Chapter 15
Noah stood at the island in Jag’s kitchen with a glass of tequila in his hand.
The day had been mostly drama-free. A few whispers, lots of staring, and some finger-pointing.
People at the station were obviously curious about him and Ziggy, and he didn’t blame them for that.
Neither one of them had ever dated someone they’d worked with.
Noah had a hard and fast rule about it, and Ziggy had always said she’d figured it would be too hard.
Five years ago, Ziggy had wanted to keep it quiet for this very reason. He understood. He had his own set of reasons. Mostly, he’d never been in love before, and he wanted to protect it.
He’d failed spectacularly at that back then and now.
Noah glanced up at Jag, who stared at the printout of four text messages Noah had received from a woman at work. A woman who told Noah she’d had enough of his harassment and come Wednesday morning—tomorrow—she was going to bring it to HR.
But the messages seemed strange to Noah because it wasn’t until the last one that Heather, the young lady in question, had mentioned anything about taking action.
Jag set the paper down, and both men stared at it as if it were about to do something magical, but they weren’t sure exactly what.
The lights dangling from the ceiling were set to low, casting a warm, steady glow across the dark granite and catching along the rim of Noah’s glass. Beyond the windows, the night pressed in thick and quiet, the faint hum of traffic just enough to remind him the rest of the world was still moving.
Jag’s place had the kind of wear that came from being lived in rather than maintained for appearances.
Fingerprints smudged the stainless-steel fridge, a stack of unopened mail leaned against a fruit bowl, and a plastic truck sat on its side near the threshold between tile and hardwood, forgotten in the middle of whatever game had come before bedtime.
“Did you call HR when you got this?” Jag asked.
“Ziggy thought it might be a good idea, but they’d already left for the day.” Noah tapped the paper. “The timestamp was right after five, and that office is generally an eight-to-five day.”
“Probably by design.”
“This is all bullshit,” Noah said. “I barely know Heather. She’s not on my team. Never has been. But she does work on my floor, and I’ve seen her in the break room to say hello. That’s about it. Nothing I’ve ever said could have been considered harassment.”
“I believe you.” Jag picked up the paper again. “The first text, I have to do it, almost reads like an apology and a warning.”
“Ziggy wondered why she texted me to tell me at all. If it were Ziggy, she would’ve just taken it to HR.”
“I would never recommend giving a heads up to a harasser. Seems counterproductive, especially if she wants to take this to a civil lawsuit.”
Noah rubbed his. temple. He still believed that everything that had happened since his birthday had been orchestrated by his father. He just didn’t know how, and more importantly, why. “Have you heard anything about the court order to see who’s been visiting my dad?”
“We did,” Jag said. “It came through, and I was hoping to gain access today.” He glanced at his watch. “They were given permission to go back six months.”
“I can’t imagine my dad’s had a lot of visitors. What’s taking so long?”
“Depending on what they find, they might wait to reach out until they’ve spoken with someone who fits the description of whoever sent the card, came to your house, or went to the hospital and dropped off those flowers to Monica.
” Jag raised his glass. “If I don’t hear from Brian by morning, I’ll give him a call.
I promise. Until then, try to relax. I know it’s not easy, but let the system work. ”
“It’s just that I feel like every time I put out a fire, another one starts.”
“I get it. And the only solid advice I can give you right now is to focus on the good things.” Jag pointed his finger toward Ziggy. “The things that truly matter in life.”
Noah took a sip of tequila. The smoky burn lingered as he let his gaze drift into the family room.
Ziggy had settled into the corner of the couch, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out just enough to support Steve, who’d climbed into her lap and fallen asleep. His head rested against her thigh, and his fingers twisted into her sweater like she was the safest place in the world.
Stephanie leaned against her side with a book open across her lap, her finger tracing each word as she worked her way through the page. Ziggy didn’t rush her through it. She let Stepanie take the time she needed, stepping in only when she got stuck, keeping her moving without taking over.
When Steve shifted, just enough to press his weight differently against her, Ziggy adjusted her leg. She smoothed her hand over his hair before returning to the page, her voice steady, quiet enough that it fit the room instead of filling it.
Noah watched her, aware of how his chest tightened with an ache he’d always had the ability to ignore—until now.
