I nod, understanding that more than I want to admit. “I get that. For me it’s organizing. Making order out of chaos.”
“Is that why you’re so good at this?” He gestures to the neatly arranged meeting documents I’ve compiled.
“Maybe,” I reply, fiddling with my chopsticks. “Or maybe I just like proving people wrong when they underestimate me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I never underestimated you. Underappreciated, maybe.”
“Is that an apology?” I arch an eyebrow, savoring this rare moment of honesty from him.
“Don’t push your luck, princess.” He sends me a lopsided smile before we fall silent again. But it’s different now—comfortable and safe. Something I’m not used to.
20
Noah
She pushesthe empty food containers aside, her movements efficient even in this late hour. There’s something about seeing Bea like this—relaxed, unguarded, sharing Thai food in my office at nearly midnight—that makes my brain go places it shouldn’t.
“You should finish that,” she says, nodding at my drawing. “We still need to scan and upload everything before midnight.”
Right. The deadline. The project that could save King Developers or sink us completely. I’ve been so caught up in this strange bubble of normalcy with her that I almost forgot the stakes.
I pick up my pencil, adding the final details to the corner elevation. My hand moves automatically, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders to how different this feels from every other late night I’ve spent in this office. Usually it’s just me, drowning in my own thoughts and the weight of expectations. But with Bea here, organizing documents andhumming the same tune under her nose for hours, the crushing pressure feels manageable.
“There,” I say finally, setting down the pencil. “Done.”
She leans forward to look at the finished drawing, and I catch a whiff of her scent—something sweet and tempting that cuts through the lingering smell of food. It always seems to find its way right into my brain and stays there for hours even after she leaves.
“This is incredible,” she says softly, and something in her voice makes me look up.
Her words surprise me. I’m used to Ezra’s measured praise, to Martin’s enthusiastic but generic compliments. But Bea looks at my work like she actually sees it—not just the lines and measurements but the vision behind them.
“It’s just a building,” I mutter, uneasy with the sincerity in her voice.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not just a building. It’s…” She pauses with her fingers hovering over the corner where I’ve detailed the community garden that will sit atop the affordable housing units. “It’s thoughtful. You could have just drawn another glass tower, but this has soul.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. I clear my throat, looking away before she can see whatever’s happening on my face.
“We should scan this,” I say, standing abruptly. “The large format scanner is down the hall.”
She nods, carefully lifting the drawing. “I’ll do it. You finish compiling the notes for the presentation.”
Our fingers brush as she takes the drawing, and that same electric current from the island zips between us. It settles into familiar grooves that we both have been forming for a long time. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat too long before she steps back, holding the drawing clutched to her chest.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the slight tremor in her voice.
While she’s gone, I try to focus on the presentation notes, but my mind keeps drifting back to the strange softness in her eyes when she looked at my drawing. Beatrice Wrong is supposed to just be my assistant—a temporary one at that. She’s Ezra’s wife’s sister and used to be his fiancé, for Christ’s sake. Off-limits in every way that matters. But something about tonight has shifted the ground between us, and I’m not sure how to get it back to normal.
When she returns, she’s got the scanned drawing pulled up on her tablet. “All set,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me. “I’ve already uploaded it to the server and attached it to the submission form. We just need your final approval on the presentation.”
I lean forward, scrolling through the completed package she’s assembled. Everything’s perfect—meticulously organized, professionally presented. The work of someone who genuinely cares about doing things right.
“This is good,” I admit, glancing up at her. “Really good.”
A small, pleased smile curves her lips, and I realize I want to be the one to put it there every day.
“I told you I’m qualified for this job.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
