Chapter 35 #2
“Nothing,” she says too quickly, at the same time as I say, “I want to buy this thing.”
“What thing?” Maeve blinks.
“That thing.” I point at the blazer in her hand.
“You want to buy the Executive?” Another painfully slow blink.
“Yes.” I nod, leaning back on the chair. “I need it.”
“This is the prototype.” Her curious eyes settle on my face. “I don’t usually sell those. Why would you need one anyway?”
“I owe Beatrice, and this is my way of repaying her. I’m sure you could make an exception and sell it,” I reply smoothly as if I haven’t just crossed about fifteen boundaries in one sentence. “Who better than her to wear a power suit?”
Bea makes a guttural sound and drains her glass in one desperate gulp by my side.
The silence that follows is excruciating.
Maeve and Ezra exchange a look that speaks volumes, I’m just not sure about what exactly, while Martin’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning and he got a new Aston Martin under the tree.
“How… generous of you, Noah,” Maeve says carefully, her eyes darting between us. “But the design isn’t even in production yet. I need this prototype to make more of them.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Sell it to me, and people will fight for your pieces even more because they’ll know some things you make are exclusive.”
Maeve chews on the inside of her cheek and glances at her sister.
“I actually did keep you in mind when I was creating it. The way you bossed around the whole floor while dealing with that tyrant,” she nods at me, “is a legend at this point. And the color,” her eyes fall to the blazer in her hands, “was picked for you. You know how to pull off this shade of dusk.”
Holy crap, now all I’m imagining is Bea wearing black lingerie while the dark colors of the night caress her skin.
“Great.” I clap my hands once. “Consider it a bonus for all of Bea’s hard work. I owe her a Chanel anyway.”
“A Chanel?” Maeve’s brows draw together before they jump to her hairline. “Ohmigod, something happened to the vintage bag you got from Grandma?”
Wait, what? Did she trade an heirloom for a fucking meeting?
“It’s fine, Mae. Chill.” Beatrice’s cheeks turn nearly red.
Maeve’s attention is fixed on her sister now, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. “Bea, what happened to Grandma’s Chanel?”
I can feel Bea radiating panic beside me, and I realize I’ve made everything worse. I meant to be thoughtful, to acknowledge my debt to her, but instead I’ve put her in an impossible position where her sister is about to rip her a new one.
“Nothing,” Bea mumbles, not meeting her sister’s eyes. “It’s just a joke between us.”
Martin looks like he’s about to explode with curiosity, and Ezra’s watching me with that calculating expression he gets when he’s piecing something together. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, and my ribs throb with each breath.
“I need some air,” I announce abruptly, setting my wine glass down with more force than necessary.
The pain in my side is becoming unbearable, and I can’t sit here watching Bea squirm because of me.
So I need to shift the topic back to my rather unfortunate appearance.
“Sorry, Ezra. I’m not feeling great. I need to air this bruise out, it feels quite hot. ”
Ezra’s brow furrows with concern. “You should probably check in with a doctor. That hit,” he points at my face, “definitely gave you a concussion.”
“Yeah, probably.” I stand carefully, trying not to wince as my ribs protest. “Rain check on dinner?”
“Of course.” Ezra looks genuinely disappointed, which makes me feel like even more of an asshole. “I’ll walk you out.”
“No need.” I wave him off, already backing toward the door. “Stay with your guests. I know the way. Beatrice, can you please step out for a second with me? I need to discuss that email we received today.”
“Sure!” Bea jumps up suddenly, looking relieved. Her voice is steady, but I can see the panic in her eyes. “I could actually go with you to the office because I forgot my laptop there.”
Before anyone can object, she’s moving toward me, careful not to make eye contact with the others. I don’t know if she’s trying to escape the interrogation about the Chanel or if she actually wants to talk to me. Either way, I’m not going to question this gift.
We step into the hallway together, the door closing behind us with a soft click that feels impossibly loud in the sudden silence. For a moment, we just stand there, not looking at each other, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.
“You didn’t have to leave with me,” I say finally, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Yes, I did.” She wraps her arms around herself, still not meeting my eyes. “If I’d stayed, they would have interrogated me about that stupid Chanel comment.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s a tremor beneath it that makes my chest ache.
I press the elevator button harder than necessary, my finger jabbing at it repeatedly like that’ll make it arrive faster.
“Stop doing that,” Bea mutters beside me. “You’re going to break it.”
“It’s already broken,” I snap back, then immediately regret my tone. She didn’t deserve that. None of this is her fault—it’s mine.
