“I’m having a drink.”
“So am I.” I signal the bartender. “Beer, please. Whatever’s on tap.”
The bartender nods and moves away. Noah still hasn’t looked at me.
“What do you want, Masterson?”
“Just grabbing a drink. Same as you.”
“There are other seats at this bar.”
“I like this one.”
He finally looks at me then, and his expression is completely neutral. Like the scene in that bar never happened.
“You played well tonight,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Two assists. No penalties. Marshall will be pleased.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here because Marshall asked me to check on you. Which I did.”
“Right. Check on me.” I lean back as the bartender slides my beer toward me. “Is that why you got territorial when that woman talked to me?”
“I wasn’t territorial. I was cautious.”
“You were jealous.” I smirk and pick up the glass. “I thought you were gonna piss on me next.”
“You’re mistaken.” His voice is flat, but the muscle in his jaw ticks. “I have no personal investment in who talks to you or what you do in your free time. My only concern is that your behavior doesn’t create PR issues.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“That’s reality.” He finishes his drink and puts the glass down on the polished wood. “You should get some sleep. We fly out tomorrow afternoon.”
“Noah—”
“Goodnight, Masterson.”
He stands, pulls out his wallet, drops cash on the bar, and walks away without looking back.
I sit there with my beer, watching him disappear into the elevator.
The bartender comes over. “Need anything else?”
“No. I’m good.”
But I’m not good. I’m frustrated as hell.
Because I saw it. In the bar, when that woman talked to me. I saw the jealousy flare in his eyes before he buried it under “professional courtesy.”
And just now, when I called him on it, I saw him shut down completely and lock everything away.
So yeah, Noah Enver feels something.
He’s just never going to admit it.
