The doors close, leaving me alone in the elevator with my heart pounding somewhere in my throat, forgetting which floor I should be going to. Noah’s words echo in my mind, and I can’t shake the feeling that he just flipped our whole worlds upside down because there’s no wayIcould go back now.
After a moment, I straighten my clothes and take a deep breath. Noah King is awful, demanding, and has been treating me like shit from our first meeting. But he’s also thoughtful,protective, and sweet. The last few days have shown me another side of him I didn’t know existed.
A cinnamon roll wrapped in a bad-boy foil and sprinkled with tortured artist. How can any woman resist that?
39
Noah
I’d be lyingif I said I didn’t plan on ambushing Bea in the elevator. When I saw her this morning at her desk, looking so sexy and almost mine, I forgot last evening’s turmoil and made a decision. If I’m going to go down in flames, it might as well be in a blaze of glory.
Now I’m sitting in a room with three contractors saying words likephased sequencingandcontingency allowances,and all I can hear is the memory of Bea’s little sound when I lifted her. I’m nodding at a Gantt chart while replaying the way her fingers fisted my jacket like she couldn’t decide if she was pulling me closer or saving us both.
“Mr. King?” the project manager prompts.
“Approved,” I say automatically. It’s either a brilliant move or I just greenlit setting a pile of cash on fire. I don’t even know why I’m doing this alone since Ezra is the one responsible for budgeting.
I wrap the meeting fifteen minutes early and ride the elevator back to my floor. Bea’s at her desk, head bent, posture perfect,typing like she’s filing the serial numbers off a weapon. My weapon. As I step into the bullpen, she doesn’t look up. Her mouth is a rigid line, her cheeks faintly flushed, and her pen is jumping between her fingers like it wants to be my rib cage.
I stop at her desk. “Summary in an hour?”
She slides me a neat packet without missing a keystroke. “Already on your desk, Mr. King.”
The Mr. is a slap and a dare. My mouth curves. “You missed a page,” I say without even looking.
“No, I didn’t.”
I know she didn’t. I’ve learned to know that Beatrice Wrong thrives on perfection, but I want to get a rise out of her. With a short nod, I disappear into my office where I pull up my email and type an invite to Bea.
Subject line:Contract Terms
Location:My office
Time:Ten minutes from now
.
I adda single period in the description because I want to watch her try to decide what that dot means.
Her reply is instant.
Accepted.
I should be the adult.I should lay out boundaries, timelines, and professional contingencies. For her sake more than mine. I should not be excited. I’m all of those shoulds and none of them at once.
40
Bea
I makehim wait ten minutes and forty seconds, because I am petty and because I need those ten minutes and forty seconds to breathe like a normal human and not like… whatever I turn into around him.
Then I take my folder with the printed-out agreement that I typed up last night and knock once on his door before slipping inside.
He’s behind his desk, with sleeves pushed to his forearms as if he knows that I’m fond of them, and he’s ready to use them as leverage.
The bruises on his face are bright and proud. Proof that I saw him in that ring. A warning that my words hold power. And an invitation to kiss his boo-boos better. All of the above, and I can’t even tell which one excites me the most.
“Ms. Wrong,” he says, keeping his voice all smooth and professional. And that makes my knees consider unionizing; they just can’t survive on their own around him. The power is in numbers. “Have a seat.”
