Chapter 34
Bea
I have no idea what to call this thing between us, and I like labeling things. The unknown gives me anxiety, and anxiety makes me spiral.
I throw the pillow across the room in frustration and stand up, needing to do something—anything—to get Noah King out of my head.
I storm into the bathroom and turn the shower to scalding, stripping off my clothes with jerky movements.
Maybe I can wash away the memory of his touch, the lingering scent of him on my skin even after the shower I’ve already taken.
The hot water beats down on my shoulders, but it doesn’t help.
All I can think about is Noah in this same shower last night, water running over his big, bruised body, blood from his cut trickling down the drain.
I close my eyes and immediately regret it, because now I’m imagining him here with me, his hands sliding around my waist, his lips on my neck—
“Stop it!” I snap out loud, my voice echoing against the shower tiles. “Get a grip, Bea.”
I finish my shower quickly and wrap myself in a towel, avoiding my reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
I can’t look at myself right now—can’t face the woman who’s pathetically pining over her boss after one night of…
what? Hot sex? I’ve never had a one-night stand, so I don’t know how to deal with that.
Was it a one-night stand? What was that?
I hear my phone chime from my bed. Maybe another message from Noah that can help me get back on track? Instead, it’s Maeve again.
“Noah’s not coming tonight, so you don’t have to suffer through a dinner with the dude you hate so much, right? So I’ll see you tonight.”
My stomach drops to my toes. Having dinner with my sister, her know-it-all husband, and Martin who knows everything about everyone is not ideal in my situation, but it doesn’t feel like I have a choice. I can’t avoid Maeve forever.
“I can’t. I’m sick.”
“Bullshit. Ezra told me you were fine on a call before.”
I curse my gossipy brother-in-law.
“Food poisoning. It just hit.”
“Same excuse Noah used this morning when he blew off a morning meeting with Ezra? Weird coincidence that you’re both suddenly suffering from food poisoning on the same day. Try again, sis.”
So the wheel has started turning.
I sink onto my bed, towel clutched around me, phone shaking in my hands.
Maeve suspects something. She doesn’t know what, but she suspects, and if there’s one thing my sister excels at, it’s relentlessly digging in the dirt.
Like a dog with a bone, she won’t let this go until she gets answers.
They are bound to see Noah’s injuries and find out about the windows at the Newside site.
I stare at the text message, trying to formulate a response that won’t dig me deeper into this hole.
I give up when I come up with nothing.
“Fine. I’ll be there. What time?”
“7pm. Ezra’s making his famous risotto.”
Great. Now I get to sit through an entire dinner of Ezra King showing off his culinary skills while I pretend I wasn’t riding his brother’s dick hours ago. Covering my face with my hands, I groan at the disturbing scene.
I toss my phone onto the bed and pull back on my work-from-home attire. I settle on my bed with my laptop, determined to focus on work and nothing else.
But Noah’s presence lingers in every corner of my tiny apartment. The pillow still holds the impression of his head, it seems. The bathroom still smells faintly of his cologne. Even the coffee mug he used sits in my dish rack, a constant reminder of this morning’s awkwardness.
I close my laptop with a sigh, giving up on the idea of working, and glance at the clock. Five hours until dinner with Maeve and Ezra. Five hours to pull myself together and pretend I’m not falling apart over a man I have no business falling apart over.
My tiny apartment feels claustrophobic suddenly, the walls pressing in, every surface holding some reminder of Noah. I need to get out, need to breathe air that doesn’t smell like him, need to be somewhere that doesn’t echo with the memory of his voice.
I throw on some real clothes—jeans and a sweater—and grab my purse. I’ll go to that dinner; otherwise I’ll rot in this tiny space filled with scorching and embarrassing memories. But first, I need some peace in my life. I decide to go to the office to reorganize my drawers with new color codes.
The King penthouse is exactly what I expected when I first saw it—all sleek lines and modern furnishings, everything in shades of gray and black with occasional pops of expensive-looking art which probably cost more than ten years of my current salary.
As I follow Maeve through the expansive living room, my footsteps sound muffled by a rug that was one hundred percent picked by my sister—it’s pink, to match her hair.
The couch pillows and throws are also pink.
And there’re a few pink flowerpots scattered across various surfaces.
