Chapter 33
Bea
Steaming in my own anger, I slam my door a little too hard and immediately wince because the building is held together with tape and civic neglect.
A loud knock on the wall from my neighbor makes me slow down my raging horses as I march around my shoebox apartment, and I freeze when my gaze falls on the bed where we created a total mess.
The sheet is half off, the towel is on the floor, and my underwear is MIA.
The room still smells like him—cedar and soap and something male and stupidly addictive—and that only makes the anger worse.
Because underneath the anger is a whole set of new troubles I’m not ready to face.
“Fine? Fine?” I mimic, tossing my pillow back on the bed. “We’re fine! We’re totally, unbelievably fine.”
I’m not fine.
I strip the bed like it insulted me personally, ball the sheets, and cram them into the tiny washer in the closet.
As the machine groans to life and starts its squeaky spin, flashes of last night attack me with zero warning: his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair, the way he said ‘mine’ like a prayer and a threat.
The moment he froze under me, swore, and begged me to slow down because his ego wouldn’t survive it—then me laughing, him swearing again, me rocking on top of him, and his fingers between my legs.
A shiver runs through me so hard I grab the washer door with a loud groan of frustration.
I hate him. I absolutely hate him. I also want him to text me. And call me. And come back. And never leave.
I lean my forehead against the cabinet and take a breath that doesn’t bring relief. I’m fine. I’m also lying to myself like it’s an Olympic sport.
My phone lights up on the counter with a call from Maeve. Because of course she has psychic timing.
I stare at her name for two rings, then pick up. “Hey.”
“Why do you sound like you swallowed a stapler?” she asks without hello, because she’s disgusting and endearing like that.
“Just tired.” I crane a look at the bedsheets, which are currently doing a sexy peek-a-boo out of the washer gasket like they’re trying to escape. “And my washing machine is letting out a painful screech like Prometheus before the eagle pulls his liver out.”
“O-okay, that’s oddly specific. Are you coming by the studio later? We’re fitting the samples for the charity thing, and I need your eyes.”
“Can’t. Work,” I say. “Boss. You know.”
There’s a pause followed by a low hum. “You okay?”
I pick at the edge of the counter until a sliver of laminate peels up like a hangnail. “Yep.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No,” I blurt, too fast. If she sees the crime scene that is my sheets, she’ll put me in a chokehold until I confess to riding my injured boss. “I’m fine. I’ll swing by after work.”
I won’t.
“Liar.” Her sigh is a whole paragraph. “Text me if your machine eats your apartment.”
“It might,” I say, ending the call.
I reach for my bag, already mentally calculating which train will smell the least like hot pennies and despair, when my phone pings again.
Subject: WFH Option Today
Hi Beatrice,
Noah has reported out sick. Per policy, support staff may telework when their direct manager is unavailable. Please work from home today and route anything urgent through me or Ezra.
Best,
Esther
HR, King Developers
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
I guess I don’t have to cover for him. He ‘reported out sick’ to HR instead. Does he not trust me to keep his secret? As if I haven’t proven myself loyal after weeks of putting up with his mood swings? After last night?
Heat rushes up my neck when I realize how childish my complaint is since I’m the one who suggested that last night was a one-time thing that we shouldn’t read much into.
I toss my bag back onto the counter, where it knocks into a cup of pens I keep like a little shrine to my type-A tendencies. Pens scatter. The chaos feels appropriate.
While I’m collecting the pens back, muttering curses under my breath, my phone pings with an incoming message.
“Had to reroute. Problems at the construction site. Didn’t want to alarm HR so the board doesn’t hear about it by accident until I know what’s going on. Don’t be surprised if you hear from Esther.”
Oh. So that wasn’t about me. Feeling even more childish, I accidentally knock the gathered pens over again. The groan I let out must be heard on the first floor because the knock from my downstairs neighbor is instant.
“Keep it down, yo!”
“Sorry!” I yell back. Quite honestly, I’ve been lucky with my neighbors who don’t make much noise after midnight.
“Already have. Want me to keep the sick story for everyone?”
“Yes.”
Yes. That’s it. That’s all I get after I gave him the best sex of his life, which apparently wasn’t worth ten grand.
With a sigh, I set my laptop on the two-square-foot counter I call my office when the kitchen is not being used, and I swap out my most professional skirt for my least professional underwear, keeping on my nice blouse in case of any surprise video calls.
I ignore the bed because it still smells like him and reminds me of my bad decisions.
I probably will sleep on the floor tonight because there’s no way I’m stepping foot back into that nest of sin.
I log into my email. It’s a wall of “Where’s Noah on the Newside proposal,” “Permits are stuck, can you escalate,” and “Board moved the investor check-in.”
Perfect. I do what I do best: tame chaos with efficiency.
My phone sits face up beside the laptop like a sulking cat. Every time it buzzes, my heart basically swan dives off a cliff, and every time it’s not him, I want to chuck the thing out the window. Delivery promo. Spam caller. Maeve sending a meme of a dumpster fire wearing a tiara.
I cave in an hour later and send a single text, professional as a stapler to the jugular.
“Did you figure out what’s the issue?”
“Someone broke the windows. Dante is looking into it.”
“Can I help with something?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you are wearing?”
“Noah!”
“You asked, I answered.”
I keep quiet, and another message pops up a minute later.
“I apologize, Bea. That was inappropriate.”
“I’m wearing grandma panties and a nice shirt for Zoom calls.”
“Damn. How am I supposed to focus on work now? I need an urgent call.”
An incoming video call from Noah sends me spiraling. He never video calls me. He never even texts me in this capacity.
I see his face the moment I accept the call, a giant shiner adorning a nearly shut eye and a cut over his brow. Still, he has on a big smile.
“Hi,” I squeak.
“Hi.” His voice is rough and even a little shy. “I love your blouse.”
“Thanks.” I swallow saliva because I want to tell him how much I love seeing his face on the screen. “What happened at the site?”
He glances around before replying. “Nothing big, thank god. Just a few punks deciding to play rough and show that the neighborhood is theirs.”
“Don’t they realize that you’re trying to make it better?”
His chuckle is tired. “Masters will try explaining it to them.”
“Ah. The mysterious Dante. I thought he was your foe.”
“He is what he needs to be.” His eyes drop down to the screen as if he can see below it. When they come back up to my eyes, a lopsided, naughty smile nearly melts me into a puddle. “Are they on?”
“Big and unsexy. Yes.” I can’t help the slow smile spreading over my face.
His face turns dreamy. “Can’t wait to see them.” Someone calls his name, and he turns toward the sound for a second. “I gotta go, Bea. I’ll call you later.”
Without waiting for my reply, he hangs up. O-kay. I guess. I can’t say I’ve had much experience in relationships besides the ones that my parents pushed on me, but I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to wish each other something sweet when we finish a phone call.
Relationship? Are we in a relationship?