He’d spent years building a version of this in his head that didn’t include him.
A version where she had this life, this kind of quiet, this kind of family, without everything that came with being tied to him.
It had been easier to believe in that fantasy than to admit he hadn’t trusted himself to hold on to the dream.
Jag set his glass down on the counter beside him, the sound soft but enough to pull Noah back into the kitchen.
“You planning on doing something about that," Jag said. It wasn’t a question, or even a statement, it was more like an order, “or are you just going to keep staring as if you don’t fit in there with her?”
Noah let out a breath that edged into a chuckle. He tipped his glass slightly. “I’ve been working on it.”
“Working on it? Or hiding from it? Because from where I’m standing, you still don’t have both feet all the way in the water.”
Noah rolled the glass between his palms, condensation slick against his fingers. “You’re wrong there. Both feet are in it.” He glanced back toward the couch, watched Ziggy shift the book so Stephanie could see it better. “I love your sister. I have for a very long time.”
“I know that.”
Noah’s grip tightened slightly around the glass. “I’m just worried.”
“About what?” Jag asked as if nothing bad was happening in the background.
“You’re really asking me that question?” He stared at Jag.
“I am, because I honestly don’t get it.”
“Everything tied to me doesn’t stay contained. It spills. And when it does, it hits hard. Then it spreads, getting thicker and deeper like quicksand. And she’s stuck right in the middle of it.”
Jag pushed off the counter and straightened. “Ziggy can handle gossip.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Noah set down his glass, the weight of the words settling heavy on his tongue as he formed them. “It’s what happens when my father decides to clue me in on whatever the game is and how the outcome will affect her.”
“It’s not for you to decide what Ziggy is prepared to handle, or not.”
“I learned that the hard way,” Noah said. “But I’ve spent most of my life trying to stay ahead of what I’ve always known would eventually happen. I need to make sure the damage stops with me.”
“And you think being with her changes that?” Jag asked.
“It’s certainly given him a target and a new way to get at me. One he’s never had before. The only power he’s ever had was my identity. Being with Ziggy gives him a new way to get me to react to his manipulations in a way I never would’ve have before.”
Callie stepped into the kitchen before Jag could respond. “The kids need to go upstairs,” she said, glancing toward the family room.
Noah shifted his gaze.
Steve’s head had tipped backward on Ziggy’s thigh, and his mouth was slightly open. Stephanie was barely holding on, her eyelids drifting shut as she tried to stay away for the last few pages of the story.
“I’ll take Steve, the dead weight, you get the princess.” Jag took another quick sip before crossing into the family room. He bent and slid one arm under Steve, lifting him carefully against his shoulder. The kid stirred just enough to make a soft sound before settling again.
Callie crouched beside Stephanie, brushing her hand over her hair. “Time for bed, little one.”
“Okay.” Stephanie blinked slowly and leaned into her mother, letting herself be guided up.
Ziggy shifted, lifting the little girl into Callie’s arms, and in a flash, Jag and Callie were climbing the stairs.
Noah leaned against the counter, taking another pull from his drink, his mind wandering to places he hadn’t thought about.
He’d never thought, not even in his twenties, that he’d want a family.
It wasn’t that it hadn’t crossed his mind, but for Noah to cross that road, he’d either have to lie to his partner or tell her the truth.
But now…with Ziggy… He no longer had a valid reason to spend the rest of his life alone.
She stepped into the kitchen and reached for a glass. “Those two are exhausting.” She poured herself two fingers. “I love them, but every time I come over, I feel like I need a double shot espresso.”
Noah didn’t see exhaustion. He saw a woman who was glowing. He crossed the space between them, set his glass aside, and lifted his hands to her face, drawing her closer. He brushed his lips against hers in a slow, tender kiss. He didn’t rush it, but he didn’t hesitate either.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. His pulse roared in his ears. “Do you want that?”
“Want what?”
“Marriage,” he said. “Family. Kids.”
She let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, her hands settling on his shoulders. “You’re asking me that now?”
“I’m serious.”
“I think I’m getting a little old.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said. “I love you. I want a life with you. If we stop wasting time, we can have all of it.”
“What about—”