If I didn’t see any of those bright things, I’d consider kidnapping my sister from here because she sure wouldn’t be living of her own free will in such a sterile environment.
“Ezra’s in the kitchen,” Maeve says, leading me past floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. “We just got a new stove, and he’s going bananas over it.”
It takes us a good minute to walk from the door to the kitchen. “I gotta ask, why do we always hang out at my place?” I ask, mesmerized by the view out of the living room and the size of the place once again.
She pauses mid-step. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Nope.” She resumes her walk. “I guess I thought you were lonely there.”
“I’m not.”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“Oops.” She giggles.
“Beatrice!” Ezra’s voice booms from the kitchen as we enter. He’s standing at a massive stove, stirring something in a pan, looking every inch the domestic god. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding us.”
“Wouldn’t dream about it. Just busy with work,” I reply, accepting the glass of wine he offers.
The kitchen is stunning—all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances—but it has more warmth than the living room.
And more color. So much more. All shades of the rainbow are looking at me from every corner and from every mug.
“Work keeping you busy?” Ezra asks, and there’s something in his tone that makes my skin prickle with unease. “I heard Noah’s been under the weather, eh?”
I take a sip of wine, buying myself time. “Food poisoning. Pretty nasty case, from what I understand.”
“Hmm.” Ezra turns back to his risotto, but I catch him exchanging a look with Maeve. “Funny thing about food poisoning—it usually doesn’t give you black eyes.”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. “What?”
“George confessed he picked up Noah this morning,” Ezra continues casually, like he’s discussing the weather, “at your building of all places. With a shiner.”
I choke down a panicked laugh. “I wouldn’t know. I went to the office to do some filing, so I have no idea what he was doing there.”
“Right,” Ezra hums. “Did you sleep at your place though?”
“No. I mean yes. Why?” Feeling caught in a mouse trap doesn’t feel good as it turns out.
“And you didn’t happen to see Noah by any chance?” he asks, stirring the food casually. Very casually. “You know, since he was nearby?”
“Nope.” I chug the glass down in one big gulp, and Maeve appears by my side, refilling the glass with a wide smile.
“Right.” Maeve settles onto a barstool across from me, her blue eyes—so similar to mine—studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “He probably was having some work meeting there, right?”
“Right,” I parrot, pressing my mouth to the glass, hoping they’ll leave me alone if they see me busy with the wine, which seems tasteless for some reason.
“A meeting at your place.” She delivers the last blow with a rather excited look on her glowing face.
I feel trapped, cornered by their combined scrutiny. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm, too bright, and I resist the urge to fidget with my wine glass.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” I say, proud of how level my voice sounds.
“We’re not implying anything,” Ezra says, adding wine to his pan with a flourish. “I’m just curious about my brother’s whereabouts. And why he wouldn’t tell me himself that he’s injured.”
I take a larger sip of wine than I should, the rich red liquid burning down my throat. “Maybe you should ask him.”
“I would,” Ezra says, his tone deceptively light, “but he’s not answering my calls. Imagine that.”
“He’s resting,” I say, and immediately regret how defensive it sounds. “I mean, I assume he’s resting. That’s what people do when they’re sick.” Despite my recent desire to throttle the bastard, I don’t want anyone else doing that.
He hums. “Right. Sick. HR told me about that one.”
Maeve’s eyes narrow slightly, and I know that look. It’s the same one she wore when she caught me sneaking out at sixteen to meet Tyler Jenkins at the beach. She knows I’m hiding something; she just doesn’t know what.
“Enough about Noah,” Martin says, sweeping into the kitchen with his usual dramatic flair. I didn’t even know he was here, and his sudden appearance makes me jump. “Let’s talk about something more interesting—like why Beatrice looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”
I resist the urge to touch the dark circles I know are under my eyes. “Thanks, Martin. Always a pleasure.”
He grins, unfazed by my sarcasm, and pours himself a generous glass of wine. “Just stating facts, darling. You look positively haggard.”
“If I look haggard, it’s because of the workload,” I snap, giving Martin my best death glare. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”
Martin just laughs, unaffected by my hostility. “Oh, honey. I’ve seen you handle triple the workload while wearing ten-inch heels without breaking a sweat. This is something else entirely.”