Chapter 15
Bea
The next morning is awkward. I didn’t see Noah for the rest of the day yesterday. He left the office when I went to the bathroom, saving us both the struggle.
Today, he’s already at his desk when I arrive, so I don’t have those first few minutes to steel myself for whatever fresh hell he has planned.
His door is open for the first time in forever, and I can see him in his signature pants that stretch over his ass and rolled-up sleeves, hunched over blueprints, with a pencil tucked behind his ear. He looks… normal. Human, even. It’s unsettling.
“Morning,” I call out, settling at my desk with my coffee and the defensive armor of my professional smile.
He glances up, and for a split second, something soft flickers across his features before the familiar mask slides back into place. “Morning.”
That’s it. No barked orders, no impossible tasks, no smug commentary about my arrival after his royal bum was already here. Just ‘morning.’
I wait for the other shoe to drop as I boot up my computer and check his calendar. The Peterson Group wants to schedule a follow-up meeting, and there are three other calls lined up for today. Normal assistant stuff. Manageable stuff. Stuff that doesn’t require me to be in the same room with him.
About thirty minutes later, the phone buzzes with a call from a number I don’t recognize.
“Good morning. King Developers. This is Beatrice,” I answer in my sweetest professional voice because I am the best assistant ever.
“Is this Noah King’s office?” A woman’s voice comes through sounding sharp and very irritated.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“This is Amanda. I had dinner plans with Noah on Friday night, and he never showed up. When I tried calling him, I discovered he blocked my number.” Her voice rises with each word, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear at the end of her sentence.
“I’m calling his office because I want to know what the hell is going on.
I deserve an explanation, and I’m not hanging up until I get one. ”
I blink rapidly, processing this information while glancing toward Noah’s office. He’s still bent over his blueprints, oblivious to the drama unfolding at my desk.
“I understand your frustration, Amanda,” I say in my most soothing customer service voice I’m not feeling at all right now. “Let me see what I can do for you. May I place you on a brief hold?”
Without waiting for her answer, I hit the hold button and march to Noah’s doorway, knocking on the frame. He looks up with a raised eyebrow.
“There’s an Amanda on the phone,” I inform him, keeping my voice neutral despite the curiosity burning inside me. “She says you stood her up Friday night and blocked her number.”
His face darkens instantly. “Tell her I’m in a meeting.”
“She says she won’t hang up until she gets an explanation.”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that’s annoyingly attractive. “Jesus Christ. Tell her—” He pauses, seeming to weigh his options. “Tell her I had a family emergency.”
“A family emergency,” I repeat flatly. “The night you sent me to the archives and then disappeared to have a very pleasant time?”
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. He looks away first, clenching his jaw tight.
“Yes,” he says shortly. “That’s what happened.”
I cross my arms, not accepting the answer.
“I don’t care what you tell her,” Noah says, his voice dropping to that dangerous pitch that makes my skin prickle. “Just get rid of her.”
I examine my nails, letting the silence stretch between us. His dark eyes narrow with a challenge, and I let out a loud sigh.
“Fine.” I turn on my heel, marching back to my desk. I pick up the phone with a saccharine smile in my voice. “Amanda, I’m so sorry, but Mr. King had a family emergency Friday night that required his immediate attention.”
“What kind of emergency?” she demands.
I glance toward Noah through the open door, who’s pretending not to listen while staring holes through his blueprints. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose personal details, but he deeply regrets missing your dinner.”
“Bull. Shit.” Each syllable is a knife meant for Noah. “Tell that asshole to forget my phone number. There’s plenty of fish in the city, and his tail is nothing to write home about.”
The line goes dead with a sharp click. I sit there for a moment, processing what just happened, then slowly place the phone back in its cradle. Through the still open door, I can see him watching me with an unreadable expression, so I stand up and walk up to lean on the doorframe of his office.
“She hung up,” I announce cheerfully. “But not before sharing her opinion about your, uh, anatomical inadequacies.”
His face flushes dark red, and I feel a petty satisfaction bloom in my chest. He deserves every bit of embarrassment for whatever he made me think last Friday.
“Did she now,” he says through gritted teeth, standing up from his desk.
