Chapter 20
Noah
She pushes the empty food containers aside, her movements efficient even in this late hour. There’s something about seeing Bea like this—relaxed, unguarded, sharing Thai food in my office at nearly midnight—that makes my brain go places it shouldn’t.
“You should finish that,” she says, nodding at my drawing. “We still need to scan and upload everything before midnight.”
Right. The deadline. The project that could save King Developers or sink us completely. I’ve been so caught up in this strange bubble of normalcy with her that I almost forgot the stakes.
I pick up my pencil, adding the final details to the corner elevation.
My hand moves automatically, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders to how different this feels from every other late night I’ve spent in this office.
Usually it’s just me, drowning in my own thoughts and the weight of expectations.
But with Bea here, organizing documents and humming the same tune under her nose for hours, the crushing pressure feels manageable.
“There,” I say finally, setting down the pencil. “Done.”
She leans forward to look at the finished drawing, and I catch a whiff of her scent—something sweet and tempting that cuts through the lingering smell of food. It always seems to find its way right into my brain and stays there for hours even after she leaves.
“This is incredible,” she says softly, and something in her voice makes me look up.
Her words surprise me. I’m used to Ezra’s measured praise, to Martin’s enthusiastic but generic compliments. But Bea looks at my work like she actually sees it—not just the lines and measurements but the vision behind them.
“It’s just a building,” I mutter, uneasy with the sincerity in her voice.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not just a building. It’s…” She pauses with her fingers hovering over the corner where I’ve detailed the community garden that will sit atop the affordable housing units. “It’s thoughtful. You could have just drawn another glass tower, but this has soul.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. I clear my throat, looking away before she can see whatever’s happening on my face.
“We should scan this,” I say, standing abruptly. “The large format scanner is down the hall.”
She nods, carefully lifting the drawing. “I’ll do it. You finish compiling the notes for the presentation.”
Our fingers brush as she takes the drawing, and that same electric current from the island zips between us. It settles into familiar grooves that we both have been forming for a long time. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat too long before she steps back, holding the drawing clutched to her chest.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the slight tremor in her voice.
While she’s gone, I try to focus on the presentation notes, but my mind keeps drifting back to the strange softness in her eyes when she looked at my drawing.
Beatrice Wrong is supposed to just be my assistant—a temporary one at that.
She’s Ezra’s wife’s sister and used to be his fiancé, for Christ’s sake.
Off-limits in every way that matters. But something about tonight has shifted the ground between us, and I’m not sure how to get it back to normal.
When she returns, she’s got the scanned drawing pulled up on her tablet. “All set,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me. “I’ve already uploaded it to the server and attached it to the submission form. We just need your final approval on the presentation.”
I lean forward, scrolling through the completed package she’s assembled. Everything’s perfect—meticulously organized, professionally presented. The work of someone who genuinely cares about doing things right.
“This is good,” I admit, glancing up at her. “Really good.”
A small, pleased smile curves her lips, and I realize I want to be the one to put it there every day.
“I told you I’m qualified for this job.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
“You literally said exactly that,” she counters with a chuckle. That same teasing tone we’ve somehow fallen into over the course of the evening.
I hit submit on the form, watching as the progress bar fills. When it’s done, I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight slowly lifting from my shoulders. “That’s it. We made it. We have the full document package to show to investors.”
Bea stretches her arms overhead, her blouse pulling tight across her chest in a way that makes me look away quickly before I do something stupid like stare.
“We should probably call it a night,” she says, but she doesn’t move to pack up her things. Neither do I.
Instead, I find myself studying her face in the lamplight—the way her hair’s come loose from its bun, the slight smudge of mascara under her eyes from the long day. She looks tired but satisfied. Exactly how I’m feeling right now.
“Thank you,” I say, wincing at the words, which come out more like a growl than gratitude. “For staying. For all of this.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You already thanked me.”
“I know. But I mean it.” I lean forward, placing my elbows on the desk. “You didn’t have to help me put this back together. You could have let me fail.”
“And let the board win?” She raises an eyebrow. “Not a chance.”
“Why do you care?” I ask. “About the project, I mean. About whether King Developers survives.” I keep beelining to the same question I’ve already asked multiple times, but she hasn’t replied truthfully. Just like I never did when she kept asking.
Her lips part to say something, but she never gets a chance. I see the exact moment she shifts gears. “We should probably head out,” she says, checking her phone and avoiding any eye contact with me. “It’s after midnight.”
I nod, but neither of us move. The office feels smaller now with just the two of us whispering to each other, intimate in a way that makes my pulse kick up. She starts slowly gathering her things, reluctant to leave too, and that thought sends unwelcome urges through my mind.
“Bea,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses, her half-slung purse dropping from her shoulder. “Yeah?”
I don’t know what I was going to say. Thank you again? You’re not what I expected? I can’t stop thinking about that moment we almost kissed on the island? Let’s try it again? All of it feels too big, too dangerous.
I settle on, “Good work tonight,” hating how inadequate it sounds.
Her smile is empty. “You too, Boss.”
She heads for the door, and as I watch her go, my eyes trace the sway of her hips in that damn skirt that’s been driving me insane nearly every single day since she started here. When she reaches the threshold, she turns back.
“Noah?” My name sounds different in her voice now, softer somehow.
“For what it’s worth, I think Ezra’s wrong about you.
You’re not the monster he thinks you are.
You are a monster for sending me to fetch that stupid coffee, don’t get me wrong,” she laughs, moving a lock of hair away from her face.
“But you shouldn’t let anyone make you believe what is not true. ”
Not knowing how to respond, I stare at her, feeling my throat tightening and not trusting myself to speak. She’s defending me again, but this time from myself.
“Goodnight, Noah,” she says softly, and then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the scent of her perfume and the echo of her words.
I sit there for a long time after she leaves, staring at the completed drawing on my computer screen. The building looks back at me—clean lines and perfect design, everything I poured into it over weeks of work. But all I can think about is the way she said my name.
This is dangerous territory. Beatrice Wrong is off-limits for about a dozen reasons, starting with the fact that she used to be engaged to my brother and ending with the fact that I don’t do relationships.
I do quick, uncomplicated hookups with women who understand the rules.
I don’t do late-night conversations about scars and dreams. I don’t do whatever the hell just happened in this office.
But as I finally pack up my things and head home, I can’t shake the memory of her voice when she called me brilliant. Or the way she looked at my drawing like she could see straight into my soul.
I’m fucked.