Martin’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Just work? With takeout and meaningful glances? And those stares at his wide chest?”
“There were no stares at his chest,” I protest, shoving more croissant in my mouth to avoid having to elaborate. “And how do you even know about the takeout?”
“Uh-huh.” He slides off my desk, straightening his tie. “Well, whatever didn’t happen last night, keep not doing it. Noah’s actually tolerable when he’s not being a complete asshole.”
Before I can respond, Noah’s voice cuts across the office. “Martin! Stop harassing my assistant and get back to your own work.”
When I glance up toward the voice, I find him walking our direction while looking at me with a stoic face. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat before he disappears back into his office, leaving me staring at the closed door and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Martin grins, clearly delighted by whatever undercurrent he’s picking up on. “Yeah, definitely keep not doing whatever you’re not doing,” he says, winking before he saunters away.
I finish my croissant in peace, trying to convince myself that the flutter in my chest when Noah appeared means absolutely nothing. I absolutely did not get excited after not seeing him for a whole seventy-three minutes. Same with the coffee he brought me this morning and the way he said my name; all of that means nothing.
I’m just repeating my new mantra—it means nothing, it means nothing—when my phone chimes with a text. It’s Maeve, asking if I’m free for a quick lunch. I text back immediately, grateful for the distraction.
When noon rolls around, I knock on Noah’s office door to let him know I’m stepping out. He’s hunched over his drawing table with his sleeves rolled up in my favorite way and that intense focus that always makes his features sharper.
“I’m taking my lunch break out of the office today,” I announce, hovering in the doorway. “Call me if you need anything urgent.”
He looks up, his eyes taking a moment to focus on me like he’s coming back from somewhere far away. “Right. Lunch.” He glances at his watch, seeming surprised by the time. “You meeting someone?”
The question feels oddly personal after our carefully maintained distance all morning.
“Actually, yes. I am.”
His lips turn into one thin line. “Who?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Who?” he repeats, his tone sharper.
“What would HR say about this question, I wonder.”
“Who, Beatrice?” His hand on the desk forms a fist, and I glance at his face curiously, wondering what’s causing such a strong reaction.
“My sister,” I decide to say, because I don’t want another tantrum—the office hasn’t recovered from the last one.
He nods, relaxing his fist on the desk. “Tell Maeve I said hi.”
“You know I won’t,” I say before I can stop myself, and a small smile tugs at his lips.
“I suspected.” He turns back to his drawing, dismissing me, but as I turn to leave, he adds, “Don’t be late for the Newside project follow-up. Two o’clock.”
“I know my job, boss,” I throw back over my shoulder, unable to resist the familiar banter despite my best intentions. “I’m very qualified, don’t forget.”
I swear I hear him chuckle as I walk away, but when I glance back, he’s already buried in his work again.
The elevator ride down feels like decompression after spending the morning in the gravitational pull of Noah’s dark eyes and wide shoulders. I need this lunch with Maeve—need to remember who I am outside of this confusing dynamic with my boss that’s making my brain short-circuit on a daily basis.
I find Maeve at our usual spot, a tiny café three blocks from the King building where the sandwiches are awfully overpriced but the variety of coffee makes up for it, plus she’s paying, so who am I to refuse?
She’s already claimed a corner table, a green coat from her last collection draped over the back of her chair and her face lit with that glow that comes from being disgustingly happy in love.
“You look tired,” she says by way of greeting, pulling me into one of those warm hugs I’m still getting used to.
“Thanks, sister of the year,” I mutter, but hug her back, breathing in her familiar mango coconut perfume. “You look annoyingly radiant.”
“Marriage suits me.” She grins, sliding back into her seat. “How’s the job? Still threatening to murder your boss?”