“She did. Very colorful language.” I turn to go back to my desk because I’m fighting to keep the smirk off my face. “Shall I add ‘damage control for your dating disasters’ to my job description? I should ask for a raise for that.”
He appears at my desk faster than I expect, bracing his hands on the surface as he leans down. His masculine scent washes over me, and I have to grip my pen tighter to keep my hands steady and not pull him by his collar to me.
“My personal life is none of your business,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
I tilt my head up to meet his glare, refusing to be intimidated even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “It becomes my business when your scorned dates call the office demanding explanations.”
His eyes flit to my lips for just a second before snapping back up. “Don’t push me.”
I don’t know what comes over me because the person who starts talking is not me. “Then why does it feel like you want to be pushed?”
His pupils dilate, swallowing the warm chocolate of his eyes. His chest begins rising faster. “What gave you that impression?”
Involuntarily, my tongue peeks out to lick my lips, and Noah’s eyes drop to follow the movement. “Didn’t you want me to know what you would be doing after work on Friday?”
“How did you draw that conclusion?”
“Why else would you announce your plans for the whole floor?” I counter.
He straightens, looming over me, that heat radiating off his skin sending me into early ovulation. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d react,” he says on a whisper, leaning so close I can see the undertone of a dare in his gaze.
I swallow. “You’re testing your assistant’s reaction to your sex life? Should I get HR up here with popcorn?”
He lets out a small, humorless laugh, and for some reason it hurts worse than his anger. “My sex life isn’t your job, Beatrice.”
“Neither is fetching coffee from Brooklyn, but you seem to enjoy watching me run,” I shoot back, gaining volume to cover the hot-cold confusion boiling beneath my skin.
He leans in so close I grow dizzy with his cedar scent. “What is your job, then, Bea?”
My nickname on his lips sounds too comfortable, too tempting, and I want him to call me that again.
I try to think of something smart—something that’ll push him just enough to earn a laugh, or a groan, or whatever counts as a win with Noah King.
But my whole brain is jammed up by the fact that he’s closer to me than he’s been for the whole year, six inches from my face, with his deep, dark eyes boring into me.
I can feel the tingle on my cheeks, on my jaw, down the slope of my neck.
I want to look away, but he wants me to look away, and I refuse to let him win.
“My job is whatever you say it is, remember?” I force a little sarcasm into my voice, but it cracks at the edges.
His smile is slow and mean. “Then stop worrying about my Friday nights,” he orders, but there’s nothing remotely professional in the way he says it. There’s a dare sparkling in the silence between us. A wire that’s about to snap, and we both are waiting to see who’ll be the one to do it.
“Why didn’t you meet Amanda on Friday?” My voice comes out breathy while my teeth keep biting my lower lip. I can’t command my muscles to stay put because, apparently, my body is hellbent on trying to seduce this specimen with anatomical inadequacies.
I watch his throat work as he swallows. The question hangs between us like a loaded gun, and I realize I’ve pushed too far. But I can’t take it back now.
“Because,” he says, his voice rough as gravel, “I was too busy thinking about someone else.”
My heart stops. Actually stops. The office around us fades to white noise—the hum of computers, distant phone calls, the elevator dinging down the hall. All of it disappears until there’s nothing but Noah’s dark eyes boring into mine and the admission hanging in the air like smoke after a big fire.
“Someone else,” I repeat, my voice barely a whisper.
He straightens slowly, putting distance between us, but his gaze never leaves my face. “Don’t read into it, princess.”
But I already am. I’m reading into every breath, every flicker of every pause, every word he didn’t say.
I’m reading into the way he blocked Amanda’s number and the lunch he left on my desk yesterday.
I’m reading into Friday night and the way he’s looking at me right now, like I’m a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.
“You stood her up,” I say, and it’s not a question anymore.
His jaw ticks. “I had work to do.”
“You had work to do,” I repeat, tasting the lie on my tongue. “On a Friday night. After you sent me on a wild-goose chase to the archives.”
He steps back, running a hand through his hair, and I know I’ve hit something true. The careful distance he’s been maintaining all week cracks just enough for me to see through.
“Don’t,” he warns, but his voice lacks its usual force.
“I’m not,” I snap, but my voice wavers. I’m pushing, and he’s pushing back, and we’re teetering on the edge of something that feels dangerous. Thrilling. Inevitable.