“You literally said exactly that,” she counters with a chuckle. That same teasing tone we’ve somehow fallen into over the course of the evening.
I hit submit on the form, watching as the progress bar fills. When it’s done, I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight slowly lifting from my shoulders. “That’s it. We made it. We have the full document package to show to investors.”
Bea stretches her arms overhead, her blouse pulling tight across her chest in a way that makes me look away quickly before I do something stupid like stare.
“We should probably call it a night,” she says, but she doesn’t move to pack up her things. Neither do I.
Instead, I find myself studying her face in the lamplight—the way her hair’s come loose from its bun, the slight smudge of mascara under her eyes from the long day. She looks tired but satisfied. Exactly how I’m feeling right now.
“Thank you,” I say, wincing at the words, which come out more like a growl than gratitude. “For staying. For all of this.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You already thanked me.”
“I know. But I mean it.” I lean forward, placing my elbows on the desk. “You didn’t have to help me put this back together. You could have let me fail.”
“And let the board win?” She raises an eyebrow. “Not a chance.”
“Why do you care?” I ask. “About the project, I mean. About whether King Developers survives.” I keep beelining to the same question I’ve already asked multiple times, but she hasn’t replied truthfully. Just like I never did when she kept asking.
Her lips part to say something, but she never gets a chance. I see the exact moment she shifts gears. “We should probably head out,” she says, checking her phone and avoiding any eye contact with me. “It’s after midnight.”
I nod, but neither of us move. The office feels smaller now with just the two of us whispering to each other, intimate in a way that makes my pulse kick up. She starts slowly gathering her things, reluctant to leave too, and that thought sends unwelcome urges through my mind.
“Bea,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses, her half-slung purse dropping from her shoulder. “Yeah?”
I don’t know what I was going to say. Thank you again? You’re not what I expected? I can’t stop thinking about that moment we almost kissed on the island? Let’s try it again? All of it feels too big, too dangerous.
I settle on, “Good work tonight,” hating how inadequate it sounds.
Her smile is empty. “You too, Boss.”
She heads for the door, and as I watch her go, my eyes trace the sway of her hips in that damn skirt that’s been driving me insane nearly every single day since she started here. When she reaches the threshold, she turns back.
“Noah?” My name sounds different in her voice now, softer somehow. “For what it’s worth, I think Ezra’s wrong about you. You’re not the monster he thinks you are. Youarea monster for sending me to fetch that stupid coffee, don’t get me wrong,” she laughs, moving a lock of hair away from her face. “But you shouldn’t let anyone make you believe what is not true.”
Not knowing how to respond, I stare at her, feeling my throat tightening and not trusting myself to speak. She’s defending me again, but this time from myself.
“Goodnight, Noah,” she says softly, and then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the scent of her perfume and the echo of her words.
I sit there for a long time after she leaves, staring at the completed drawing on my computer screen. The building looks back at me—clean lines and perfect design, everything I poured into it over weeks of work. But all I can think about is the way she said my name.
This is dangerous territory. Beatrice Wrong is off-limits for about a dozen reasons, starting with the fact that she used to be engaged to my brother and ending with the fact that I don’t do relationships. I do quick, uncomplicated hookups with women who understand the rules. I don’t do late-night conversationsabout scars and dreams. I don’t do whatever the hell just happened in this office.
But as I finally pack up my things and head home, I can’t shake the memory of her voice when she called me brilliant. Or the way she looked at my drawing like she could see straight into my soul.
I’m fucked.
21
Bea
I wakeup with a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with the food I ate yesterday and everything to do with the man I shared it with. The memory of calling him brilliant, of defending him to his own brother while meeting ‘the enemy’ with a puffed chest like a baboon, makes me want to crawl under my covers and never emerge.
What the hell was I thinking?
I stare at the water stain on my ceiling, replaying every moment from last night in excruciating detail. The look on his face when I complimented his drawing. The softness in his voice when he thanked me. That charged moment when our fingers brushed over the architectural plans, and I wanted to climb on the table and become his sole interest.
