She giggles again, wiggling her eyebrows, and I get a feeling I’m missing an inside joke I’m not going to like. Either they are on some Eyebrow Communication 101 class, or I’m about to walk into a trap.
When we step into the elevator, he turns toward the infinity mirror and starts fixing his hair and tie. And I suddenly get the idea of what exactly I was missing. When he starts checking his teeth, I bite my lips—hard—trying not to smile at how adorable he looks. Like a nervous debutante before her first officialouting, and I know a thing or two about that—I’ve been one of those.
When the elevator doors open, we both take a loud, deep breath simultaneously. Giving each other a quick smile, we head out.
Today is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into this building, first the temp agency’s floor, and now King’s floor itself. I don’t know what I expected, but a cozy office space is not it. It is an office, don’t get me wrong, but I get the sense that spending hours upon hours here wouldn’t feel as depressing as somewhere else would. Despite being very sleek and modern—glass walls, overly polished wood, all nine yards—the place has character.
Even though Maeve has her designer studio on one of the lower levels of this building, I’ve never braved myself to step foot here because ofhim.
And right on cue, the man in question storms out of one of the doors at the end of the open space. Despite a bunch of people around, clicking on their keyboards and talking on the phone, I see him the moment he opens the door.
Black pants are glued to his taut ass and thighs as he angrily strides across the whole floor and away from us. White shirt rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing with every angry stride. His hair’s tousled, his shoulders are braced for battle. I remember all of it too well.
For a split second, I forget I hate him. My thighs press together like they don’t belong to me, and heat floods my cheeks. Ashamed, I glance at Julian, but he’s too busy smoothing his tie to notice my struggle.
Judging by Noah’s long, fast steps, he’s marching to war, and for a second, I pity the opponent because this man is destined to win. But after this stupid moment of weakness, I give myselfa mental smack in the face, reminding my body that my brain doesn’t like this man because he’s rude to us.
As we walk down the corridor toward the man of fury, Julian shares a few hellos and quick words with people around. When we come to a big opening at the end of the corridor, we find Noah with his ass planted on Martin’s desk and his hand shaking a paper in the air.
“How stupid can one person be to fuck up an address for the mail? Huh?” he snarls. “Tell me, Martin. How?” His voice is a low growl, veins popping on his forearms as he flexes his hands.
Martin, completely unfazed, lifts his eyes over his glasses with an expression of a therapist who’s seen it all.
“I don’t know, Noah. I guess you need a new assistant. Preferably one who doesn’t confuse zip codes with blood pressure numbers, which are high around here.” His eyes flick to Noah then back down, ignoring the tension radiating from him.
Noah tosses the paper onto Martin’s keyboard, which Martin flicks to the side with one finger with rehearsed accuracy.
Julian seizes the moment to rush toward them and start talking in a bright, almost gleeful voice. “And I’ve got one for you,” he announces, walking up to them.
Martin and Noah’s heads snap toward us with cartoon-perfect timing. For a heartbeat, we are all frozen. Then Martin’s face splits into a slow, chaotic grin while his gaze darts between Noah and me, already savoring the upcoming fireworks. And Julian is too busy basking in Martin’s smile to notice the brewing storm.
Noah’s face shifts—from normal to pale to flushed. His lips curl like he just tasted a sour lemon when his eyes meet mine. Recognition, dread, rage. In that order.
My foot hovers. My instinct screaming to bolt as soon as his predatory eyes land on mine. But then I remember my apartment, the bills, the promise I made to stay free.
With my heart in my ears and my breathing shallow, I keep walking, refusing to blink and let him win.
Martin is the one who dares to break the silence. “Bea!” he exclaims, popping up from his chair and flashing his wild socks (blue with pink piggies today).
Noah’s eyes narrow as he snarls. “What is she doing here?”
“Your new assistant,” Julian replies in a smug tone, handing Noah the contract. “Ms. Wrong starts today.”
Noah’s jaw drops. With eyes able to ignite paper, he stares at me. And just like that, everything I buried a year ago resurfaces. The tension, the hatred, the memory of almost-a-kiss, and my words thrown into his face before I walked away.
I lift my chin and meet his glare despite my stomach twisting itself in knots. I need this job, and he will not take it from me. No one will take it from me this time.
11
Noah
I catchthe exact moment she feels my rage zeroing in on her. Her smile falters for a heartbeat before she snaps it back on, straightening her posture and bracing for a hit.
Her black skirt hugging her hips and white shirt buttoned up to her throat are completely HR-compliant but damn sinful. Her hair’s twisted into a low ponytail, loose strands framing her face, softening the fire in her eyes currently directed at me. No red-blooded man would be able to look away.
“No fucking way!” I snap. I just fired my assistant for messing with my permit, and now they want to give me a spoiled princess who hasn’t worked a day in her life and just wants to slum it by working in an office. And she just had to choose mine for that.
Martin’s grin falters, the offense turning genuine, which is rich after I’ve just been thrown into a fire pit, and he doesn’t seem to be very surprised by her arrival.
