Chapter 37
Noah
I push away from the car, meeting her with a straight back because I need all the courage I can get.
The cool night air feels good against my bruised face, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
Bea stands there, backlit by the building’s lights, and her blond hair manages to catch the golden glow like it does every time a source of light is nearby.
“Talk about what?” she asks, taking a hesitant step toward me. “I thought we agreed—”
“No, you decided,” I correct her, keeping my voice low. “You decided we should pretend nothing happened. I never agreed to that.”
She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture I’m starting to recognize. “Noah, please. This is already complicated enough.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I take a step closer, drawn to her like a magnet. “We’re both adults. We can figure this out.”
“Figure what out?” Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself, glancing around nervously. “There’s nothing to figure out. You’re my boss. I’m your assistant. That’s all we can be. I need to build my own life before I become an accessory to Noah King.”
“Is that really all you want?” I ask, studying her face in the dim light. There’s conflict in her eyes, uncertainty in the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “To not be associated with me?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but whatever she’s about to say is cut off by the sound of laughter spilling from the doors behind her. A couple emerges, arm in arm, too wrapped up in each other to notice us standing there.
Bea’s eyes widen with panic. “We can’t do this here,” she whispers, stepping closer to me.
“Get in,” I say, opening the passenger door. It’s not a request, and for once, she doesn’t argue.
I slide into the driver’s seat, ignoring the protest from my ribs.
“Where are we going?” she asks as I pull away from the curb.
“Somewhere we can talk without an audience.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I’m acutely aware of her beside me—the way she’s sitting perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, like she’s afraid to take up too much space.
And I want to have a word with her parents again for putting that instinct in her head.
“This is a bad idea,” she says, but she makes no move to ask me to turn around.
“Probably.”
We drive in silence for several minutes, the city lights blurring past the windows.
I take us toward the river, away from the crowded streets of midtown.
My ribs throb with each breath, and I should be at home, hugging a pillow and nursing a beer, but I can’t stomach another moment of pretending everything is normal.
I pull into a quiet lot facing the water, kill the engine, and let the silence settle. Bea sits primly with her hands folded over her lap, like she’s bracing for a performance review I have zero interest in giving.
“This isn’t a kidnapping,” I say, because she’s staring straight ahead while looking very unsure. “Door’s unlocked.”
“I know,” she says softly. “If it were kidnapping, there’d be rope. Zip ties. A plan. I hope.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Hope for which part exactly?”
“I don’t know. And that’s what terrifies me,” she mutters, and finally turns to look at me.
“This doesn’t have to be a catastrophe,” I say.
“Bold of you to assume it isn’t already,” she mutters.
Fair. I shift in my seat uncomfortably. “I’m sorry about the Chanel comment.”
“Yeah, that was unhelpful.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was trying to acknowledge that you did something for me. And instead, I set you on fire in front of your sister and handed Martin a marshmallow stick.”
“You’re really bad at gratitude,” she chuckles, fidgeting with her fingers.
“I noticed,” I say, staring at her. “Did you sell it? The bag.”
Her jaw locks. There’s a war behind her eyes, and for a beat I think she’ll lie. Instead, she exhales, low. “Gave away. To the woman who works at city hall, Tori. We need her on our side, trust me. She’s got all the city inspectors in her palm.”
“Jesus, Bea.” It comes out harsher than I intend. “You shouldn’t have to bribe the city with your grandmother’s heirlooms.”
“It wasn’t a bribe,” she says, chin lifting. “It was… lubrication.”
I wince. “That’s worse.”
“It worked.” She looks back at the river, jaw setting firmer. “We needed that meeting and the inspections for Newside before the board had an excuse to stall it. She made three calls and—boom—suddenly our paperwork wasn’t at the bottom of a stack covered in donut crumbs.”
I drag my hand over my face and immediately regret it when my brow twinges. “You can just tell me next time. I’ll eat the donut crumbs stack to get to the permits.”
“You can’t even stomach a five-star dinner your brother cooked,” she says, then sighs. “I didn’t want to ask you.”
“Because you didn’t want me to know you were living in a shoebox and liquidating heirlooms to keep my calendar from collapsing?”
“No, because you didn’t believe in me. And I damn sure wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of failing.”
