Chapter 32
Noah
I wake up disoriented to the sunlight streaming through a window I don’t recognize and hitting me directly in the face. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am—this isn’t my king-size bed with its thousand thread count sheets. This mattress is too small, too firm, and smells like—
Bea.
The events of last night come rushing back like a freight train. The fight. Getting my ass handed to me because I spotted Bea in the crowd. Her driving me to her apartment in that death trap she calls a car. And then the kiss leading to—
Fuck.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. My ribs protest with sharp, stabbing pain that makes me hiss through my teeth. My head pounds, though the concussion fog seems to have lifted. Last night’s activities might not have been the brightest idea in my current state, but I regret nothing.
I glance around the tiny studio apartment, taking it in properly in the daylight.
It’s even smaller than I thought—smaller than my walk-in closet at home.
The walls are a faded off-white, the furniture minimal and clearly secondhand.
But everything is meticulously organized, neat in a way that screams Beatrice was here with her color coded and lined perfection.
Speaking of Bea. Where is she?
I hear running water turn off in the bathroom a few feet away from the bed, and the door opens a few minutes later. She steps out already dressed in work clothes—a crisp white blouse and navy skirt that hugs her curves in ways that make me suck air in.
Her hair is damp, pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she freezes when she sees me watching her. A flush creeps up her neck, and she looks away quickly, busying herself by gathering items from her tiny kitchen area.
“You’re awake,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “How do you feel?”
I test my ribs with a cautious breath. “Like I got hit by a truck. Twice.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles with a wince.
“I don’t regret it,” I say firmly, watching her shoulders tense at my words. “Do you?”
She pauses her bustling around, her back still to me. “That’s not… it’s complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I push myself up to sitting, biting back a groan as my ribs scream in protest. The sheet pools around my waist, and I notice her eyes flit to my chest before darting away again. “Bea, look at me.”
She turns slowly, crossing her arms over her chest like armor. “Noah, we work together. You’re my boss. And my sister’s brother-in-law. Last night was—”
“Amazing,” I interrupt. “Incredible. Long overdue.”
“A mistake,” she finishes, but her voice wavers on the word.
I study her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way she’s biting her lower lip—a tell I’ve memorized over weeks of watching her. She’s scared. Not of me, but of what this means. I recognize it because I feel the same fear clawing at my chest.
“Come here,” I say softly.
She shakes her head. “I need to get to work. And so do you. It’s already eight thirty.”
Eight thirty. Shit. I should have come up with an excuse by now for why I can’t come to work today, because I sure as fuck can’t let anyone see me looking like I’ve just come out of a meat grinder.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, testing my body’s limits.
Every muscle protests, but I’ve fought through worse.
The problem is explaining my face to everyone at the office without revealing my extracurricular activities, the evidence of which will remain on my face for a couple weeks to come. That’s for sure.
“I’ll work from home today,” I say, reaching for my phone on the floor beside the bed only to find it dead. “Shit. Do you have a charger?”
“One second.” She grabs the charger and plugs it in by the bed.
“What should I tell everyone when they ask about your absence?”
“Tell them I’m dealing with something at the site.”
“And when you show up tomorrow looking like you went ten rounds with a cement mixer?” Bea’s voice carries an edge of frustration that makes me want to pull her back into bed and kiss the worries I’ve created away.
“I’ll figure something out.” As soon as my phone comes back to life, a string of messages and missed phone calls come through. Seventeen from the Newside crew, three from HR—what the fuck about?—and one from Ezra reminding me about their dinner tonight.
Bea pulls a mug from the cabinet. “Coffee?”
“Please.” I watch her move through the tiny space with practiced efficiency, every movement precise despite the tension radiating from her shoulders. “Bea, we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She keeps her back to me as she fills the ancient coffee maker with water. “Last night was… what it was. We’re adults. We can move past it.”
The casual dismissal stings more than my ribs. “Move past it? Is that what you want?”
Her hands still on the coffee filter. “What I want is irrelevant,” she says, and the crack in her voice gives her away. “What’s smart is what we should do.”
“Smart.” The word tastes rotten.
I stand with a sheet hitched at my hips.
I usually wouldn’t bother with modesty, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own home.
