Chapter 29
Bea
I stare at Noah’s unconscious form stretched across my bed, his massive body barely fitting on my cheap mattress.
With him positioned diagonally, his feet still hang off the edge, and his broad shoulders take up most of the width.
With his eyes closed and face relaxed in his sleep, he looks less like the demanding boss who terrorizes the office and more like a wounded man who needs help.
“Noah,” I try again, nudging his shoulder gently. Nothing. He’s out cold.
Great. Just great. My boss—the same boss I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about for weeks—is now passed out half naked on my bed. In my tiny studio apartment that barely qualifies as a legal living space.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I pace the three steps my apartment allows, running my hands through my hair. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just leave him like this. What if he has internal bleeding? What if he stops breathing in the middle of the night? What if his concussion is worse than he thought?
My eyes keep drifting to his exposed torso, to the bruises blooming across his ribs in angry purples and blues.
I’ve never seen him without a shirt before tonight—not even in Maupiti, where the only time I saw him swimming was when he jumped in fully clothed to save my clumsy ass.
I knew he was fit—the way his suits hug his shoulders and his rolled-up shirts make his corded forearms bulge—but this is something else entirely.
Even battered and bruised, his body is a work of art—all defined muscle and smooth skin, marred now by the evidence of tonight’s fight.
A fight he was losing because of me.
I sink onto the floor, leaning my back on the wall across from the bed, and watch his chest rise and fall steadily. At least he’s breathing.
Ten thousand dollars. He offered me ten thousand dollars to take care of him tonight.
The number dances in my head its tempting dance.
That’s way more than I make with my current salary.
It would cover rent for a few months. I could finally stop rationing ramen noodles and actually buy groceries that don’t come from the clearance section.
But this isn’t about the money. Not entirely.
It’s about Noah lying unconscious on my bed after getting beaten up in an underground fight club because I distracted him.
The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, mixing with fear that he might not wake up.
I would’ve agreed to watch over him without the money.
Just for the chance to get a glimpse of my Noah from the evening when we stayed late at work to redraw the Newside blueprints.
‘My Noah?’ What the hell is wrong with you, Bea?
I grab my phone and consider my options.
I could call nine-one-one, but Noah was adamant about not going to the hospital.
I could call Ezra, but he also begged me not to involve his brother.
I could call Maeve, but explaining why my boss—her brother-in-law—is half naked and unconscious in my bed would require more energy than I have right now.
Instead, I do what any rational person would do—I Google ‘concussion symptoms’ and ‘how to monitor someone with a head injury.’
The results are not reassuring. I need to wake him every two hours to check his responses. I need to watch for vomiting, confusion, and severe headaches. I need to be responsible for someone’s life for the next however many hours while I have no idea what I’m doing.
I set my phone aside and approach the bed cautiously.
Noah’s face is turned toward me, and in sleep, he looks peaceful despite the cuts and bruises.
The butterfly bandage I applied is holding the edges of the cut together like a champ, though there’s still some dried blood around it.
His breathing is steady, which the internet tells me is a good sign.
The towel around his waist has shifted slightly, riding lower on his hips, and I quickly avert my eyes.
This is not the time to ogle my unconscious boss, no matter how stupidly attractive he looks even beaten up.
Checking his anatomical inadequacies is not at the top of my list either, so I should keep my inappropriate horniness in check.
I check the time on my phone: 11:47 p.m. According to Dr. Google, I need to wake him at 1:47 a.m. to check his pupils and ask him basic questions.
If he can’t answer or his pupils are uneven, I’m calling an ambulance whether he likes it or not, and I’ll deal with the consequences of a grumpy Noah after.
For now though, I need to figure out where I’m going to sleep. The apartment suddenly feels smaller than ever with Noah’s massive frame taking up my entire bed. Even with Maeve and Martin here at the same time, we still had room to breathe.
I glance around at my limited options—a stool by the kitchen or the floor.
With a sigh, I grab a spare blanket from the cabinet above my bed, careful not to disturb Noah. I’ll make a pallet on the floor with an extra pillow and try to get some sleep before my 1:47 a.m. alarm. It’s not ideal, but nothing about this situation is.
