CHAPTER NINE
“OH, MY GOD,” I moaned, my eyes fluttering into the back of my head.
“You like that, don’t you?” Noah’s voice broke through my lust-filled thoughts. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d experienced so much pleasure. Everything about this was so wrong on so many levels, but damn if it didn’t satisfy me in a way nothing else in my life had recently.
“It’s amazing.” My voice was husky, my breathing ragged. “How did you… I need more. I can’t get enough.” The flavor of peppermint and chocolate made my taste buds dance, as if they’d found what they’d been craving for years. I had no idea how we even ended up here, but that didn’t matter. All that did was the pure joy flowing through my veins.
“Sometimes it pays to take a risk on something new, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know how you did it, but this is the best damn ice cream I’ve ever had.” I sank my spoon into the bowl, the decadent dark chocolate syrup spilling over the sides and onto the table. I didn’t care how unrefined it looked. I licked the sinful deliciousness off my fingers, not wanting to waste a drop.
I’d often passed this ice cream shop on my travels within the city, yet I’d never stepped foot inside. I’d be rectifying that from now on. It was an unassuming little place, but the sinful treat dancing in my mouth made me a believer that all ice cream was certainly not created equal. No disrespect to Ben and Jerry, but this put their stuff to shame.
“I’m glad you like it.” He grinned, placing another spoonful into his mouth. It tasted like a chocolate-covered candy cane. I wanted more. So much more.
Barely a word was spoken as we gorged on our ice cream. When I couldn’t eat another bite, I leaned back in my chair, resting my hands on my stomach. A smile on my face, I remained in an ice cream-induced coma. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this at ease in a stranger’s company. Ever since Noah had saved me from dismemberment by a bunch of ruthless hoodlums, the stress of my impossible deadline had disappeared.
“So tell me, Molly.” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. It was nice to hear him use my first name instead of the formality of Ms. Brinks. It reminded me too much of the heroes in my books. Erotic romance readers loved something about the formality of using last names. I liked it, too, but the way my first name rolled off Noah’s tongue made it sound as if we were old friends. “Did you always want to be a writer?”
I considered his question. “Honestly, I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a writer, even when most of my family told me time and time again it wasn’t a real profession.” I rolled my eyes. “But, apparently, wanting to be a professional hockey player was.” Looking away, I tugged at my bottom lip with my teeth.
“That must have been difficult for you,” he commented, sitting back in his chair.
“Nah.” I shrugged it off. I didn’t want him to read too much into it. It was all part of life growing up with a brother who was good at something. “I didn’t mind. Actually, it was a blessing all the attention was on Drew. He couldn’t get away with anything. My father always made sure he was up at the crack of dawn, getting in those miles he needed to keep up his training, even in the off-season.” I toyed with the straw in my glass of water, moving the ice around. “I didn’t have to put up with the constant supervision like Drew did.”
I stared off into the distance, my smile faltering as I recalled how I felt when I walked across the stage at my graduation from NYU, my entire extended family, except Aunt Gigi and Brooklyn, absent from the biggest moment in my life up until that point. The Bruins had made the playoffs and had a game the same day as my graduation. I guessed being at yet another hockey game was more important than seeing me graduate at the top of my class. It wasn’t the first time my father had missed one of my events in favor of Drew’s hockey. I often wondered if he even knew he had a daughter, especially as I reached adulthood and the resemblance to my mother grew stronger with each passing day.
“Molly?” Noah’s voice cut through my memories. I shot my eyes back to his. “Are you okay?”
I forced a smile, taking a sip of my water so he couldn’t see past the façade. “Of course.” I swallowed hard, straightening my spine. “How about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?”
He studied me for a prolonged moment, then lightened his expression. “Not always.” I relaxed my shoulders, grateful he didn’t press me to talk more about what it was like growing up in Drew’s shadow. “I can’t say I wanted to be a doctor when I was five. Back then, I’m pretty sure I wanted to be something ridiculous, like an astronaut or stunt double.”
“What made you change your mind?” My voice oozed sarcasm. “I’m sure you would have had one hell of a career as a stunt double.”
“Aside from probably never being able to get a life insurance policy, my dad kind of made me choose a different path.”
“Really?”
As a writer, I liked to consider myself a casual observer of life. I’d always been fascinated how some actions could influence a person’s entire life trajectory. It could have been something as simple as deciding to hit snooze on your alarm one day, or a major life event, like the death of a loved one, that put someone on a completely different path. I salivated over the prospect, wondering what events in my past put me on the course I’d been on, wondering if I’d be sitting in this exact spot today if one thing were different.
“Did he want to be able to brag about having a doctor in the family?”
He shook his head. “My parents didn’t care what I did with my life, as long as I was happy. They didn’t even pressure me to go to college. As long as I wasn’t a complete freeloader, they supported me.”
“So what made you decide to go into medicine?”