“I don’t want you to give up your things for me.
” I breathe out through my nose, measure the words so I don’t spook her back into her professional silence.
“Here’s the deal. You don’t do that again.
Not the bag, not your rent, not your safety, not your sanity.
If the city needs pushing, I push. If the board tries to choke us, I choke back. That’s my job.”
“And my job,” she cuts in, “is to make sure you can do yours. Which, shockingly, sometimes requires lubrication.”
I almost smile. Almost. “You’re impossible.”
“Says the man who showed up at a family dinner wearing concealer that doesn’t even match his skin.”
“Fair.” I shift and my ribs flare. “Jesus.”
Instantly, her hand lands on my forearm like muscle memory, light but there. “Where are you on the pain scale?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
She rolls her eyes and leaves her hand there anyway. Warm. Grounding. Dangerous.
“Bea,” I say, because if I don’t say this now, I won’t. “I can put you on Ezra’s budget temporarily. Housing stipend for key personnel. Crisis justification: King Building fire displaced staff. It’s clean, and you won’t be connected to me.”
“No.”
“It’s policy-adjacent.”
“It’s career-ending if anyone decides to twist it,” she says quietly. “And I don’t want anything that looks like… you taking care of me.”
I stare at the windshield. “I want to take care of you.”
The admission is followed by a heavy silence. I’ve never said anything like that to anyone.
“That’s the problem,” she whispers. “We both want things we shouldn’t.”
“Let’s make one thing clear.” I carefully place one hand on the steering wheel. “I’m not apologizing for wanting you.” My voice comes out low, steady. “I am apologizing for making today harder. That’s all.”
She scoffs. “Martin was going to make it hard regardless. He can smell sin from three blocks away.”
“Then let him choke on it.”
Her mouth twitches, then softens. “Tempting. But he’d turn it into a TED Talk about reforming sin into content.”
I huff out something like a laugh and immediately regret it as my ribs bite. She notices. Of course she does. Her thumb moves once over my forearm, absent, like she’s soothing a wild animal without realizing it.
“Ground rules,” I say, because if I keep staring at her mouth, I’m going to make a very stupid decision, and we will never have time to agree on anything. “We need them.”
She tilts her head. “Go on, Mr. King.”
“First one: you don’t lubricate bureaucracy with your family heirlooms again. You bring it to me.”
She lifts her chin while narrowing her eyes, which gives her a look of superiority. And suddenly I realize it’s true because she’s holding all the power here. All of it.
“Second,” she says, ignoring that I haven’t gotten buy-in on the first. “No gifts. No cars, no jackets, no stipends masquerading as policy. If you try to buy my silence or my comfort, I’ll return it with interest. Are we clear on that?”
“Noted.” I agree easily, even though I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from buying her Maeve’s blazer; it was created for my Bea. The quiet power, the perfect execution, and the unmatched beauty.
“Third,” she says, softer. “If you go back to the fights, we’re done. Not just this—everything. Job too. I won’t sit there scheduling your meetings and wondering if you are going to end up in a hospital with a broken neck and damaged brain.”
“I won’t end up—”
“No negotiations.” She lifts her hand in the air, stopping me.
“I haven’t lost a fight since I was a teenager.” I have to explain it to her because the only time she’s seen me in the ring, I was smashed to the ground. My pride has been wounded, and I’m trying to remedy that.
“No. Fights.”
Her lips turn into a thin, pale line as she stares me down.
I sigh in defeat. “Okay.”
She watches me for a few moments before letting her taut shoulders drop. “What is it with you and fights? Why do you like feeling your face smashed?”
“Haven’t lost a fight, remember?” I remind her with a raised finger, making her swat it away like an annoying fly.
“Don’t you dare, Noah King.”
She points her own index finger right into my face, and I can’t resist and bite it.
Her eyes widen and she pulls it away, but I tighten my hold.
Not hard, but my teeth hold her flesh. I slowly swirl my tongue around her finger, tasting Beatrice Wrong for the second time. And fuck she tastes so good.
I make another lazy swirl, keeping my eyes on her face. Her mouth is slightly ajar, and her own tongue peeks out to lick her lower lip. Her eyes are completely focused on the place where my lips connect to her body.