey. It burned away a little of the stupid sensation. “So, what’s up?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. But before I tell you, we need to have the talk.”
“The talk?” His heart hammered. Did she mean that talk when girls tried to find out how serious you were about them? Was she…werethey…?
“I mean we haven’t had a single serious conversation about The Rangers. How ridiculous is that?”
Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Feeling stupid, Noah jerked his head to his living room. “Sit down?”
“Sure.”
He topped up their glasses and led her to the couch. Nicole sat delicately on the right-hand cushion, crossing her ankles, and fixed him with an alert smile. If it wasn’t for the strong smell of sweat and the mascara streaks, she could have been interviewing him for60 Minutes. Noah bit back another smile. “So, shoot.”
“Are you a biker?”
“No.”
“But you used to be?”
He sighed. “You know who my dad is?”
“Harold Newcomb.”