"You needed a minute.”
“Thank you.” He cupped her face, tipping her head up, and kissed her gently. It was tender and kind and all the things that Noah had always been. No matter how much he pushed her away, he’d never been cruel about it, except maybe the first night. Even when he dated other women, he hadn’t been a jerk. He just went out with women who weren’t for him.
Which was the last thing she should be thinking about that while his hands were wrapped around her body, and his tongue was making her skin tingle in all the right places.
"We really should get a bell,” her father’s voice bounced off the kitchen walls.
Ziggy dropped her forehead to Noah's shoulder.
“Or maybe a whistle,” her dad continued, with way more satisfaction and humor than necessary. "To announce ourselves. Spare everyone the gross public display of affection we keep walking into.”
Her mother laughed that little delightful chuckle she had when she thought her husband was the funniest man around. "I'll look into it."
"Please do," Noah said, against the top of her head. “It’ll save me further embarrassment.” He stuck his finger under Ziggy’s chin and tilted it. “Though, I do find her cheeks adorable when they turn this blush rose.”
“You’re as bad as my brothers.” She slapped his shoulder.
“Which is why he fits right in.” Her dad slapped Noah on the back. “I can’t tell you how many times we caught Darci and Reid in a lip lock. I swear that man was doing it to try to embarrass me.”
“No, honey. That was all, Darcie.” Her mother smiled. “And it was you who turned all sorts of red every time.”
Noah laughed.
“I plead the fifth on that one.” Her dad let out a long breath, but he did so with a smile.
Ziggy stood in Noah's kitchen with his arms around her while he chatted with her parents, as if this was how life was supposed to be, and Ziggy understood in that moment that some things—the right things—were worth the wait.
But outside, somewhere, Cormac stood watch. While she’d waited many years to be with Noah, a dark cloud loomed over their heads. It was only a matter of time before the sky opened and released the gathering storm.
9
The first thing Noah noticed when they pulled into the federal correction facility was the fence. Not the building—the damn stupid ugly fence.
Three layers of it, each taller than the last, the outermost crowned with coiled razor wire that caught the flat October light and threw it back dull and gray. Behind it, the concrete-and-brick building with windows too narrow and too high for anyone outside to see through was as depressing as any structure could possibly be.
Noah got out of the back seat on the passenger side of Troy’s SUV. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he ignored the light mist, and strolled across the pavement. Jag and Troy were only a step behind. Even though Noah could hear their boots crunching on the broken gravel, it felt like they were a half mile away.
He was grateful they had chosen to spend their Wednesday afternoon at a prison. Even more thankful that Cormac was sitting in his truck outside Ziggy’s house while she either paced a hole in her kitchen floor, or baked cookies, or both. Either way, she was safe, and that’s what mattered most.
Once inside the building, Noah realized he hadn’t really remembered much about what the prison had looked like fromthe last time he’d been there. The first two times, he’d been too scared to pay attention—the third time, too numb to notice.
This time, his mind was on sensory overload. It was as if he’d taken a drug that forced him to notice every damn crack in the fucking wall.
He stood in the lobby with Jag and Troy and looked at the inside of the prison through the plate glass and thought about how many times he'd driven past places like this in his career and filed them away. Infrastructure. Background. Part of the landscape of a story that belonged to someone else because he didn’t want to go there.
"You sure about this?" Troy asked.
"No," Noah said. "But I'm going."
“I have to ask, how does Ziggy feel about this?” Jag planted his hands on his hips. “I mean, what happens if?—”
“She’s on board.” Noah knew the probable consequences. So did Ziggy. In reality, they were planning on them. That was the whole point in calling his father’s bluff. “I know it’s a risk. And I get that it puts Ziggy in an awful place. But no matter what I do, she’s in the crosshairs.”
“I wasn’t judging your decision,” Jag said. “Just asking where she stood.” He reached up and squeezed Noah’s shoulder. “We all support you, or we wouldn’t be here.”
“Thanks.” Noah stepped up to the processing desk and emptied his pockets into the tray—phone, keys, wallet—and watched it disappear behind the desk. He wouldn't see any of it until he walked back out. The first time he'd done this, he'd been fifteen. Standing at a counter like this had felt like crossing into a country he wasn't sure he'd come back from. Now, it was just a procedure. A line he crossed and would cross on his return—he just wasn’t sure if he’d come back the same person. That was always the risk and the biggest reason he never spoke to his father.
The corrections officer checked his visitor ID without expression and handed it back. Noah clipped on the visitor badge and followed the officer through the first secured door.