To face who I know is standing there.

I mean, I know him, but I don’t know him? If that makes sense.

He never told me his name. I only know what he felt like when I hugged him, hot and stiff and…

Stiff—and not the good kind.

My eyes hit a massive wall of chest before beginning their journey north. That unsmiling mouth. That Roman nose. The half-hooded eyes, shielded by his glasses, no doubt a bit too guarded for someone so young.

He can’t be much older than me, can he? What, maybe 25?

“Hi.”

He wavers before letting out his own “Hi.”

I look around, raising my eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”

Noah must have sent him. Should I trust this guy with this baseball card?

Wait—Noah trusted him with $20,000.

“I’m here for the card?”

Ahh—so he is doing his friend a favor. Makes sense. Still, a text giving me a heads up would have been nice.

I step aside so he can order, but he doesn’t. Simply jerks his head to the left, toward a table in the corner.

He leads, I follow, staring at his broad back, the fabric sticking along his spine. His hair looks wet and he smells great, like he’s fresh from a shower.

“Were you just at the gym working out?”

He grunts, sitting. “Something like that.”

Okayyy…

He removes the sunglasses, watchful eyes settling on the necklace at the base of my throat. My lips. The purse I rested on the table.

“Oh! The card!” He understandably wants what he came for. Duh.

The giant shifts in his chair as I retrieve the Jenkins card, his legs so long they barely fit under the small, round table. I can’t imagine he’d fit inside a car.

My fingers gingerly set the encased card in the center of the table, but he doesn’t reach for it.

He doesn’t do anything.

So. I do what I do when I’m nervous and unsure: I chatter. “I don’t remember you being this socially awkward at Rent on Saturday.”

His lip twitches. Mouth slightly frowning. Bottom lip looks soft, but chapped, like he licks it a lot and could stand to use some balm. What do guys know about skincare and exfoliating their mouths? Nothing.

I remove my gaze from his pout and it roams to his eyes.

They’re dark, an odd shade. Not amber and not brown exactly. I have no idea what I’m saying.

I need him to talk. To say something. And crap, I probably shouldn’t have given him the baseball card until I know he has the money.

“Pay up,” I tell him jokingly. “You wouldn’t want Noah to be pissed you did him wrong, would you?”

More painful silence has me shifting in the chair, the back ramrod straight and ungodly uncomfortable.

“That isn’t going to happen.”

Oh? “And why is that?”

“I’m Noah.”

I’m sorry what now? “Your name is Noah, too?”

Based on my extensive knowledge of body language, I can tell he wants to roll his eyes by his flaring nostrils. He’s frustrated with me; that much is clear.

“No. Not ‘Noah too’—I’m the only Noah.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Does this guy have two nicknames, too?

“That guy you met at the police station is my friend, Buzz.”

My mouth opens and closes like a guppy and I slam it closed, quiet for a beat.

“I don’t understand why you’ve been lying. Are you a criminal?” Shit, what if the cash he used to pay me was stolen? Hot, they call it? Is he on the lam? Could I go to jail? What if they trace the serial numbers on the bills to track me down?!

I notice a group of three high school boys watching us, and Noah—if that is his real name—slouches in the seat, sliding his sunnies back into place, spinning the brim of his ball cap over the front of his eyes.

Wow. This guy has issues…

“I’m not a criminal.” His voice is low, even, controlled.

“But definitely a liar.”

His jaw clenches and he turns an unflattering shade of red.

“Did you not hear what I said?” he asks. “I’m the one buying your cards.”

I stare at him, at the eyes I can no longer see. At the wet hair beneath his ball cap. The red cheeks and neck. The twist in his lips.

Any other person wouldn’t care that he didn’t show up himself to retrieve the card. Maybe someone else wouldn’t even care that he didn’t properly introduce himself at the club, didn’t bother correcting me when I called—what was his friend’s name? When I called Buzz Noah in front of everyone.

Buzz didn’t correct me, either, that asshole.

I stare some more, heart racing. Cheeks, I’m sure, as red as Noah’s.

Noah.

“I felt like…” We were connecting.

Connecting, connecting—like, on a different level than just a transaction between two people. And at the club? I felt something then, too.

A pull. Sparks.

How stupid. What would a guy like this want with a girl like me? No doubt if he’s hanging out with someone like that sleaze Buzz and those other huge, gym-rat-looking guys at the club, I am the furthest thing from his type.