This is exactly the kind of complication I can’t afford. I need this job—not just for the money, but to prove I can make it on my own. Well, for the money too. I do need the money pretty badly. I’m one sneeze away from being homeless, and getting tangledup with my boss, especially Noah King with his scarred knuckles and complicated family dynamics, is professional suicide.
I drag myself out of bed and into my tiny shower, letting the lukewarm water wash away the lingering scent of cedar and whatever spell Noah cast over me last night. By the time I’m dressed, I’ve convinced myself that everything feels different because we were both exhausted and running on deadline adrenaline.
Nothing more.
The subway is its usual morning nightmare, but I use the crowded ride to mentally prepare for seeing Noah again. Professional distance. Cool efficiency. No more late-night bonding over architectural drawings and shared takeout. I should probably go back to spiking his coffee with sugar.
The elevator ride to Noah’s floor feels endless. When the doors finally open, I square my shoulders and stride toward my desk with what I hope looks like confidence rather than the barely controlled panic currently eating away at my insides.
Noah’s office door is closed, which means he’s either not in yet or he’s avoiding me. Given that it’s barely seven thirty, I’m betting on the former. I settle at my desk, boot up my computer, and dive into emails with the desperate focus of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts.
By eight fifteen, I’ve organized his calendar, responded to three client inquiries, and compiled a status report on the project we submitted last night. I’m just starting to think I might survive this morning when I hear the familiar sound of his footsteps in the hallway. The idea that I can pick his stride out of everyone in the office makes me feel like a love-sick puppy.
My pulse races involuntarily. I keep my eyes glued to my screen, typing nonsense just to look busy as he approaches my desk.
“Morning,” he says, and I can feel him hovering to the left of me. Greeting me in the morning—or any other time—is a miracle on its own, so I probably should reinforce it.
“Good morning, Mr. King,” I reply without looking up, proud of how steady my voice sounds. Professional. Distant. So much for reinforcing his good behavior. On the other hand, it might be exactly what we both need.
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel his confusion radiating across the space between us. Yesterday I was calling him Noah and defending his honor to his brother. Today I’m back to formal titles and rigid politeness.
“Coffee?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his tone.
“I’ll get it to you in a second.”
I hear him shift next to me, his hesitation palpable in the silence.
“I already got it,” he says finally, and I look up in surprise to see him holding a to-go cup from the café downstairs. “For you. Black, two sugars. That’s how you take it, right?”
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. In the weeks I’ve worked for him, Noah has never brought me coffee. Lunch—yes. But I’m sure he’s been doing it out of pity so I can keep functioning for work. Bringing coffee feels different. It’s not a necessity but a luxury.
“Thank you,” I manage, taking the cup with what I hope is a neutral expression. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and I pretend not to notice the same electric current from every time any parts of our bodies meet. “The zoning board approved our submission, by the way. I just got the email. So we are good to go for the investors meeting.”
His face brightens with genuine relief. “Already? That’s unexpected.”
“I may have called in a favor,” I admit, sipping the coffee to hide my smile. It’s perfect—just the right temperature andexactly how I like it. The fact that he noticed makes something warm unfurl in my chest that has nothing to do with the hot liquid.
“A favor?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning against my desk in a casual pose that draws my attention to how good he looks this morning—fresh suit, hair still damp from a shower, the scent of his cologne making my head swim.
“Let’s just say the receptionist had very specific taste in accessories, and I hooked her up with my vintage Chanel bag,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “A good one,” I mumble the last part to myself and then add louder, “And that bag cost more than the one favor she already did for me.”
“You gave up a Chanel bag for a zoning permit?” His voice is incredulous, and something that might be admiration flickers in his dark eyes.
“Not the zoning permit. For something else I had to pull out of a magic hat for you. And this favor was left over from what she owed me.”
“For what?”
I shrug, trying to ignore how his proximity affects my pulse. “Doesn’t matter. It was just sitting in my closet.”
That’s a complete lie. That bag was one of the last expensive things I owned, a reminder of the life I left behind. It belonged to my grandmother, the only person who treated me well before she passed away. But I needed to make this job work. And seeing the look on Noah’s face when he thought the project might fail—seeing him broken in a way that had nothing to do with his usual controlled anger—made the sacrifice feel worth it.
“Jesus, Bea.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice his knuckles are still scraped from yesterday’s meltdown. “You didn’t have to?—”
“It’s my job,” I cut him off, the words coming out sharper than I intend. I need to maintain some distance here before Ido something stupid like admit that his smile makes my heart stutter, and his corded forearms make my thighs hurt.
His expression shifts, closing off slightly. “Right. Your job.”
The space between us grows thick with the returned tension. I take a careful sip of the coffee he just brought me and nearly groan because it’s that good. However, I remind myself that I have to keep a neutral expression, so I start sipping more, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. This morning was supposed to be about reestablishing professional boundaries, not whatever this awkwardness is.
