Chapter 21
Bea
I wake up with a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with the food I ate yesterday and everything to do with the man I shared it with.
The memory of calling him brilliant, of defending him to his own brother while meeting ‘the enemy’ with a puffed chest like a baboon, makes me want to crawl under my covers and never emerge.
What the hell was I thinking?
I stare at the water stain on my ceiling, replaying every moment from last night in excruciating detail.
The look on his face when I complimented his drawing.
The softness in his voice when he thanked me.
That charged moment when our fingers brushed over the architectural plans, and I wanted to climb on the table and become his sole interest.
This is exactly the kind of complication I can’t afford.
I need this job—not just for the money, but to prove I can make it on my own.
Well, for the money too. I do need the money pretty badly.
I’m one sneeze away from being homeless, and getting tangled up with my boss, especially Noah King with his scarred knuckles and complicated family dynamics, is professional suicide.
I drag myself out of bed and into my tiny shower, letting the lukewarm water wash away the lingering scent of cedar and whatever spell Noah cast over me last night.
By the time I’m dressed, I’ve convinced myself that everything feels different because we were both exhausted and running on deadline adrenaline.
Nothing more.
The subway is its usual morning nightmare, but I use the crowded ride to mentally prepare for seeing Noah again. Professional distance. Cool efficiency. No more late-night bonding over architectural drawings and shared takeout. I should probably go back to spiking his coffee with sugar.
The elevator ride to Noah’s floor feels endless. When the doors finally open, I square my shoulders and stride toward my desk with what I hope looks like confidence rather than the barely controlled panic currently eating away at my insides.
Noah’s office door is closed, which means he’s either not in yet or he’s avoiding me. Given that it’s barely seven thirty, I’m betting on the former. I settle at my desk, boot up my computer, and dive into emails with the desperate focus of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts.
By eight fifteen, I’ve organized his calendar, responded to three client inquiries, and compiled a status report on the project we submitted last night.
I’m just starting to think I might survive this morning when I hear the familiar sound of his footsteps in the hallway.
The idea that I can pick his stride out of everyone in the office makes me feel like a love-sick puppy.
My pulse races involuntarily. I keep my eyes glued to my screen, typing nonsense just to look busy as he approaches my desk.
“Morning,” he says, and I can feel him hovering to the left of me. Greeting me in the morning—or any other time—is a miracle on its own, so I probably should reinforce it.
“Good morning, Mr. King,” I reply without looking up, proud of how steady my voice sounds. Professional. Distant. So much for reinforcing his good behavior. On the other hand, it might be exactly what we both need.
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel his confusion radiating across the space between us. Yesterday I was calling him Noah and defending his honor to his brother. Today I’m back to formal titles and rigid politeness.
“Coffee?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his tone.
“I’ll get it to you in a second.”
I hear him shift next to me, his hesitation palpable in the silence.
“I already got it,” he says finally, and I look up in surprise to see him holding a to-go cup from the café downstairs. “For you. Black, two sugars. That’s how you take it, right?”
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. In the weeks I’ve worked for him, Noah has never brought me coffee. Lunch—yes. But I’m sure he’s been doing it out of pity so I can keep functioning for work. Bringing coffee feels different. It’s not a necessity but a luxury.
“Thank you,” I manage, taking the cup with what I hope is a neutral expression.
Our fingers brush in the exchange, and I pretend not to notice the same electric current from every time any parts of our bodies meet.
“The zoning board approved our submission, by the way. I just got the email. So we are good to go for the investors meeting.”
His face brightens with genuine relief. “Already? That’s unexpected.”
“I may have called in a favor,” I admit, sipping the coffee to hide my smile. It’s perfect—just the right temperature and exactly how I like it. The fact that he noticed makes something warm unfurl in my chest that has nothing to do with the hot liquid.
“A favor?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning against my desk in a casual pose that draws my attention to how good he looks this morning—fresh suit, hair still damp from a shower, the scent of his cologne making my head swim.
“Let’s just say the receptionist had very specific taste in accessories, and I hooked her up with my vintage Chanel bag,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “A good one,” I mumble the last part to myself and then add louder, “And that bag cost more than the one favor she already did for me.”
“You gave up a Chanel bag for a zoning permit?” His voice is incredulous, and something that might be admiration flickers in his dark eyes.
“Not the zoning permit. For something else I had to pull out of a magic hat for you. And this favor was left over from what she owed me.”
“For what?”
I shrug, trying to ignore how his proximity affects my pulse. “Doesn’t matter. It was just sitting in my closet.”
That’s a complete lie. That bag was one of the last expensive things I owned, a reminder of the life I left behind.
It belonged to my grandmother, the only person who treated me well before she passed away.
But I needed to make this job work. And seeing the look on Noah’s face when he thought the project might fail—seeing him broken in a way that had nothing to do with his usual controlled anger—made the sacrifice feel worth it.
“Jesus, Bea.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice his knuckles are still scraped from yesterday’s meltdown. “You didn’t have to—”
“It’s my job,” I cut him off, the words coming out sharper than I intend. I need to maintain some distance here before I do something stupid like admit that his smile makes my heart stutter, and his corded forearms make my thighs hurt.
His expression shifts, closing off slightly. “Right. Your job.”
The space between us grows thick with the returned tension.
I take a careful sip of the coffee he just brought me and nearly groan because it’s that good.
However, I remind myself that I have to keep a neutral expression, so I start sipping more, using it as an excuse to break eye contact.
This morning was supposed to be about reestablishing professional boundaries, not whatever this awkwardness is.
“I should get back to work,” I say, turning to my computer screen. “You have a call with the Newside investors at ten.”
“Right,” he says, but doesn’t move away from my desk. Instead, he’s studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “About last night—”
“Nothing happened last night,” I interrupt, my voice coming out too quick, too defensive. “We worked late. We got the project done. That’s it.”
His jaw ticks, and I recognize the flash of irritation in his eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course it wasn’t. I’m making this weird all by myself, reading meaning into coffee and late-night conversations that probably meant nothing to him.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my pulse hammers in my ears.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, trying to get a read on me. Tough luck because even I can’t get a read on myself. The office is still mostly empty except for us, the morning light streaming through the windows highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
“I was going to say thank you,” he says finally. “Again. For what you said to Ezra yesterday.”
My chest tightens. “I told you, he was out of line—”
“No one’s ever done that before.” His voice is rough, lower than usual. “Defended me like that. Especially not to family.”
I stare at him with my coffee cup suspended halfway to my lips. There’s something vulnerable in his expression that makes my carefully constructed walls wobble dangerously.
“Maybe they should,” I finish quietly, feeling my heart hammering against my ribs.
Noah’s expression shifts—surprise, then something warmer that makes my stomach flip.
Suddenly we’re back in this dangerous territory, this softness between us, but I can’t seem to shake it off.
When he looks at me so openly, exposing his vulnerability, which is not something that Noah King usually does, I want to envelop him in a hug, squeeze his face into my chest, and tell him that everything is going to be okay.
“Bea,” he starts, and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes me brace for impact. “I should have said something. That night—” He pushes his hand into his hair. “I wanted to rearrange your father’s face.”
I stand up abruptly, nearly spilling my coffee. “I should really get these reports finished,” I interrupt him loudly, backing toward the hallway where the people are. “Before your ten o’clock.”
I can’t go back to that night where my world crumbled because I’ll cry.
It pains me to admit it, but I needed Noah to stand down like he did.
It took me standing up to Ezra last night to realize this, but I finally see it.
If he had said something to defend me, I might not have been pushed to the edge and left my parents.
I might not have stopped waiting to be saved and stepped in to save myself.