“Forget what?” I whisper as my heart hammers in my chest.
He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he might have fallen asleep again. The soft rhythm of his breathing fills the silence between us. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with the heavy admission.
“You.”
“Me?” My voice sounds small and very uncertain.
Noah’s thumb resumes its gentle path across my knuckles, and I shift my weight on my elbow to see his face better.
“That conversation in the conference room.” He waits for me to nod before resuming. “The way you looked at me when I talked about my buildings. It was rather distracting.”
“So you went to get punched because you didn’t like how I was looking at you?” I can’t help the edge of sarcasm that creeps into my voice, even as my heart does somersaults. This is not the answer I was expecting.
“I did like it,” he whispers back.
“Oh.” That’s all I manage to croak.
“Yeah. Fighting usually helps if I need to forget something,” he admits. “Physical pain is distraction. It’s easier to deal with…” He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.
“Than what?” I press, needing to hear him say it.
His hand tightens around mine. “Than wanting something I shouldn’t want.”
The air between us becomes charged with the possibility of something that felt impossible before. I hold my breath, afraid that any movement might close this new door.
“What if,” I begin, my voice barely audible even in the quiet room, “you did? Want it, I mean.”
His hand tightens around mine, and I hear his breath catch. “It would complicate everything.”
“Things are already complicated,” I whisper, shifting slightly to face him better in the darkness because he’s refusing to look at me. His profile is outlined by the faint glow from the streetlight outside my window, all sharp angles and dark shadows.
“You’re my assistant,” he says, but there’s no real conviction in his voice.
“I know.”
He swallows. “You’re my sister-in-law’s sister.”
“I know that too.”
Noah turns his head to finally look at me, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity in his eyes. “I’m not good for you, Bea. You’ve seen what I do—who I am when no one’s looking.”
“I’ve seen more of you tonight than in all the weeks I’ve worked for you,” I admit. “And I’m still here.”
His thumb traces slow circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “You should be running in the opposite direction.”
“Probably,” I agree and add on a whisper, “But I’m still here.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised Noah can’t hear it in the quiet darkness of my tiny apartment. His eyes search mine, and there’s something vulnerable in his gaze—something raw and unguarded that makes me feel brave.
“Why?” he asks huskily.
“I think I rather like the man I’ve come to know,” I admit, because it’s the truth. I don’t know why or when, but at somepoint my island hatred toward him shifted into something—something dangerous and exhilarating. “I probably should hate you though. For the island and for the way you treated me in the past weeks.”
“You probably should,” he agrees, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin that makes it hard to think straight.
“You’re arrogant and demanding and impossible most of the time.”
His lips quirk into something close to a smile. “Keep going. You’re making a compelling case.”
