Chapter 19
Bea
I regret the words the moment they leave my lips.
My original plan, if one can call it that, was to sweep in, bandage whatever metaphorical wound Noah had gouged into himself this time, and then promptly retreat before anyone noticed.
Maybe give him a pep talk. Maybe tell him to stop being a jackass to people who are just trying to help him.
Maybe throw a chair too if he pushed me that far.
But none of that happened, because the second I saw Noah standing in the middle of his office, surrounded by mess, with his hand bleeding, I knew my plan was shit. I couldn’t walk away, not after seeing him so lost and so wounded. And so alone.
And when Ezra showed up and started giving Noah that look—like he was an overgrown, rabid animal in need of a muzzle—something inside me snapped.
I’d spent my entire childhood being the problem child, the liability, the ticking bomb in the corner.
I know that look. I know it better than the back of my own hand, and I know exactly what it does to a person.
And now, standing here in the ruins of his office, I’m caught in the aftermath of my own impulsive rescue mission. The silence between us is heavy enough to compress my lungs, but I refuse to be the first to break it.
I want to apologize for interfering. I want to take it all back and let him fight his own battles, the way he obviously prefers. The very same way he left me to my own war.
But I can’t. Because I meant what I said, and now it’s floating in the air, un-take-back-able.
The worst part is, I don’t actually know myself why I did it.
Maybe it was righteous anger. Maybe it was secondhand rage from watching someone get labeled defective just for having a meltdown in a world designed to break people exactly like us.
Or maybe it was the selfish hope that if I defended him, someone would do the same for me in another life.
I don’t know. But I do know that, for a split second, Noah looked at me like I was a lifeline, and stupid me liked the feeling.
His expression shifts into something raw and unguarded before he masks it again with disdain. But I saw it—that moment of surprise, like no one’s ever told him he’s not broken before.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual bite. Judging by the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s safe to say I’ve caught him off balance, and he doesn’t know how to go about it either.
I step closer to his desk, my heels clicking on the hardwood.
“Don’t I? You think I haven’t seen broken before?” I lean against the edge, close enough to catch that cedar scent that always makes my pulse skip. “I grew up in a house where broken was currency. Where every flaw was cataloged and weaponized.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t pull away. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” I challenge, dropping my voice to match his intensity. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re doing their,” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, “job for them. Believing you’re some kind of monster who can’t be trusted around people.”
His jaw ticks, those scarred knuckles on the undamaged hand flexing against the desk. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“I know you’re capable of brilliant work,” I say, pointing toward the ruined plans.
“I know you care enough about this project to work yourself—and me,” I add with a chuckle, “into the ground. And I know you didn’t hurt me when you easily could have.
So, I don’t think you are actually dangerous.
Maybe a little fucked up in here.” I tap my temple with my finger. “But aren’t we all?”
His expression changes from surprise to something one might call relief—but it’s gone so fast I almost miss it.
“The plans,” he says abruptly, trying to redirect us away from understanding what just happened. “I need them redrawn by tomorrow morning, or the board wins. And all of that,” he gestures somewhere behind my back, “was for nothing.”
I straighten, slipping back into assistant mode even though my heart’s still racing. “Then we better get started.”
“We?” Noah looks at me like I’ve suggested we try to fly to the moon. “You don’t know the first thing about architectural drawings.”
“I don’t need to,” I reply, crossing my arms. “You draw, I prep. I can handle the zoning board materials while you focus on recreating what was lost. I’ll supply your coffee.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Why would you help me after I’ve been such an ass to you?”
It’s a fair question. Weeks of coffee runs, impossible demands, and general dickishness should have me running for the door, not offering to stay late. But seeing him with his walls down changed something in me. And the last week changed something in us.
“Because unlike some people,” I say pointedly with a crooked smile, “I’m actually good at my job.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before he bothers to hide it. “And this is just about the job?”
“What else would it be about?” I challenge, hoping my face doesn’t betray how my heart rate picks up when he looks at me with such open hope.