The elevator finally arrives with a mechanical ding that echoes through the hallway. We step inside, and I hit the button for the lobby. The doors slide shut, trapping us in this tiny metal box together, making the air too thin to breathe.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I say, staring at the numbers above the door instead of looking at her. “About the bag.”
“Well, you did.” Her reflection in the polished steel doors shows her arms still wrapped around herself like armor. “Now Maeve’s going to ask a million questions I can’t answer.”
I assume the questions won’t be only about the bag.
The elevator lurches slightly as it begins its descent, and I wince as the movement jars my ribs. Bea’s eyes dart to me in the reflection, and I catch a flash of concern before she looks away.
“You shouldn’t have come tonight,” she says quietly. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.” I lean against the wall, grateful for the support.
She’s right—I feel like shit. The painkillers I took earlier are wearing off, and every breath feels like someone’s driving a knife between my ribs.
Having hot sex with the most gorgeous woman did aggravate my injuries a little, but I will deny it till my dying breath.
“You’re not fine,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that makes me finally look at her directly instead of through the reflection. Her blue eyes are soft with worry, and for a moment, the mask she was wearing for everyone at dinner slips completely.
“I’ve had worse,” I tell her, which is true but doesn’t make this hurt any less.
“That’s not reassuring.” She shifts slightly, and I catch a whiff of her perfume again—that sweetness makes my chest tighten for reasons that have nothing to do with my injuries.
The elevator continues its descent, floor numbers ticking by slowly. I should say something about last night, about this morning, about the way we left things. But I don’t know what to say. How do you apologize for sleeping with someone when you’re not actually sorry it happened?
“About last night—” I start.
“Don’t.” She cuts me off, her voice sharp. “Just don’t.”
“We need to talk about it eventually.”
“No, we don’t.” She’s staring at the floor numbers now, watching them count down. “We need to pretend it never happened and move on.”
The elevator dings softly as we reach the lobby, and the doors slide open. Bea steps out immediately, putting distance between us, but I follow her toward the glass doors that lead to the street.
“Is that what you want?” I ask, stepping closer to her as the cool evening air hits us through the glass doors. The lobby is mostly empty except for the doorman at his station who gives us a short nod, but I lower my voice anyway. “To pretend nothing happened?”
She stops walking and turns to face me, her eyes flashing with something I can’t quite read. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
I extend my arm in front of her and place it on the glass, preventing her from moving to the automatic doors. “You want to pretend you didn’t follow me last night because you were jealous?”
Her angry eyes dart toward my face, but she remains silent.
I inch closer to her, and my chest touches her shoulder. “You want to pretend you didn’t wake up by my side?”
Her neck moves with a rough swallow, and I lean toward her ear, towering over her. “You want to pretend you didn’t come on my cock just hours ago?”
She chokes on the air, and her head whips toward me. “You had a concussion, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My chuckle is dark. “Sure. I also don’t know how you nearly made me come before I was ready.”
Her lips twitch.
“And I also don’t know how bummed I was in the morning when you decided to play the avoidance game.”
This gets her attention because she slowly tilts her head to look up at me. “You were?”
“I was.” I let my nose graze her ear, and that causes a slight tremor to run through her body. “I meant what I said that I wanted you to be mine. I still do.”
It just has to be on certain terms.
She bites her lower lip, and I push more. “So I’ll ask you again. Is that what you want?”
She blinks a few painfully slow times before her face hardens. “I was tired and worried about you,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction. “People do stupid things when they’re emotional.”
“Stupid things.” I repeat the words, letting them hang in the air between us. They sting more than they should, more than my ribs or the bruises on my face. “Is that what it was to you?”
Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but then she shakes her head. “I have to go back upstairs. Maeve will wonder where I am.”
“You’re running away again.” We both know no one is expecting her back.
“I’m being practical,” she snaps, her composure finally cracking. “One of us has to be.”
I watch her turn toward the elevators, and something desperate claws at my chest. I can’t let her leave like this, can’t let her disappear behind that professional mask again.
“Bea, wait.” My voice comes out as a plea.
She stops but doesn’t turn around, her shoulders rigid with tension. The lobby’s marble floors reflect the soft lighting, and I can see her face in the polished surface of the elevator doors.
“This isn’t over,” I say, my voice carrying across the open space. “Whatever’s happening between us, you can’t just wish it away. I know I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
Her reflection shows her closing her eyes briefly, like she’s gathering strength. When she opens them, she finally turns to face me.
“Yes, I can,” she says, but her voice wavers slightly. “I have to.”
The elevator arrives with another soft ding, and she steps inside without looking back. As the doors begin to close, I catch one last glimpse of her face—and for just a moment, I see past the professional mask to the woman who whispered my name in the dark.
And that woman is scared too.