“I should get back to work,” I say, turning to my computer screen. “You have a call with the Newside investors at ten.”
“Right,” he says, but doesn’t move away from my desk. Instead, he’s studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “About last night?—”
“Nothing happened last night,” I interrupt, my voice coming out too quick, too defensive. “We worked late. We got the project done. That’s it.”
His jaw ticks, and I recognize the flash of irritation in his eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course it wasn’t. I’m making this weird all by myself, reading meaning into coffee and late-night conversations that probably meant nothing to him.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my pulse hammers in my ears.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, trying to get a read on me. Tough luck because even I can’t get a read on myself. The office is still mostly empty except for us, the morning light streaming through the windows highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
“I was going to say thank you,” he says finally. “Again. For what you said to Ezra yesterday.”
My chest tightens. “I told you, he was out of line?—”
“No one’s ever done that before.” His voice is rough, lower than usual. “Defended me like that. Especially not to family.”
I stare at him with my coffee cup suspended halfway to my lips. There’s something vulnerable in his expression that makes my carefully constructed walls wobble dangerously.
“Maybe they should,” I finish quietly, feeling my heart hammering against my ribs.
Noah’s expression shifts—surprise, then something warmer that makes my stomach flip. Suddenly we’re back in this dangerous territory, this softness between us, but I can’t seem to shake it off. When he looks at me so openly, exposing his vulnerability, which is not something that Noah King usually does, I want to envelop him in a hug, squeeze his face into my chest, and tell him that everything is going to be okay.
“Bea,” he starts, and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes me brace for impact. “I should have said something. That night—” He pushes his hand into his hair. “I wanted to rearrange your father’s face.”
I stand up abruptly, nearly spilling my coffee. “I should really get these reports finished,” I interrupt him loudly, backing toward the hallway where the people are. “Before your ten o’clock.”
I can’t go back to that night where my world crumbled because I’ll cry. It pains me to admit it, but I needed Noah to stand down like he did. It took me standing up to Ezra last night to realize this, but I finally see it. If he had said something to defend me, I might not have been pushed to the edge and left my parents. I might not have stopped waiting to be saved and stepped in to save myself.
Every person has their breaking point when they stop expecting things from the world. I expected my sister to protect me from my parents before she walked out. I expected my parents to protect me from Commerford that night after mysister left. I expected Noah to protect me from my parents in Maupiti. It took me a long time to realize that I have to rely on myself first, and if help comes after—good. If not—I can manage myself. And Noah helped me realize that without knowing how much of a service he’d done. I needed him to be quiet; I know that now. But I can’t say it. Not to him.
His dark and unreadable eyes follow my retreat. “Of course. Work.”
I almost run through the hallway, nearly knocking people down around me, and jump into the supply closet, escaping curious eyes. I lean my back against the door and bump my head on it for good measure, cursing at myself for melting into a puddle when he said my name. My hands are shaking as I press my palms against my cheeks, trying to cool the heat burning under my skin.
What the hell is wrong with me? A month ago, I hated Noah King. I should still hate him. He’s arrogant, demanding, and makes my life hell on a daily basis. The fact that he has scarred knuckles and a damaged soul doesn’t change any of that. Him living the same trauma doesn’t change anything either. Nor does him feeding me for the past week. I’m not a homeless puppy, even though I could easily become one at some point.
But as I stand here in the dark supply closet, breathing in the scent of copy paper and toner cartridges, all I can think about is how his face lit up when I called his work brilliant and how that tiny dimple appeared on his cheek when a slow smile stretched his lips.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It’s just a job. Noah King is just my boss. And whatever happened last night was just two people working late and getting caught up in a moment of tiredness.
When I finally emerge from the supply closet, armed with folders I don’t need, people have long forgotten about mydisappearance. When I walk back to my desk, I realize that Noah is gone. His office door stands open, but the space is empty. Relief and disappointment war in my chest, which is exactly the kind of contradictory nonsense I need to squash immediately.
Martin appears at my desk around eleven, his socks today are a blinding pattern of purple octopuses against a neon yellow background. I should probably buy him longer pants for Christmas.
“We survived the presentation!” he announces, dropping a pastry bag on my desk. “Celebratory croissant. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.”
“Thanks,” I say, peeking inside the bag. The buttery scent makes my stomach growl despite my emotional turmoil. “How do you know it went well?”
“Noah’s not throwing furniture, so I assumed.” He perches on the edge of my desk, his too-knowing eyes are trained on my face. “He seems different today. Almost pleasant.”
I focus intently on breaking off a piece of croissant. “Does he?”
“Don’t play coy, Bea. It doesn’t suit you. Or, actually, it does, but not with me.” Martin leans closer, lowering his voice. “What happened after I left last night?”
“Work happened,” I reply firmly. “We finished the project. That’s it.”
