“Noah, sit down before you fall down,” Ezra orders, gesturing to an empty stool at the kitchen island. It’s right next to Bea. Of course it is.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then slide onto the stool, careful to leave appropriate space between us. The scent of her perfume hits me immediately—that same warmth that clung to her sheets, that I breathed in all night. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, a rush of heat flooding through me at the memory of her curled against me in the darkness, and I feel myself stiffen in this very inappropriate situation.
“Wine?” Maeve offers, already pouring a glass before I can answer. Her eyes dart toward Bea every few seconds.
“Thanks.”
The kitchen falls into an awkward silence. I can feel Ezra’s eyes on my face, studying the purple bruises. Martin’s gaze bounces between me and Bea with growing interest, like he’s piecing together a particularly juicy puzzle. He’s always been the gossip queen of King Developers, and usually I’m the one benefiting from the rumors he collects. Usually.
“Wine, Bea?” Maeve asks, moving toward her with the bottle. “You look like you could use a refill.”
Bea slides her glass forward, and I watch her slightly trembling fingers gripping the stem tighter. The awkwardness pressing in from all sides is suffocating. I take a larger sip of wine, letting the alcohol burn a path down my throat and distract me from the moment.
“So,” Martin drawls, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, “are we going to address the elephant in the room, or shall we continue pretending Noah’s face doesn’t look like it went through ten rounds with Mike Tyson?”
“Martin,” Ezra warns, but not very wholeheartedly—the curiosity in his voice is loud.
“What?” Martin shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Unless food poisoning causes bruised knuckles now?” He gestures to my hand wrapped around the wine glass, where the evidence of my fight is still visible despite my efforts to hide it.
I feel Bea stiffen beside me. Her palpable discomfort radiates off her in waves, and I hate that I’ve put her in this position.
“It’s nothing,” I say firmly, meeting Martin’s gaze with a challenge. “Drop it.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Martin smirks, swirling his wine with theatrical flair. “Oh wait, I know. You probably left all the fun at Beatrice’s building.”
Bea’s glass clicks on the table as she starts coughing, and I gently tap her back. Great, everyone seems to be in the know.
Maeve moves between us with the wine bottle still in her hand, looking from person to person around the kitchen island.
“Actually,” Maeve says suddenly, lighting up as she sets down the bottle, “you all have to see my newest design. It just came back from the sample room yesterday!”
The abrupt change of subject sends a wave of relief through me so powerful I nearly slump over. She’s giving us an out—or maybe she just can’t contain her excitement. Either way, she’s my savior.
“Oh, do tell!” Martin clasps his hands together, immediately distracted by the promise of fashion. “Is it the jacket with the asymmetrical lapels you were sketching last month?”
“Even better,” Maeve grins, her entire demeanor shifting as she slides into her element. “It’s a completely reimagined take on the classic power suit. I’m calling it ‘The Executive.’”
Ezra looks at his wife with such naked adoration it’s almost embarrassing to witness. “Show them, honey. It’s incredible.”
“Back in a flash!” Maeve disappears down the hallway, her excitement palpable.
I take advantage of the momentary distraction to glance at Bea. She’s staring into her wine glass, her profile illuminated by the pendant lights above the island. The soft glow catches the gold in her hair, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, leaning slightly closer while Martin peppers Ezra with questions about the design process.
Her head snaps up at my whisper, those blue eyes finally meeting mine. “I’m fine,” she hisses, barely moving her lips.
“You said that before,” I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear. “But you look like you want to disappear.”
“Can you blame me?” She takes a long sip from her glass, darting her eyes nervously to where Martin and Ezra are still deep in conversation. “This is torture, and you know it.”
Before I can respond, Maeve bursts back into the room, holding up what at first looks like a black blazer on a silk hanger. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before—structured but somehow fluid, with clean lines that seem to shift as she moves it.
“Ta-da!” she announces proudly. “The Executive!”
Martin gasps dramatically, one hand flying to his chest. “Oh my god, it’s even better than I imagined! Look at those seams—they’re practically invisible!”
Everyone gravitates toward Maeve, even Bea, who seems grateful for the distraction. I hang back, watching as Martin runs his fingers reverently over the fabric.
