I shoot him a withering look that could freeze hell. “Something like that.”
Maeve reaches out and touches my arm gently. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been off all evening.” Her brows draw together. “Or rather a whole week.”
The genuine concern in her voice makes my chest tight with guilt. I hate lying to her, hate the way she’s looking at me with such worry. But what’s the alternative? Tell her I spent the night taking care of her brother-in-law after he got beaten up at an underground fight club? That I kissed him until I forgot my own name?
“I’m fine,” I lie, standing up from the counter. “Just tired. It’s been a crazy few days at work.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Ezra offers, already reaching for his keys.
“No!” The word comes out too sharp, too panicked. “I mean, no thank you. I’ll take a cab.”
Martin’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. “You won’t let your brother-in-law drive you home? How mysterious.”
“It’s not mysterious,” I snap, my patience finally fraying completely. “I just want to be alone right now.”
The kitchen falls silent, and I realize I’ve revealed too much. The defensive edge in my voice, the way I’m practically vibrating with nervous energy—it all points to someone who’s hiding something big. Or just tired of the damn meddling.
“Okay,” Maeve says slowly, her blue eyes studying my face. “But you’ll text me when you get home?”
“I promise,” I say, grabbing my purse from the counter. “Thanks for dinner.”
Maeve walks me to the door, keeping her arm linked through mine. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” she says quietly, once we’re out of earshot of the others. “I’m on your side. Always.”
The lump in my throat grows painful. “I know.”
“Is it about Noah?” she asks, her voice dropping even lower. “Because if something happened between you two?—”
“It’s not that,” I cut her off quickly. “It’s complicated.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then sighs. “Okay. But when you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”
I hug her tightly, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. For a moment, I consider telling her everything—about following Noah, about taking care of him, about his body around me—in me—that’s been haunting me all day. But the words stick in my throat.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise, pulling away.
I make my escape before she can ask any more questions, practically jogging to the elevator. I’m a terrible liar—I always have been. Mom used to say my face was like an open book, every thought and feeling written across it in bold letters, and I should work on it more. If I stay another minute, Maeve will crack me like an egg.
The elevator descends with agonizing slowness. I lean against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, trying not to think about Noah standing in this same spot minutes ago.
What am I doing? What is happening to my carefully ordered life? Twenty-four hours ago, everything made sense. I had a job I was good at, a boss I professionally tolerated, and a clear understanding of boundaries. Now I’m walking out on family dinners, lying to my sister, and unable to look anyone in the eye because I can’t stop thinking about Noah’s lips on my skin.
I’m lost in my own thoughts when I go through the automatic doors of Ezra’s building, my mind still spinning from the disastrous dinner. The cool night air hits my face, and I pause to take a deep breath, trying to center myself.
That’s when I see him.
Noah is leaning against a sleek black car parked at the curb, his tall frame silhouetted by the streetlights. My heart does a somersault in my chest, and I freeze mid-step, wondering if I’m hallucinating.
But it’s definitely him. He’s changed his clothes in the short time since dinner, now wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket that makes his shoulders look even broader. His face is still bruised, the concealer doing little to hide the damage, but there’s something different in his expression as he watches me—something vulnerable beneath the usual intensity.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you went home.”
“I did. It’s a couple buildings down the street.” He shifts his weight, wincing slightly as the movement jars his ribs. “Then I came back.”
I glance nervously at the building behind me, half expecting to see Maeve or Martin watching from the windows above. “Why?”
“Because we need to talk,” he says simply.
37
