The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer - Hodkin Michelle. Страница 31

“Would you take her?” He offered the little dog to his mother, who held her arms out. “Since I had to double back, I thought I’d let Mara and Mabel get reacquainted while we’re here.”

Mabel wanted no part of that plan, and Dr. Shaw seemed to know it. “Why don’t I take them both upstairs while you two—”

“It’s Ruby fussing that’s making her nervous. Just take her, we’ll be fine.” Noah crouched down to pet Mabel.

Dr. Shaw shrugged. “It was nice to see you again, Mara.”

“You too,” I said quietly, as she walked out.

Noah lifted Mabel in a football carry before she could bolt after Dr. Shaw. The poor dog’s legs paddled as if she were running on a phantom treadmill. A memory of a hissing black cat flared in my mind.

“You’re scaring her,” Joseph had said.

Mabel was scared too. Of me.

My breath caught in my throat. That was a crazy thing to think. Why would she be scared of me? I was being paranoid. Something else was freaking her out. I tried not to let the hurt leak into my voice when I spoke. “Maybe your mom’s right, Noah.”

“She’s fine, Ruby just made her nervous.”

The whites of Mabel’s eyes were visible by the time Noah carried her over to where I stood. He looked at me, confused. “What did you do, bathe in leopard urine before you left the house this morning?”

“Yes. Leopard urine. Never leave home without it.”

Mabel whined and yelped and strained against Noah’s arms. “All right,” he said finally. “Mission aborted.” He placed Mabel on the floor and watched her scramble out of the hall, her claws clicking on the marble. “She probably doesn’t remember you,” Noah said, still looking in Mabel’s direction.

I dropped my gaze. “I’m sure that’s it,” I said. I didn’t want Noah to see that I was upset.

“Well,” he said finally. He rocked back on his heels and studied me.

I willed myself not to blush under his stare. “Well.” Time to change the subject. “You are a lying liar who lies.”

“Oh?”

I looked around us, at the towering ceiling and sweeping balconies. “You kept all of this a secret.”

“No, I didn’t. You just never asked.”

“How was I supposed to guess? You dress like a hobo.”

At this, a mocking grin crept over Noah’s mouth. “Haven’t you heard not to judge a book by its cover?”

“If I’d have known it was Trite Proverb Day, I would have stayed home.” I rubbed my forehead and shook my head. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

Noah’s eyes challenged me. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Like, ‘Mara, you might want to wear some makeup and put on heels because I’m going to take you to my family’s palace in Miami Beach on Sunday.’ Something like that.”

Noah stretched his lithe frame, locking his fingers and raising his arms above his head. His white T-shirt rose, exposing a sliver of stomach and the elastic of his boxers above the low waistband of his jeans. Button fly, I noticed.

Well played.

“First, you don’t need makeup,” he said as I rolled my eyes. “Second, you wouldn’t last an hour in heels, where we’re going. Speaking of which, I have to get the keys.”

“Oh, yes, the mysterious keys.”

“Are you going to go on about this the entire day now? I thought we were making progress.”

“Sorry. I’m just a tad rattled by the pug attack and Mabel’s freak-out. And the fact that you live in the Taj Mahal.”

“Rubbish. The Taj Mahal is only a hundred eighty-six square feet. This house has twenty-five thousand.”

I stared at him blankly.

“I was kidding,” he said.

I stared at him blankly.

“All right, I wasn’t kidding. Let’s go, shall we?”

“After you, my liege,” I said.

Noah gave an exaggerated sigh as he started walking to an enormous staircase with an intricately carved banister. I followed him up, and shamefully enjoyed the view. Noah’s jeans were loose, barely hanging on to his hips.

When we finally reached the top of the staircase, Noah took a left down a long corridor. The plush Oriental rugs muffled our footsteps, and my eyes drank in the detailed oil paintings that hung from the walls. Eventually, Noah stopped in front of a gleaming wooden door. He reached to open it, but we heard the careless slam of a door behind us and turned.

“Noah?” asked a sleep-ridden voice. Female.

“Hey, Katie.”

Even with pillow creases on her face, the familiar girl was absolutely stunning. She looked as otherworldly standing there in a camisole and shorts set as she had in her fairy getup. Without the costume and the pulsing lights in the club, it was obvious that she shared Noah’s extraterrestrial beauty. Her hair was the same dark honey brown color as his, only longer; the ends skimmed the lace bottom of her camisole. Her blue eyes widened in surprise as they met mine.

“I didn’t know you had company,” she said to Noah, suppressing a smile.

He shot her a look, then turned to me. “Mara, my sister Katie.”

“Kate,” she corrected him, then gave me a knowing glance. “Morning.”

I couldn’t manage much more than a nod. At that moment, a perky, blond cheerleader was doing cartwheels in my vena cava. His sister. His sister!

“It’s almost noon, now, actually,” Noah said.

Kate shrugged and yawned. “Well, nice meeting you, Mara,” she said, and winked at me before heading down the stairs.

“You too,” I managed to breathe. My heart rioted in my chest.

Noah opened the door all the way and I tried to compose myself. This changed nothing. Nothing at all. Noah Shaw was still a whore, still an asshole, and still painfully out of my league. This was my inner mantra, the one I repeated on a loop until Noah tilted his head and spoke.

“Are you coming in?”

Yes. Yes I was.

28

nOAH’S ROOM WAS STARTLING. A LOW, MODERN platform bed dominated the center of it but otherwise, there was no furniture except for a long desk that blended inconspicuously into an alcove. There were no posters. No laundry. Just a guitar leaning against the side of the bed. And the books.

Rows upon rows of books, lining built-in shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Sunlight spilled through the enormous windows that overlooked Biscayne Bay.

I never imagined what Noah’s room would look like, but if I had, I wouldn’t have imagined this. It was gorgeous, definitely. But so … bare. Unlived in. I circled the room, trailing my fingers along some of the spines as I went.

“Welcome to the private collection of Noah Shaw,” he said. I stared at all of the titles. “You have not read all of these.” “Not yet.”

I cracked a smile. “So it’s a tail-chasing tactic.”

“Pardon?” I could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Vanity books,” I said without looking at him. “You don’t actually read them, they’re just here to impress your … guests.”

“You’re a mean girl, Mara Dyer,” he said, standing in the middle of his room. I felt his eyes on me, and I liked it.

“I’m wrong?” I asked.

“You are wrong.”

“All right,” I said, and pulled a random book from the shelf. “Maurice, by E.M. Forster. What’s it about? Go.”

Noah told me about the gay protagonist who attended Cambridge in turn-of-the-century Britain. I didn’t believe him, but I hadn’t read it so I moved on.

“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man?”

Noah belly-flopped on to his bed, affecting a bored tone as he rattled off another synopsis. My eyes followed the thousand-mile stretch of his back and my feet itched with the confusing impulse to walk over and join him. Instead, I pulled out another book without reading the spine first.

“Ulysses,” I called out.

Noah shook his head, his face buried in the pillow.

Satisfied, I smiled to myself, put the book back on the shelf and reached for another. The dust jacket was missing, so I read the title from the cover. “The Joy of … crap.” I read the rest of the full title of the thick, nondescript volume to myself and felt myself redden.