“Of being an architect or being Noah King?” she asks, unaware of the redesign happening in my head.
“Both.” I flex my fingers experimentally as she secures the bandage around my hand. “Thanks.”
She nods, packing away the first aid supplies. Then, instead of leaving like any sane person would, she glances around the mess I’ve made. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I protest, but she’s already kneeling to pick up scattered pens that rolled under my desk.
“I know I don’t need to,” she says simply. “I want to.”
I stand here like a complete moron, watching her for a moment, completely bewildered by this version of Beatrice—calm, unflinching, helping me when I least deserve it. My handthrobs beneath the bandage as I move to right the overturned chair.
“Why?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
She looks up, a handful of drafting tools in her palm. “Why what?”
“Why are you helping me?” I gesture around at the destruction. “This isn’t exactly in your job description.”
She considers me for a moment before replying. “Because?—”
She never gets to finish because Martin appears in the doorway, and his neon-green flamingo socks instantly give me a headache. I should put in an HR notice for Martin to be forced to wear longer pants to cover his daily artful disasters.
“Whoa, Noah, you okay? This place feels like a crime scene,” he says without a hint of worry, waving at the ruined office.
“We’ve got it handled,” I mutter in a low voice, rubbing my knuckles and feeling the angry wound under the bandage. “Apparently.”
Martin’s gaze darts between me and Beatrice, his eyebrows rising to his hairline as he takes in the bandaged hand and the scattered office debris. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the glass window with a smirk spreading across his face. “Looks like Beauty tamed the Beast. Should I be expecting singing teapots next?”
“Not now, Martin,” I growl. The momentary peace I’d found with Bea evaporates under his knowing gaze. I can’t believe there was a moment when I was jealous that my brother found the perfect assistant.
“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just saying, it’s nice to see someone survived Hurricane Noah without jumping ship. Though,” he adds, eyeing the overturned furniture, “the ship does look rather sunk.”
I feel my jaw clenching so hard my teeth might crack. “Did you need something, or are you just here to provide running commentary on my office drama?” I snap, glaring at him.
Martin clutches his chest in mock offense. “I came to tell you that Ezra’s looking for you, but now I’m staying for the show.” He turns to Bea with a conspiratorial grin. “Has he thrown anything at you yet? That’s usually phase two of the King Meltdown Protocol.”
“Martin, I swear to god—” I start, but Bea cuts me off.
“Actually, we’re in the middle of something important,” she says smoothly, stepping between us. “A coffee incident destroyed Noah’s blueprints for the Newside presentation tomorrow.”
Martin’s playful expression drops instantly. “Shit. The community project? The one for the zoning board?”
I nod grimly, my momentary anger at Martin fading into the heavier weight of the situation. “The same one.”
“The one you’ve been obsessing over for months? That’s due tomorrow?” Martin’s eyes widen.
“Yes, Martin,” I growl. “That’s why I’m having a mild breakdown in my office while my assistant picks up the pieces.”
Martin’s gaze darts around the place before settling back on my face. Then, in classic Martin fashion, he tries to lighten the mood with the worst possible joke.
“Well,” he says, gesturing to my bloody knuckles, “at least you’ve got a built-in excuse now. Just tell the board you were so passionate about the project, you literally put your blood into it.”
I glare at him. “Not. Helping.”
“What? It’s a solid plan.”
He shrugs, and I begin imagining all the things I want to do to him and his headache-inducing socks.
Martin’s gaze darts from me to the ruined blueprint. “So that’s what the office wrestling match was about.” He leansagainst the doorframe with his mouth curling into a grin that makes my fist itch. “You know, most people just swear when they spill coffee. You go full WWE on the furniture.”
