“You. I’ll pay you. Let me sleep it off here, and I’ll be out of your hair in the morning. I’ll pay you.”
“No, Noah.”
For some stupid reason, my chest starts hurting worse than my ribs—rejection stinging deep.
“Ten thousand.”
Her eyes widen even more, shock mingling with hesitation. “That’s a lot of money, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You need medical attention, and I have no idea what to do.”
“Call nine-one-one if I stop breathing,” I say, pushing myself toward the middle of the bed. My eyes grow heavy, lids drooping as exhaustion crashes over me.
“What?” she squeaks. “Noah!”
“I just need to sleep.”
“Noah!”
But I already don’t hear her clearly. My head hits her pillow, her scent enveloping me in a warm hug, and I angle my body, trying to fit my frame onto her small—and short—bed.
“Noah…” My name becomes muffled background noise as I fade into darkness. I totally ignore it, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness, hoping tomorrow brings clarity—and not more complications.
29
Bea
I stareat Noah’s unconscious form stretched across my bed, his massive body barely fitting on my cheap mattress. With him positioned diagonally, his feet still hang off the edge, and his broad shoulders take up most of the width. With his eyes closed and face relaxed in his sleep, he looks less like the demanding boss who terrorizes the office and more like a wounded man who needs help.
“Noah,” I try again, nudging his shoulder gently. Nothing. He’s out cold.
Great. Just great. My boss—the same boss I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about for weeks—is now passed out half naked on my bed. In my tiny studio apartment that barely qualifies as a legal living space.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I pace the three steps my apartment allows, running my hands through my hair. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just leave him like this. What if he has internal bleeding? Whatif he stops breathing in the middle of the night? What if his concussion is worse than he thought?
My eyes keep drifting to his exposed torso, to the bruises blooming across his ribs in angry purples and blues. I’ve never seen him without a shirt before tonight—not even in Maupiti, where the only time I saw him swimming was when he jumped in fully clothed to save my clumsy ass. I knew he was fit—the way his suits hug his shoulders and his rolled-up shirts make his corded forearms bulge—but this is something else entirely. Even battered and bruised, his body is a work of art—all defined muscle and smooth skin, marred now by the evidence of tonight’s fight.
A fight he was losing because of me.
I sink onto the floor, leaning my back on the wall across from the bed, and watch his chest rise and fall steadily. At least he’s breathing.
Ten thousand dollars. He offered me ten thousand dollars to take care of him tonight. The number dances in my head its tempting dance. That’s way more than I make with my current salary. It would cover rent for a few months. I could finally stop rationing ramen noodles and actually buy groceries that don’t come from the clearance section.
But this isn’t about the money. Not entirely. It’s about Noah lying unconscious on my bed after getting beaten up in an underground fight club because I distracted him. The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, mixing with fear that he might not wake up. I would’ve agreed to watch over him without the money. Just for the chance to get a glimpse of my Noah from the evening when we stayed late at work to redraw the Newside blueprints.
‘My Noah?’ What the hell is wrong with you, Bea?
I grab my phone and consider my options. I could call nine-one-one, but Noah was adamant about not going to the hospital. I could call Ezra, but he also begged me not to involve hisbrother. I could call Maeve, but explaining why my boss—her brother-in-law—is half naked and unconscious in my bed would require more energy than I have right now.
Instead, I do what any rational person would do—I Google ‘concussion symptoms’ and ‘how to monitor someone with a head injury.’
The results are not reassuring. I need to wake him every two hours to check his responses. I need to watch for vomiting, confusion, and severe headaches. I need to be responsible for someone’s life for the next however many hours while I have no idea what I’m doing.
I set my phone aside and approach the bed cautiously. Noah’s face is turned toward me, and in sleep, he looks peaceful despite the cuts and bruises. The butterfly bandage I applied is holding the edges of the cut together like a champ, though there’s still some dried blood around it. His breathing is steady, which the internet tells me is a good sign.
The towel around his waist has shifted slightly, riding lower on his hips, and I quickly avert my eyes. This is not the time to ogle my unconscious boss, no matter how stupidly attractive he looks even beaten up. Checking his anatomical inadequacies is not at the top of my list either, so I should keep my inappropriate horniness in check.
I check the time on my phone: 11:47 p.m. According to Dr. Google, I need to wake him at 1:47 a.m. to check his pupils and ask him basic questions. If he can’t answer or his pupils are uneven, I’m calling an ambulance whether he likes it or not, and I’ll deal with the consequences of a grumpy Noah after.
