I slam the toothbrush down, splashing dirty water onto my worn sweatpants. “Screw you, Noah King,” I mutter to my empty apartment.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maeve.
“Brunch tomorrow? Our place?”
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Brunch means possibly seeing Ezra, which means possibly talking about Noah, which means possibly revealing how much I want to strangle his brother with his own designer tie.
“I’d love to but can’t. I’ve got things to do.”
I have nothing else to do, but my anger is too strong to spill it on my sister who’s living in her never-ending honeymoon phase. So I’ll have to carry it alone.
Instead of doing anything productive with my anger, and because there’s only so much one person can do in such a tiny place for two whole days, I google.
I google all the buildings Noah has designed, and it turns out to be a lot for someone his age. He’s been drawing since college, and some of his early plans have been used to build actual places but not under King Developers. Looks like he sold some of those designs to other companies and independent developers.
As I go through pictures of the places built out of his imagination, I realize how right Esther was. The majority of the buildings are out of New York, and I’ve actually been to a couple of them without realizing it.
There’s a small boutique hotel in SoHo that I visited with my parents two years ago—all clean lines and warm lighting that somehow made even their toxic presence bearable. A ballroom that Maeve dragged me to for some charity event. Both buildings have this quality I can’t quite name, like they were designed by someone who actually gives a damn about the people who’ll use them.
I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee and keep scrolling through the images, feeling a reluctant admiration growing like an unwanted weed. Noah King might be the human equivalent of a migraine, but his buildings have soul. There’s a thoughtfulness to them that contradicts the tyrannical jerk who’s been making my life hell.
I slam my laptop shut, annoyed that I’m thinking about Noah King in any context that doesn’t involve his demise. I refuse to give the walking migraine credit for anything, even if his buildings are admittedly gorgeous.
Monday comes too soon.Weaponized with my tightest black skirt and a little see-through white shirt I know distracts the tyrant, I stroll into the office ready for war.
I arrive at 6:50 a.m., determined to beat Noah to the office. The King Developers building is eerily quiet this early, my heels echoing through the marble lobby as I make my way to the executive floor. I settle at my desk, arrange my weapons—coffee(for me, not him), notebook, and the blueprints I rescued from the archives Friday night.
At exactly 7:05 a.m., the elevator dings. Noah strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—but stops short when he sees me already settled at my desk.
“You’re early,” he says, genuine surprise flickering across his face before the mask drops back into place.
I flash my sweetest smile. “Good morning to you too, Mr. King.”
I stand, smoothing my pencil skirt with deliberate slowness, my fingertips tracing the tight fabric and pausing over my thighs for a moment. His dark eyes follow the movement, lingering at the hemline before snapping back to my face with an almost imperceptible flicker of his jaw.
“The blueprints you needed Friday are on your desk. I organized them chronologically and flagged the structural revisions.” My smile is so wide, it’s hurting my cheeks.
His jaw ticks—once, twice. “You actually found them.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” I tilt my head, enjoying the momentary crack in his armor. “Coffee’s brewing. Would you like some, or are you sending me to Brooklyn again today?”
He narrows his eyes, studying me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. “Black. Throw in a sugar.”
“I thought you took it black,” I say sweetly.
“I changed my mind.”
“Of course you did,” I reply, my tone dry as I turn toward the break room. “Your royal wish is my command.”
As I walk away, I swear I feel his gaze burning into my back, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. In the break room, I dump extra sugar into his coffee just to spite him—three packets instead of one. Let him choke on the sweetness.
By the time I return, Noah’s already barricaded himself in his office, door firmly shut. Which doesn’t stop me since I’m delivering his order.
I place the mug on his desk with a loudthunk, sloshing a bit over the edge onto the pristine surface.
“Oops,” I murmur, not bothering to wipe it up.
He glances at the spreading puddle, then at me. Something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
