“Nothing happened,” I snap, then immediately soften my tone. Martin doesn’t deserve my misplaced anger. “Sorry. I’m just having a weird morning.”
“Weird how?”
I consider telling him about the phone call, but that would mean admitting I care, and I’m not ready to do that. Not even to myself.
“Just weird,” I say instead, turning back to my computer. “Don’t you need to wipe Ezra’s butt? You’ve been away from your desk for a whole two minutes.”
“You’re right. He might not find his butthole without my help. What would they do without us?” He pushes off from my desk with a knowing look. “Well, when you decide to stop pretending you don’t care what Noah does with his personal time, I’ll be at my desk with a bottle of wine and zero judgment.”
He saunters away, leaving me alone with my completely irrational anger. I turn back to my screen, determined to focuson work and not on where Noah might be going. Or who he might be meeting. Or what he might have ‘forgotten’ last night.
An hour stretches into two. By one thirty, I’ve reorganized Noah’s entire calendar for the next month, drafted three proposal responses, and stress-eaten the emergency granola bar I keep in my desk drawer. Still no sign of Noah.
I tell myself I don’t care. It’s not my business where he goes during lunch. He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, even if those decisions involve ditching work to meet up with whatever woman called this morning to do whatever he does to lose whatever he forgot at her place.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maeve.
Have you thought about the dinner tomorrow? You sure you can’t make it?
I stare at the message with my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The thought of sitting across from Noah at a dinner table, making small talk while pretending I don’t know he’s sleeping with someone who isn’t me, makes my stomach twist.
Sorry, can’t make it. Work stuff.
It’s not exactly a lie. Work is complicated right now. Specifically, my feelings about my boss. And more specifically, my feelings about my boss threatening to derail my carefully constructed professional facade.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Maeve.
Everything okay? You seem stressed.
I set my phone face-down on my desk without responding. The last thing I need is my sister’s intuitive questioning when I’m barely holding it together myself.
By two thirty, I’m actively watching the elevator doors, my jaw clenched tighter with each minute that passes. Noah has been gone for three hours. Three hours for a lunch that should have taken one, maximum. The rational part of my brain knows he’s probably just extending his meeting, handling business over an extended meal. The irrational part—the part that’s been growing stronger since that phone call this morning—conjures images I absolutely do not want in my head.
And this is when I get another call. To be precise, it’s a voicemail because I went to the bathroom and came back to a missed call.
“Hey, Noah. It’s Rebecca. Don’t forget about tonight. I’m counting on you.”
When the elevator finally dings and Noah steps out, I force my eyes back to my computer screen. I can feel him approaching my desk, bringing that familiar cedar scent mixed with something new that I can’t pinpoint.
“Any messages?” he asks in that voice that still carries that satisfied tone and makes my teeth grind.
“Three,” I reply without looking up, sliding a stack of pink message slips across my desk. “The Wilson Group wants to schedule a follow-up. The city inspector needs to reschedule tomorrow’s site visit. And Rebecca called to confirm youreveningplans.”
I watch his face carefully as I deliver that last message, searching for any flicker of reaction. There it is—a slight tightening around his eyes, a pause that lasts a beat too long before he reaches for the message slips.
“Rebecca,” he repeats, and something in his voice makes my stomach drop even further. Not surprise. Recognition.
“She sounded familiar with your evening schedule,” I say, proud of how neutral my voice sounds when everything insideme feels like it’s on fire. “I think she was the same woman who called before about something forgotten at her place.”
I’m totally stepping out on a limb here, trying to fish for any information, and judging by the way his fingers pause on the pink slip, I think I might have hit the target.
“Hold my calls for the next hour,” he says without looking back as he heads to his office. “I need to return some messages.”
I stare at his retreating form with my hands clenched in my lap. Of course. Of course he’s going to call her back immediately. Whatever this Rebecca woman has, it’s clearly more important than the three client calls he’s ignored all afternoon.
The rational part of my brain knows I should let this go. Focus on my work. Stop caring about Noah’s personal life. But the irrational part—the part that’s been growing stronger since yesterday’s conference room conversation—wants to march into his office and demand answers to my questions.
Instead, I do what I always do when emotions threaten to overwhelm me: I organize. I attack Noah’s filing system with the fury of someone who needs to control something—anything—in this moment.
