Her eyebrow arches with suspicion as she takes the boots, examining them like they might be booby-trapped. “Thoughtful of you.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual despite the way my heart’s hammering against my ribs. I’ve spent a year trying to forget her, trying to drown her memory in work and meaningless hookups, but having her here in my car, at my site—it’s like picking at a wound that never properly healed.
“Aren’t you?” she mumbles under her breath and slips off her heels with a little sigh that does things to me, exchanging themfor the boots. When she bends to lace them up, a strand of blond hair falls across her face, and I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to tuck it behind her ear.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice sounds rougher than before.
She stands, testing the boots with a little stomp. “As I’ll ever be.”
I lead her toward the site entrance, nodding at the supervisor who’s been working with me since I was fresh out of college. “Morning, Hank. Just showing my assistant around today.”
Hank’s weathered face breaks into a knowing smile as he eyes Beatrice. “The famous assistant? Heard you finally found one who can keep up.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “She’s adequate,” I say, ignoring the knowing look Hank gives me.
“Adequate?” Bea repeats, giving me a sugarcoated smile that promises retribution. “I’m touched by your overwhelming praise, Mr. King.”
Hank chuckles, handing her a hard hat. “Good luck, miss. He’s not an easy one.”
“Don’t I know it,” she mutters, adjusting the hard hat over her blond waves.
I lead her through the site, pointing out structural elements that will remain and areas slated for renovation. The morning sun filters through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. There’s something about showing her this place—my vision, my creation—that makes me feel oddly vulnerable. Sure, I have to go through all of this with investors and contractors, but explaining it to Bea seems to access something I usually keep hidden from everyone.
“This area will be the community center,” I explain, gesturing to a cavernous space with soaring ceilings. “Free childcare for residents, job training, health clinic.”
Beatrice pauses, studying the space with genuine interest. “That’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect? Luxury condos and overpriced coffee shops?”
She turns to face me, her expression thoughtful. “Honestly? Yes.”
I try not to let her answer sting. “Not everything is about maximizing profit margins.”
“Says the man who practically invented them,” she counters with a soft smile and walks to a boarded window, peering through a gap at the neighborhood beyond. “So what’s the real story with this place? Why do you care so much?”
I hesitate, debating how much to reveal. The truth is complicated, tied to my family and burdens I’m carrying because of my father. But something about this moment—standing in the dust-filled light with Beatrice looking at me without her usual armor—makes me want to tell her. At least some of the real reason behind my passion for this.
“My father would have hated this project,” I say finally, running my hand along an exposed brick wall. “No profit margin, too much community benefit. A waste of resources, he’d say.”
“And that’s why you’re doing it?” she asks, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “To spite him?”
“Partly,” I admit, meeting her gaze. “But also because it’s the right thing to do. This neighborhood needs affordable housing, not another luxury tower no one can afford.”Plus, I hope my mom will like it too.
She studies me for a long moment before tilting her head slightly to the side when she makes some internal decision. “You’re not what I expected, Noah King.”
My name on her lips tightens my chest and spreads a warmth I don’t want to examine too closely. “Disappointed?”
“Confused,” she corrects, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I thought I had you figured out.”
“And now?”
She shrugs, turning back to the window. “Now I’m not sure.”
Her admission is honest in a way we haven’t been with each other since… well, maybe ever. I watch her profile as she gazes out at Brooklyn, sunlight catching in her hair, turning it gold. She looks softer here, away from the office battleground, like she’s let down some invisible shield.
And she’s doing it on my territory.
“This place will help people,” I say, gesturing around us. “Families who’ve lived in this neighborhood for generations are getting priced out because of new developments. Single parents who need affordable childcare. Kids who deserve safe places to play.” I pause, surprised by my own earnestness. “It’s not just a building. It’s a statement.”