He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze a beat too long before looking away. “Fine. Get me a fresh drawing pad from the supply closet. And I’ll take you up on that coffee offer.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, putting just enough sass in the word to make his jaw tick as usual.
As I turn to leave, he calls after me. “Bea?”
I pause, hand on the door. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.” The word comes out as if he’s in pain, as if it costs him his soul to say it.
I nod and slip out of the office while my heart does this weird fluttery thing that I absolutely refuse to analyze. The supply closet is down the hall in Ezra’s wing, past Martin’s desk where he’s pretending to work but obviously eavesdropping on everything that just happened.
“That was quite a show,” he says without looking up from his computer screen.
“Just doing my job,” I reply, grabbing a legal pad and some mechanical pencils.
“Uh-huh.” His fingers pause over the keyboard. “And defending your boss from his own brother? Throwing yourself in front of Ezra? That part of the job description too?”
I stop, clutching the supplies against my chest. “Ezra was out of line.”
“Was he?” Martin finally looks at me, those knowing eyes seeing way too much. “Or were you just pissed that someone else was calling Noah broken when that’s supposed to be your thing?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He grins, turning back to his screen. “Better get that man his coffee before he has another meltdown. God knows this office can’t handle one more.”
I hurry past him before I slap him stupid for having a laugh at Noah’s expense before. Martin didn’t exactly help with his sarcastic remarks, but he’s the one who got me this job, so I decide to keep my mouth shut.
The floor is nearly empty at this hour, with Ezra in his office if Martin’s still here, and a few people here and there still staring at their screens.
When I return with the coffee and supplies, Noah’s already cleared a space on his desk, pushing aside the broken glass from whatever he destroyed earlier.
His sleeves are traditionally rolled up, revealing those thick forearms I see in my wet dreams, and there’s a focus to his movements that wasn’t there before.
“Here,” I say, setting the coffee within reach and placing the fresh pad in front of him.
He picks up a pencil, and his fingers flex around it, testing its weight. “This is going to take hours.”
“Then we better get started.” I settle into the chair across from his desk, pulling out my laptop. “What do you need from the zoning materials?”
For the next two hours, we work in surprising harmony. Noah sketches with an intensity that’s almost hypnotic—every line deliberate, every measurement exact.
Watching him work is mesmerizing. His hands move with precision despite the rage that consumed him earlier.
I find myself stealing glances when he’s too absorbed to notice, studying the furrow between his brow and the way his jaw clenches when he concentrates.
There’s something almost beautiful about his intensity that doesn’t let me turn away.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up, his pencil never pausing.
I feel heat creep up my neck. “I’m observing. Different thing.”
His lips twitch. “And what are you observing, princess?”
“That you’re actually good at this,” I admit, gesturing to the drawing taking shape under his hands. “Really good.”
He pauses then, lifting his gaze to mine with an expression I can’t quite read. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m—” I search for the right word, “impressed.”
A momentary flash of pride gets masked almost instantly. “You don’t need to butter me up. I’m not giving you a raise.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to my laptop. “You are not even paying my salary.”
We fall back into silence, but it’s different now—less tense, more relaxed. The dark office is illuminated by the city lights blinking outside the windows. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the salad Noah brought me at noon.
“We should order food,” I say, glancing at the clock on my laptop screen. “It’s almost ten.”
Noah looks up from his drawing, blinking like he’s forgotten the world exists outside this office. “Food?”
“You know, that thing normal people eat to survive?” I tease, saving the document I’ve been working on. “Unless you’ve figured out how to photosynthesize, but even for that you’d need the sun. And that baby has long gone.” I point out the dark window. “So I’m guessing you’re hungry too.”
He sets down his pencil, rolling his shoulders back. The movement draws my attention to the way his shirt stretches across his chest, and I quickly look away before he catches me staring again.
“There’s a good Thai place that delivers late,” he says, reaching for his phone. “You like spicy?”