.jpg)
Noah picks up a large, vibrant maple leaf and watches as the woman in charge gives a quick demonstration on how to make a leaf crown. As he works, his hands mimic hers and move with a gentle precision, selecting each leaf with care and arranging them just so. I point my camera at Noah and at his crown, snapping away steadily. The rustling of the leaves is soothing, and I find myself entranced by the rhythmic motion of his fingers.
In a matter of minutes, he finishes the crown and then gently places it on my head. I reach up to touch it, marveling at the intricate design. “Thank you,” I say, my voice filled with gratitude.
“My pleasure. Every queen deserves a crown.” He smiles, a twinkle in his eye. “It looks good on you, Willa.”
Something inside of me hitches. It’s like a rope has been tied to my insides and they’re pulling them to my outsides. I feel exposed, vulnerable. We may be standing in the middle of a busy fall festival, but it’s like the world has fallen away and it’s just us. Me and Noah and those beautiful pink lips of his that I hadn’t noticed before.
When those lips turn up at the corners, I feel a surge of ice inside of me. A quick glance tells me I’ve been busted. He caught me staring at his lips. Which is exhausting, considering a few days back I was ready to wrestle him and drown him in the river.
Noah wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do I have something on my face?”
I feel a flush of heat as my cheeks surely are now red with embarrassment. “Ah, no, I was thinking …” Quick, Willa. WHAT were you thinking? Looking around, I’m at a loss for what to say next when I see a sign for a photo booth.
“I was thinking instead of me making a crown, that we should stick you in the photo booth. In a new outfit, of course.”
“Why do that when you have a camera?”
“Options.” Yes, Willa, go with that. “I can give the magazine some pictures of you from the photo booth to use as well. Who knows if they’ll use them or not, but we can try.”
Noah narrows his eyes but reaches for his backpack. “I’ve got one other top I brought with me. Do I need to change my pants as well?”
“Your jeans are fine. I’ve been taking photos from the waist up, and unless you plan on doing a handstand, we shouldn’t see your bottom half in these pictures, either.”
“You said bottom half.” Noah chuckles as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head.
“What happened to Mr. Conservative who needed to hide behind the food truck?” I tease as his sweatshirt comes off—and the T-shirt he was wearing underneath comes along with it. Leaving me standing, up close and personal, in the middle of Maple Fest with one half-naked Noah Beaumont.
And he ain’t hard to look at.
My eyes take on a life of their own, widening as I digest the sight before me. Noah’s body is, to put it mildly, a work of art. His chest is broad and chiseled, each muscle appears to be sculpted by a master craftsman—or perhaps just years of intense training. His abs are a perfect six-pack, each one defined and glistening slightly in the crisp fall air, making me wonder if he has a personal ab-polisher on standby.
His arms, well, let’s just say they could probably lift a car or two, maybe even a small house. They’re muscular and toned, veins running down them like a roadmap of strength and power. His shoulders are wide and sturdy, the kind that could probably carry the weight of the world—or at least a couple of teammates after a victory celebration.
As if the Universe couldn’t resist adding a touch of the ridiculous, a stray autumn leaf gently floats down and lands right on his left pectoral. It sticks there for a moment, as if even nature wants a piece of the action. I can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.
Noah, blissfully unaware of the spectacle he’s created, looks around in confusion. “Uh, why is everyone staring?”
“Maybe because you’ve turned Maple Fest into Male Feast-for-the-eyes,” I manage to quip, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances down at his bare chest and then back up at me, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Oh, whoops.”
I’m trying to maintain a straight face, but failing miserably. “You might want to put your shirt back on before the festival organizers start charging admission.”
He chuckles, quickly pulling his shirt back over his head, but not before giving me one last, all-too-smug wink. “You think anyone got a good look?”
“Oh, I think they got more than a good look,” I say, shaking my head. “You’ve just become the highlight of the festival.”
(covers link to Goodreads)
.jpg)
