No. I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back to Martin’s sock discourse. I need this job. I need the paycheck. I need the independence.
What I don’t need is Noah King messing with my head.
16
Bea
I manageto avoid Noah for the rest of the day by strategically timing my bathroom breaks. When I return from my final escape to the copy room, there’s a Post-it stuck to my monitor in Noah’s sharp, angular handwriting:
“7 AM tomorrow.
Wear pants.
We’re doing a site visit.”
No ‘please,’ no ‘thank you.’ Just a command, because of course. I crumple the note and toss it in my trash bin with more force than necessary.
The next morning, I arrive at 6:45 a.m. with two coffees and a bag of pastries from the bakery two blocks away from work. It’s the one luxury I allow myself—once a week, I splurge on a chocolate croissant that costs more than my dinner. Today, I bought two because my first paycheck was handsome, and I’m still living off it.
Noah’s already there, pacing by the elevator in dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His usual suit has been replaced by casual wear that makes him look less like a tyrant and more like a regular human being. Dangerous.
I clear my throat, holding out one of the coffees. Black, no sugar, just how he likes it. “Morning.”
He takes the cup, his fingers brushing mine, sending an electric current straight up my arm. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” I counter, trying not to notice how his casual attire transforms him from ‘insufferable boss’ to ‘guy from the bar I’d like to take home but never will.’ The jeans sit low on his hips, and the sweater’s sleeves are pushed up to reveal those forearms that have been haunting my thoughts even more recently. If I thought he looked good in suits, this casual attire just blew the designer suit out of the water.
“The site’s in Brooklyn,” he says, sipping the coffee and making a surprised face when he realizes it’s actually good. This might be the first time I didn’t ruin his coffee on purpose. “Traffic will be hell.”
“Hence the early start. It’s good to start with breakfast.” I hand him a pastry bag with a croissant, careful not to let our fingers touch again.
He takes it slowly and peeks inside, then glances at me and murmurs, “Thanks.”
“You are welcome,” I reply cheerfully. “So, what are we visiting today?”
“The Newside project.” He pulls the pastry out of the bag, eyeing it carefully (probably checking for poison) before taking a bite. “We’re breaking ground next month if everything clears.”
“The Newside project you’ve been working on? Or the one from the archives?” I ask, remembering my mad dash through dusty filing cabinets. The Newside project has been somethingNoah and Ezra have been working on way before I came to the job, and now it seems to be actually happening.
“Both.” He nods, leading me toward the parking garage. “We’re revitalizing an old factory building, the Riverside Development, and converting it to mixed-use. Affordable housing, community spaces, retail. It was my grandfather’s vision before my dad took over.” His voice switches to a gentler tone. “My mom wanted to have that center, so of course, my father shut down the project.” The muscle on Noah’s jaw starts moving under his skin, and his eyes harden at the mention of his father.
I don’t know what happened to their mom, but neither of the King brothers ever mention her. It’s not like they talk to me a lot, but even Maeve avoids this topic.
A suddenly plummeted mood is probably not what he envisioned for this morning because the extra information about his family seemed to slip from his mouth, so I try to bring back that genuine initial enthusiasm in his voice. I kind of like this new softer person versus the barking tyrant I’ve been enduring.
“You sound passionate about this one,” I observe cautiously, trying not to sound too surprised at seeing this new side of Noah King, but also not to sound too eager to switch the topic.
His eyes flit to mine. “It’s a good project.”
“I agree. But why am I here? I’m just an assistant, and most bosses send their assistants to take notes at meetings, not drag them along at dawn where they can break a leg,” I say, chuckling, munching on my own croissant.
He eyes me cautiously. “You taking notes wouldn’t do any good if you don’t understand what you’re looking at.”
“So this is educational?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Something like that.” He pushes through a door markedPrivate Parking, leading me to a sleek black Range Rover that definitely costs more than my yearly paycheck.
“Fancy,” I mutter, brushing croissant crumbs from my hands before touching the pristine door handle. “Won’t want to ruin the pretty.”
