“Oh yes.” Then, just when I feel like something special’s about to happen, like he’s about to tell me something important, he shifts away from me on the sofa. “Just gotta use the restroom. Be right back.”
As I watch Noah walk away, I take a moment to process everything that’s happened. It’s weird because although on paper there’s no way a knicker-flashing, international disaster zone like me should be in this place, with this person, there’s something about the way Noah and I fit together that makes it seem like the most natural thing in the world. I decide there and then not to worry anymore about what things look like “on paper.” I watch as a girl walks over to an old jukebox in the corner and puts some money in. The song “What a Wonderful World” comes on and I feel so happy it’s like every cell in my body has turned into a shooting star. This is Dad’s happy song—the one he always plays when we’re celebrating something. It seems so perfect—this seems so perfect—that my eyes fill with happy tears.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Noah says, when he gets back to the table.
“They’re worth way more than a penny,” I say with a grin.
“Oh, really?” Noah slides back onto the sofa, right up close to me. “How much more?”
“Way out of your price range, I’m afraid.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
Noah grins at me. “I’d tell you my thoughts if you gave me a penny.”
“Really?” I fumble in my bag for my purse and hand him a penny. “Go on then.”
“I was thinking, I’m so glad I gave Sadie Lee a lift to work this morning. And I’m so glad I hung around to play that guitar.”
My heart starts beating really fast. “Yeah?”
“Yep. That sure was a nice guitar.”
“Oh.”
He gives me a knowing smile, then looks away.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Your turn,” Noah says, handing me back the penny.
“What?”
“Your turn. A penny for your thoughts.”
“But I told you—they’re worth way more than a penny.”
“Oh no.” Noah frowns at me and shakes his head. “Once a person’s told you their thoughts you have to tell them yours—for the exact same price. That’s the rules.”
“There are rules?” I pull a fake disgruntled face but my head is filling with nervous chatter. How can I tell him I was thinking “KISS ME”? He’ll think I’m a lunatic. I need to make up something else. But I don’t exactly have the greatest track record when it comes to thinking up clever things to say to boys on the spot. I make a mental note not to mention anything to do with fleas.
“Go on,” Noah says, nodding at the penny in my hand.
My mind goes completely blank. All I can think of is the truth. “I was thinking about how perfect today is.” Oh my God, could you be any more intense? my inner voice starts yelling.
“You were?” I feel Noah move back toward me.
I nod, still unable to look at him, just in case I’ve read things all wrong.
“I think—” Noah begins.
“Yo! Meatballs!”
We both jump at the sound of Antonio’s voice. He plonks two steaming dishes down on the table. In any other circumstances they would look incredible, but right now I hate those meatballs with their stupid secret sauce and their jaunty sprigs of basil. Why couldn’t he have brought them over one minute later? Why couldn’t I have heard what Noah was going to say? To make matters even worse, Antonio then hangs around for about FIVE WHOLE MINUTES telling us all about his grandma’s grandma and how she grew the most amazing “to-may-toes” and how people would come from all over Naples just to try a mouthful of her special sauce. By the time he eventually goes back to the kitchen, the moment has well and truly been lost. I try to wrap some spaghetti around my fork but just as I put it in my mouth, half of it unravels. Of course, it’s at exactly this moment that Noah looks at me.
“How’s your meatballs?” he asks.
“Mmm, good,” I mumble, trying—and failing—to style out the fact that I have about six inches of spaghetti dangling from my mouth like a family of worms. As soon as Noah looks back down at his own dish, I try sucking the spaghetti up through my teeth. Just at that moment, the song playing on the jukebox finishes and the silence is filled with a horrible slurping noise. My horrible slurping noise, as the spaghetti shoots up into my mouth, splattering my face with tomato sauce.
Noah looks at me. But instead of mocking me or looking ashamed to be sitting at the same table as me, he loads his own fork with spaghetti and sucks it up into his mouth. A blob of sauce splats onto the middle of his forehead. We both look at each other and crack up laughing, and in that moment I don’t just think Noah is drop-dead gorgeous and Rock-God–tastic—I really, really like him too, and that feels way more important.
“Here,” he says, picking up his napkin. “Let me get that.” And he moves closer and gently wipes the tomato sauce from under my eye. And from over my eye. And from my forehead. And from my chin. And from my upper lip. And my lower lip. And . . .
“Seriously?” I say, staring at him. “Did I really get sauce all over my face?”
He shakes his head. “No. I just like dabbing girls’ faces with napkins. It’s a fetish of mine. Don’t worry—my shrink says it’s harmless.”
Laughing, I pick up my own napkin and wipe the sauce from his forehead.
“Aha, you have the same fetish,” Noah says, laughing. “I told you we had lots in common.”
We both put our napkins down and carry on eating. Sheer joy has now set up camp in my entire body. Even my toes are tingling.
“So, is your dad still an artist?” I say, determined to find out as much as I can about Noah.
When he doesn’t instantly reply, I look up at him. He’s stopped eating and is staring down at his plate. “No, no he’s not. My dad . . . he’s dead. Both my parents are.”
I put down my knife and fork, feeling terrible. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”