Noah watches me with an amused expression. “It’s just a car, princess. You can ruin it all you want.”
“It’s a small apartment on wheels,” I counter, touching the leather seat with my finger. It’s not like my old beat-up Betty who smells like burnt rubber and rotten milk a previous owner must have spilled. “I could live in here and save on rent.”
He chuckles—actually chuckles—and motions for me to get in the car. Inside, it smells like Noah. Or Noah smells like the car; I haven’t figured this out yet. Leather, male, cologne, wealth. In that order.
Taking a deep breath in, I nearly roll my eyes because I like it a little bit too much. Writing it off on missing the expensive things in my life and not thoroughly enjoying the smell of the man next to me, I pull the seatbelt on and let myself relax because somehow, even without knowing how he drives, I know I’ll be safe.
17
Noah
I gripthe wheel tighter as Beatrice sinks into my passenger seat, her scent—something sweet and something uniquely her—filling the car and completely erasing the heavy leather smell I usually enjoy.
My stomach suddenly feels funny, and I wonder if I’m having food poisoning or some stomach bug because it feels like a giant worm starts moving inside my guts.
She’s dressed professionally, as usual, navy pants that hug her curves and a beige blouse that makes her skin glow. And heels. She wore heels even though I warned her where we would be going.
“You might want to lose the shoes before we get there,” I say, nodding at her impractical footwear as I pull out of the garage. “I brought boots for you in the back.”
She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “You thought of boots for me?”
I keep my eyes on the road, not trusting myself to look at her directly. “Can’t have you breaking an ankle on my site. The paperwork would be a nightmare.”
“Heaven forbid there be paperwork,” she mutters, but I catch the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “How did you know I wouldn’t bring my own?”
I grunt something incomprehensible and look ahead, refusing to acknowledge her intense stare on the side of my face. When she gives up, her chest rises heavily, and she turns to look out the window. And only then can I breathe, because how am I supposed to say that I brought shoes—knowing they’d fit because I know a lot about her that she hasn’t shared with me?
The morning traffic flows surprisingly well, and we cross the bridge in silence. I steal glances at her when she’s looking out the window, studying the soft curve of her jaw and wondering how the skin there would taste.
She looks different outside the office—less guarded, more real. More dangerous.
“So,” she says finally, turning to face me. “Why am I really here?”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, debating how much to reveal. “You’ve been handling my shit for over a week now without running away screaming. That’s a record.”
“Lucky me,” she replies dryly, but there’s less bite in her voice than usual. “Is this my reward? A field trip with the boss from hell?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Something like that.”
The truth is more complicated. I need her to understand this project—really understand it—because it’s the most important thing I’ve worked on. It’s the one thing that might actually matter when all this is over. Mom married into a family with big money, and she thought we should do something good with it. My grandfather thought that the world could use more goodpeople like her. He started this project because of her, and I have to finish it.
But I can’t tell her any of that without revealing the parts of myself I prefer to keep hidden.
“This project is different,” I say instead, keeping my eyes on the road. “It’s not just another building.”
“Different how?”
“You’ll see.”
The construction site comes into view—a sprawling brick factory from the 1920s, its windows boarded up, surrounded by chain-link fence and construction equipment. It doesn’t look like much now, but in my mind, I can already see what it will become.
I park near the trailer serving as our temporary office and pop the trunk. “Boots,” I remind her, nodding toward the back.
She climbs out and peers into the trunk, then looks at me with suspicion. “How did you know my size?”
Shit.I really didn’t think this through.
“Maeve mentioned it.” She did. A year ago, in the chaos of the rearranged wedding. And I still remember. “In case you’re wondering,” I toss her a pair of steel-toe boots, “they’re clean. Brand new.”