As I spread the blanket on the narrow strip of floor beside the bed, I hear Noah shift with a low groan. I freeze, watching as he turns slightly with a face contorted in pain even in sleep. The bruises on his ribs must be excruciating.
Without overthinking, I reach for the bottle of ibuprofen in my first aid kit and fill a glass of water.
“Noah,” I say softly, touching his shoulder. “Noah, wake up for a second.”
His unfocused and confused eyes flutter open. For a moment, he just stares at me, like he’s trying to place if we belong to the same species.
“Pain meds,” I explain, holding up the bottle. “For your ribs.”
He blinks slowly, then nods, wincing as he tries to push himself up on his elbows. I slide my arm behind his shoulders to help, trying to ignore how warm his skin feels against mine or how intimate this gesture is.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. He takes the pills from my palm and swallows them with the water I push into his hand. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” I say, taking the glass back. “You need to rest.”
He nods again, already sinking back into the pillow, closing his heavy eyelids. “You should sleep too,” he mumbles, and the words slur slightly. “Not on the floor.”
I glance down at my pathetic blanket pallet. “I’m fine.”
“No.” His hand shoots out, catching my wrist with surprising strength for someone who was unconscious moments ago. “Bed’s big enough.”
I freeze as my pulse kicks up beneath his fingers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Just sleep, Bea,” he says while his eyes close again. “Nothing else. I sure don’t have energy for anything else.”
I stand here for a long moment, weighing my options.
The floor is hard, and my back already aches from the stress of the day and the fall on the trash cans.
The bed is technically big enough for both of us, even with him splayed diagonally.
And he’s injured, barely conscious—it’s not like anything inappropriate would happen.
“Fine,” I whisper, but he’s already asleep again.
I fix the blanket over his body and slip under the covers on the far side of the bed where there’s the most space left, keeping as much distance as possible between us. Even so, it doesn’t work very well with my bed being queen size, and Noah being king size.
I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell his signature cedar scent mixed with soap from my shower. The mattress is dipping under his weight, creating a slight incline that threatens to roll me toward him.
I lie rigid on my side, facing away from him, hyperaware of every breath he takes, every small movement his large body makes.
This is insane. I’m sharing a bed with Noah King.
My boss. The man who makes my life hell on a daily basis, who I’ve been having increasingly confusing feelings about since I first met him in a future brother-in-law capacity, which got infinitely more confusing since the time I started working for him.
The man who just got beaten up because I’ve got feelings.
Sleep feels impossible, but exhaustion eventually wins. I drift in and out, jolting awake every time Noah shifts or makes a sound.
At 1:47 a.m. exactly, my phone alarm buzzes softly. I silence it quickly and turn to face Noah.
“Hey,” I whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Noah, wake up.”
His eyes open more easily this time, focusing on me with less confusion. “Time for the concussion check?” he asks. His voice still sounds rough but definitely more alert.
“Yeah.” I grab my phone’s flashlight and shine it in his eyes. “Follow the light.”
His pupils respond normally, contracting as the light hits them and tracking the movement when I move it left and right.
“What’s your full name?” I ask, pulling up to sit cross-legged beside him.
“Noah Ezekiel King.” He winces as he shifts slightly. “What’s the date?”
“You’re supposed to let me ask the questions,” I say, smiling despite myself. “What’s the date? Wait, your name is Noah Ezekiel?”
“Mother was having a bad day when she named me. It’s November fifteenth. Now can I go back to sleep?” His eyes are already drooping again.
“Yeah.” I settle back down on my side of the bed, pulling the covers up. “I’ll check again in two hours.”
“Mmm.” He’s already fading, but his hand finds mine under the blanket, his fingers loosely intertwining with mine, spooking me into next year with the gesture’s intimacy. “Thanks, Bea.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest, a flutter that has nothing to do with medical concern or the ever-present guilt.
His hand is warm and calloused from more than just office work as I’ve discovered recently, and I don’t pull away.
I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to wake him, but that’s a lie.