“My dad got sick.” He swallowed hard, his light expression faltering. He toyed with his coffee mug. “Really sick.” His voice became soft, almost inaudible.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” My heart fell when I observed the pain on his face, as if whatever happened was still fresh in his mind. “If anyone understands not wanting to talk about that kind of stuff, it’s me.”
“Actually…” He met my eyes. “I don’t mind talking about it at all.”
I looked away, his intense gaze burning my skin. I hoped this wasn’t another ploy to get me to finally discuss my feelings. If it were, I’d never forgive Dr. Noah McAllister. My feelings were none of his business. They were none of anyone’s business.
“It started like it does with everyone else,” he continued after a protracted silence. “Like I’m sure it did with your father.”
“My father?” I repeated in a soft voice, returning my wide eyes to his.
“He would lose things around the house, miss appointments because he’d forgotten what day it was. We assumed it was because he was getting older. My father was in his fifties when I was born. My mother was twenty years younger.”
“My father was fifteen years older than my mother,” I said. “I get it.”
“One day, we realized it was more than just misplacing his glasses. He couldn’t remember names of people he saw nearly every day. He had difficulty doing simple math. He couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast.” He shook his head. “His decline was aggressive. Within a matter of months, he lost all ability to respond and communicate. I hated seeing him in that condition.”
“So you decided to go to med school and find a way to prevent that from happening to anyone else?”
He stared at me, despondent. “I’m not that optimistic. With more and more advances in medicine, it may be possible one day, but probably not in our lifetime. After my dad died, I decided to specialize in degenerative neurological diseases. Alzheimer’s is a bitch of a disease, if I can be so blunt.” His voice grew more assured, more determined, more passionate. “There is no cure, as you know. It’s not like cancer. Even when a cancer patient is told they’re stage three or four, there are still treatment options. They are given hope that the medical staff will do everything they possibly can to force the disease into remission. That’s not the case with dementia or Alzheimer’s. It affects the nervous system, the brain. There’s no remission. The only thing we can do is try to keep our patients as comfortable as possible for as long as we can. We do everything in our power to keep their bodies in great physical health, keep their minds active. Did you know most Alzheimer’s patients don’t die because of the disease itself? They die because of infections, like pneumonia. Those affected by this disease lose the ability to know when something’s wrong with their body, so an otherwise non-deadly illness or infection ends up killing them.” He shook his head, drawing in a breath.
“That’s what happened to my father. He had a UTI that caused sepsis, which ended up killing him.” He reached out, about to grasp onto my hand, then stopped short. “So everything you’re going through, I’ve been there, Molly. I used to feel so alone. Sure, I had my sisters and my mother, but I had a bond, a connection with my father. I hated witnessing how he couldn’t even remember who I was.”
I lowered my eyes, my hands fidgeting in my lap.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is if you ever need to talk to someone about it, I’ll listen, and not as your dad’s neurologist, either. As someone who’s been in your shoes.”
Fixing my composure, I gave him a blank stare, my lips in a firm line. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s not necessary. Like I said yesterday, I knew this was a death sentence. I wasn’t expecting a miracle.” I remained stoic, my spine straight.
“Molly…”
“I’m fine,” I shot back in a clipped voice, hoping he’d take the hint and end the conversation.
He studied me for an excruciatingly long time, then sighed. “Okay, but the offer stands.” He ran his hand through his wayward hair, defeated.
Chewing on one of my fingernails, I looked everywhere but his eyes, not wanting him to see the truth I’d kept from everyone for years.
~~~~~~~~~~
WHEN WE LEFT THE ice cream shop, there was an awkwardness between us. I could have very easily headed for the closest T station, which was a block away. Instead, I stayed with Noah, strolling beside him through the Common. Despite my reaction after his offer of a proverbial shoulder to cry on, I found myself drawn to his comforting presence.
As we passed bronze statues of little ducks, a tribute to the notable children’s book Make Way for Ducklings, which was set in this very park, I glanced at him. His eyes were trained forward, a distant look on his face, as if deep in thought. I didn’t want to leave on a sour note.
I inhaled a breath of the crisp spring air, then said, “The Diary of Anne Frank.”
He cocked a brow, remaining silent, his attentive expression encouraging me to continue.
“You asked if I always wanted to be a writer. It was The Diary of Anne Frank that made me want to be a writer.” I was unsure why I felt inclined to tell him this story. It was something I rarely told anyone. I wasn’t even sure my brother or Brooklyn knew. “I read it when I was maybe eight or nine. I was so impressed with how well-written she was at her age, I made my father go out and get me a journal so I could keep a diary of sorts, just like she did. Drew had my father and hockey to keep him company. I guess I always found writing and reading to be my companions.”
“What did you write about?” A smile tugged at his lips.
I wondered if this was the sort of thing Kevin hoped to get out of me. I never had any desire to share these parts of myself with him. Noah was different somehow. I didn’t feel as if he would judge me or use this information against me somewhere down the road after a heated argument.