My ribs shriek, and I nearly double over, glancing around and realizing that my dignity is nowhere to be found.
But I cross the three steps to her anyway.
She keeps her back to me with her shoulders squared like a soldier bracing for orders.
The coffee maker wheezes to life, breaking the silent spell.
“Bea.” I keep my voice low. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. So I slide my arms around her waist from behind, careful of my ribs, and rest my chin on the top of her head, willing her to feel okay about all this.
She goes rigid. The mug in her hand rattles against the counter. “Noah.”
“Don’t do the thing,” I murmur into the softness of her hair. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything. Don’t file this away into a neat and sterilized folder,” I gently tap my finger on her temple, “in your brain under ‘Mistakes: Do Not Repeat.’”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are.” I smile into her hair. “I know you, Beatrice Wrong.”
Her hands flatten on the counter. “Fine. I am, but I’m not sterilizing it. I’m quarantining it.”
I shift to the side so I can see her profile with that stubborn mouth that’s been driving me insane. “It’s not contagious.”
“It absolutely is,” she says, mouth twisting. “Contagious and career-ending.”
“I’m your boss at work,” I say, hearing how inadequate that sounds as it leaves my mouth. “Outside it—”
“There is no outside,” she interjects. “We work all the time. And I’ve just started this life on my own.”
“Then we make other time.” The words are out before I can second-guess them. “We will make rules. Boundaries. Schedules. You love schedules.”
Her eyes flick to mine, traitorously curious. I keep going, because pain has apparently lowered my inhibitions in more than one way.
“At work—” I start, but don’t get to answer because my phone rings. And then again. And again. I step away from her to check who’s calling.
“I have to take this,” I say to her before pressing the accept button and bringing the phone to my ear. “Yes, George?”
“Sorry to distract you from your recovery, but we’ve got a problem at the site. Hank called me because he couldn’t get in touch with you. Someone broke all the windows in the main building.”
“Shit.” I should have checked those missed messages after all.
“Yes.”
“I need a ride.”
“I’ll be there in twenty. And Noah?”
“Yes?”
“I left a bag with your clothes outside her door. Hopefully it’s still there.”
“Not sure in this place, but thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on Bea who’s busying herself around the apartment, straightening things that don’t need straightening and avoiding my gaze. I stand up from the bed and walk to the door.
“Are you leaving looking like that?” Bea’s voice rises to nearly a shriek. “You can’t walk like that on the street!”
“George left me some clothes.” I pull the door open and find a bag still sitting by the door.
“How thoughtful of him,” she mumbles under her breath, organizing the things on the counter.
“Very.” My tone is sarcastic enough to match hers.
“So, the rules,” I say, dropping the sheet I’ve been dragging around with me.
Bea’s eyes dart to my face first and then quickly drop to my naked frame.
Her cheeks instantly turn crimson red, and she whips her head toward the kitchen so fast, I think I hear her neck crack.
“A little warning next time?”
I let out a satisfied chuckle. “So there will be a next time?”
“Noah!” she cries out, glancing my way. But her gaze drops to my dick that I refuse to cover at this point, her whole face turning red now, and she rushes to the bathroom. “Put the goddamn pants on!”
Laughing without hiding my amusement anymore, I slowly pull my pants on, trying to hide a very excited cock inside. George didn’t bring me any underwear, which would have been very helpful right now.
“I’m decent. You can stop hiding in there.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m cleaning.”
“Sure you are.” I try putting a T-shirt on, which doesn’t work right away because my ribs refuse to cooperate. “Bea,” I call out, waiting for her to look at me. “We have to discuss the rules.”
She carefully pokes her head out of the bathroom and gives me a scolding glare. “Why do you keep insisting on them?” Then she averts her eyes. “We had sex, that’s it.”
I win the battle with the T-shirt and finally get it on and fall back on the bed. “It was not just sex, and you know it. The rules are for you, so you can keep me in check. Isn’t that what you like? Control and rules?”
She freezes with an open mouth, looking surprised. “Fine, I guess.” She blinks. “We’ll talk about them later.”
“When?”
“Later,” she replies, wiping dust from the same spot she’s already wiped at least three times.
My phone buzzes with a text from George.
“Outside.”