“Don’t.” His voice is firm as his hand slides into my hair, tilting my face toward his. “Don’t you dare regret this.”
“I don’t regret it,” I admit, heat flooding my cheeks. “I just don’t want to be responsible for putting you in the hospital.”
“Trust me, there are worse ways to end up in the emergency room.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Besides, I’d happily explain to the doctors that I got these injuries from the best sex of my life.”
“Best sex of your life?” I can’t help the pleased smile that spreads across my face.
“Fishing for compliments already?” He tugs me closer, and I carefully arrange myself against his less injured side. “Yes, Beatrice Wrong. Best sex of my life. It has room for improvement, but we’ve got time.”
I jab a finger into his side, making him groan, and I do feel bad about it. But only slightly.
“Noah King, you are impossible.”
“Impossible to resist?” The cockiness in his tone makes me smile despite his words.
“We should probably talk about what this means,” I say, even though the last thing I want to do right now is have a serious conversation about consequences and complications and the meaning of all this.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, his eyes already growing heavy again. “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Right now, I just want to hold you.”
I want to protest that we need to check his concussion again in an hour, that we should check his cut above his brow, thatthere are a million practical things we should be doing. But his arms are warm around me, his breathing is already evening out, and I realize I don’t want to move either.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tomorrow.”
32
Noah
I wakeup disoriented to the sunlight streaming through a window I don’t recognize and hitting me directly in the face. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am—this isn’t my king-size bed with its thousand thread count sheets. This mattress is too small, too firm, and smells like?—
Bea.
The events of last night come rushing back like a freight train. The fight. Getting my ass handed to me because I spotted Bea in the crowd. Her driving me to her apartment in that death trap she calls a car. And then the kiss leading to?—
Fuck.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. My ribs protest with sharp, stabbing pain that makes me hiss through my teeth. My head pounds, though the concussion fog seems to have lifted. Last night’s activities might not have been the brightest idea in my current state, but I regret nothing.
I glance around the tiny studio apartment, taking it in properly in the daylight. It’s even smaller than I thought—smaller than my walk-in closet at home. The walls are a faded off-white, the furniture minimal and clearly secondhand. But everything is meticulously organized, neat in a way that screams Beatrice was here with her color coded and lined perfection.
Speaking of Bea. Where is she?
I hear running water turn off in the bathroom a few feet away from the bed, and the door opens a few minutes later. She steps out already dressed in work clothes—a crisp white blouse and navy skirt that hugs her curves in ways that make me suck air in.
Her hair is damp, pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she freezes when she sees me watching her. A flush creeps up her neck, and she looks away quickly, busying herself by gathering items from her tiny kitchen area.
“You’re awake,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “How do you feel?”
I test my ribs with a cautious breath. “Like I got hit by a truck. Twice.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles with a wince.
“I don’t regret it,” I say firmly, watching her shoulders tense at my words. “Do you?”
She pauses her bustling around, her back still to me. “That’s not… it’s complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I push myself up to sitting, biting back a groan as my ribs scream in protest. The sheet pools around my waist, and I notice her eyes flit to my chest before darting away again. “Bea, look at me.”
She turns slowly, crossing her arms over her chest like armor. “Noah, we work together. You’re my boss. And my sister’s brother-in-law. Last night was?—”