“Nothing as notable as she did. I wasn’t exactly in hiding from an intolerant government.” I looked down at my flip-flop clad feet, making a mental note to get a pedicure, especially with it finally being spring. “I tried to write things that crossed my mind, make commentary about what I observed in my world. I sometimes flip through it now and laugh at the stuff I wrote about, what I considered to be important. You can only imagine the missive I wrote when the Backstreet Boys broke up.”
“You still have it?”
I nodded. “I’ve kept all my journals.”
“Do you still journal?”
“Kind of. I use it as a way to free write.”
“Free write?” He shook his head slightly, a glint of interest in his eyes. “What’s that?”
“It’s just writing whatever pops into my head. They may not even be complete sentences or thoughts, just words. When I don’t know what to write about, I free write.”
“Does it help?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes. I think it’s more of a comfort thing for me. My journal is like a baby’s security blanket. I’ve been journaling for the better part of my life. When I feel stuck, I go back to what I know.”
“I get it.”
We continued walking through the Common, passing the scene of my unceremonious attack by a gang of lowlife city dwellers. I didn’t even try to fill the void with meaningless conversation. For once, I simply enjoyed the quiet.
All too soon, we reached the edge of the park by the Arlington Street station. Noah turned to me, letting out a shaky breath as our eyes met. “I should probably get back to grading papers.”
“We passed Tufts several blocks back,” I commented.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess I just wanted to spend a little more time with you.”
I fought back the grin wanting to form on my lips from his admission. My body buzzed with happiness and something else…something I couldn’t quite describe.
“As friends,” he clarified quickly, looking away.
“Of course.” I was a little surprised when I felt a heaviness settle in my heart at the idea that nothing more would ever happen between us. I tried not to let on, smiling with as much confidence as I could muster. Even a complete stranger could probably sense my disappointment.
Noah returned his eyes to mine, turmoil and unease on his face. “It’s just—”
“Thanks for the ice cream,” I interrupted, clearing my throat. I knew what he was about to say. I didn’t want to suffer through that awkward conversation. “It was…life-changing.” I winked.
His lips crooked into a small smile. “So you agree that it sometimes pays to try something new?”
“I’ll concede you may be onto something.” I smoothed one of my wayward waves behind my ear. “But I’d need more proof to make a final determination. You are a scientist, after all. You know all about needing to test your hypothesis repeatedly to prove it. I can hardly make a determination after just one test.”
His small smile brightened, reaching his eyes. I’d written about panty-dropping smiles before. They had nothing on Noah’s. He had a panty-dropping “let’s get married and have lots of sex and babies” smile. I actually liked it. He wasn’t flashing those pearly whites just to get into my pants or flirt with me. It was genuine. Everything about him was genuine and real. It was a pleasant change from the other men I typically surrounded myself with.
“I’d be more than happy to help you test that hypothesis again, Molly.”
He stepped toward me, our bodies nearly touching. I tilted my head back. It would have been so easy to raise myself onto my toes and press my lips against his. I couldn’t stop imagining how they would taste. I contemplated it, thinking it could help break through my block. I was supposed to be writing a forbidden romance. Pursuing something with Noah was certainly forbidden.
Then a pang of guilt formed in my chest at the idea of using him for a story. Could I really put his career in jeopardy just to help me get past my writer’s block? I had no problem using other men, but they were different. They were mostly twenty-somethings who were content with a casual fling. I didn’t know Noah well, but I knew enough to realize he was nothing like them.
“I should probably get going,” I said, breaking the tension. I stepped back before I pushed him to do something he’d instantly regret…and something I’d regret.
“Right.” He relaxed his stature. “And I have papers I need to look over.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing you then.” I hesitated, then reluctantly turned away from him.
“It was nice running into you today, Molly,” he called out.
I glanced over my shoulder and offered him a congenial smile as he kept his eyes trained on me, a breeze blowing my hair in front of my face.
“I hope I’ll have the pleasure of running into you again sometime very soon.”
Before I could respond, he flashed me his nearly perfect teeth, then ran back through the Common. I was unable to take my eyes off him as his tall frame grew smaller and smaller, disappearing from view when he turned a corner.
~~~~~~~~~~
AS I SAT IN my apartment that evening, I read message after message from guys who had stumbled across one of my online dating profiles, but none of them seemed to catch my interest. I should have been focused on finding an attractive, professional man who would ignite the spark I’d been missing lately, but I wasn’t.
With a permanent smile plastered on my face, I brought up my manuscript on my laptop, thoughts of ice cream, Anne Frank, and muscular legs dancing in my head. Despite insisting I needed a muse, I did something I didn’t think possible…I wrote.
Evening gave way to nighttime, yet I still wrote. The bars closed, yet I still wrote. My characters had completely taken over. It was magical, satisfying, and a bit frightening all at once. I hadn’t experienced anything like this since I began writing. When I wrote for myself and no one else. When no one knew who I was.
As the sun began to rise on Sunday morning, I sipped a coffee, rereading what I had written. It was nothing like the usual garbage I churned out. It had heart. It had soul. It had an actual story.
And I had a feeling my publisher would hate it.