“George confessed he picked up Noah this morning,” Ezra continues casually, like he’s discussing the weather, “at your building of all places. With a shiner.”
I choke down a panicked laugh. “I wouldn’t know. I went to the office to do some filing, so I have no idea what he was doing there.”
“Right,” Ezra hums. “Did you sleep at your place though?”
“No. I mean yes. Why?” Feeling caught in a mouse trap doesn’t feel good as it turns out.
“And you didn’t happen to see Noah by any chance?” he asks, stirring the food casually. Very casually. “You know, since he was nearby?”
“Nope.” I chug the glass down in one big gulp, and Maeve appears by my side, refilling the glass with a wide smile.
“Right.” Maeve settles onto a barstool across from me, her blue eyes—so similar to mine—studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “He probably was having some work meeting there, right?”
“Right,” I parrot, pressing my mouth to the glass, hoping they’ll leave me alone if they see me busy with the wine, which seems tasteless for some reason.
“A meeting at your place.” She delivers the last blow with a rather excited look on her glowing face.
I feel trapped, cornered by their combined scrutiny. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm, too bright, and I resist the urge to fidget with my wine glass.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” I say, proud of how level my voice sounds.
“We’re not implying anything,” Ezra says, adding wine to his pan with a flourish. “I’m just curious about my brother’s whereabouts. And why he wouldn’t tell me himself that he’s injured.”
I take a larger sip of wine than I should, the rich red liquid burning down my throat. “Maybe you should ask him.”
“I would,” Ezra says, his tone deceptively light, “but he’s not answering my calls. Imagine that.”
“He’s resting,” I say, and immediately regret how defensive it sounds. “I mean, I assume he’s resting. That’s what people do when they’re sick.” Despite my recent desire to throttle the bastard, I don’t want anyone else doing that.
He hums. “Right. Sick. HR told me about that one.”
Maeve’s eyes narrow slightly, and I know that look. It’s the same one she wore when she caught me sneaking out at sixteen to meet Tyler Jenkins at the beach. She knows I’m hiding something; she just doesn’t know what.
“Enough about Noah,” Martin says, sweeping into the kitchen with his usual dramatic flair. I didn’t even know he was here, and his sudden appearance makes me jump. “Let’s talk about something more interesting—like why Beatrice looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”
I resist the urge to touch the dark circles I know are under my eyes. “Thanks, Martin. Always a pleasure.”
He grins, unfazed by my sarcasm, and pours himself a generous glass of wine. “Just stating facts, darling. You look positively haggard.”
“If I look haggard, it’s because of the workload,” I snap, giving Martin my best death glare. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”
Martin just laughs, unaffected by my hostility. “Oh, honey. I’ve seen you handle triple the workload while wearing ten-inch heels without breaking a sweat. This is something else entirely.”
I hate how perceptive he is. I hate even more that Maeve and Ezra are watching this exchange with growing interest, like they’re spectators at a particularly entertaining tennis match.
“Maybe it’s boyfriend troubles,” Martin continues, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Do tell us about your love life, Beatrice. Anyone special warming your bed these days?”
The wine I’m sipping nearly goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, trying to cover my reaction, but it’s too late. Martin’s eyebrows shoot up with interest, and Maeve leans forward.
“There is someone!” Martin crows triumphantly. “Look at that blush!”
“There’s no one,” I manage, my voice strained. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”
Ezra, bless him, takes pity on me. “Let’s give Bea a break, shall we? Dinner’s almost ready. I don’t want anyone ending up in the hospital before they try my risotto.”
I shoot him a half grateful, half questioning look as he turns back to his risotto. But the reprieve is short-lived.
“So,” Maeve says, sliding into the chair beside me. “If there’s no one, then why do you have that guilty look? The same one you wore when Mom found those cigarettes in your backpack freshman year.”
