“Amazing,” I interrupt. “Incredible. Long overdue.”
“A mistake,” she finishes, but her voice wavers on the word.
I study her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way she’s biting her lower lip—a tell I’ve memorized overweeks of watching her. She’s scared. Not of me, but of what this means. I recognize it because I feel the same fear clawing at my chest.
“Come here,” I say softly.
She shakes her head. “I need to get to work. And so do you. It’s already eight thirty.”
Eight thirty. Shit. I should have come up with an excuse by now for why I can’t come to work today, because I sure as fuck can’t let anyone see me looking like I’ve just come out of a meat grinder.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, testing my body’s limits. Every muscle protests, but I’ve fought through worse. The problem is explaining my face to everyone at the office without revealing my extracurricular activities, the evidence of which will remain on my face for a couple weeks to come. That’s for sure.
“I’ll work from home today,” I say, reaching for my phone on the floor beside the bed only to find it dead. “Shit. Do you have a charger?”
“One second.” She grabs the charger and plugs it in by the bed.
“What should I tell everyone when they ask about your absence?”
“Tell them I’m dealing with something at the site.”
“And when you show up tomorrow looking like you went ten rounds with a cement mixer?” Bea’s voice carries an edge of frustration that makes me want to pull her back into bed and kiss the worries I’ve created away.
“I’ll figure something out.” As soon as my phone comes back to life, a string of messages and missed phone calls come through. Seventeen from the Newside crew, three from HR—what the fuck about?—and one from Ezra reminding me about their dinner tonight.
Bea pulls a mug from the cabinet. “Coffee?”
“Please.” I watch her move through the tiny space with practiced efficiency, every movement precise despite the tension radiating from her shoulders. “Bea, we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She keeps her back to me as she fills the ancient coffee maker with water. “Last night was… what it was. We’re adults. We can move past it.”
The casual dismissal stings more than my ribs. “Move past it? Is that what you want?”
Her hands still on the coffee filter. “What I want is irrelevant,” she says, and the crack in her voice gives her away. “What’s smart is what we should do.”
“Smart.” The word tastes rotten.
I stand with a sheet hitched at my hips. I usually wouldn’t bother with modesty, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own home. My ribs shriek, and I nearly double over, glancing around and realizing that my dignity is nowhere to be found. But I cross the three steps to her anyway. She keeps her back to me with her shoulders squared like a soldier bracing for orders. The coffee maker wheezes to life, breaking the silent spell.
“Bea.” I keep my voice low. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. So I slide my arms around her waist from behind, careful of my ribs, and rest my chin on the top of her head, willing her to feel okay about all this.
She goes rigid. The mug in her hand rattles against the counter. “Noah.”
“Don’t do the thing,” I murmur into the softness of her hair. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything. Don’t file this away into a neat and sterilized folder,” I gently tap my finger on her temple, “in your brain under ‘Mistakes: Do Not Repeat.’”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are.” I smile into her hair. “I know you, Beatrice Wrong.”
Her hands flatten on the counter. “Fine. I am, but I’m not sterilizing it. I’m quarantining it.”
I shift to the side so I can see her profile with that stubborn mouth that’s been driving me insane. “It’s not contagious.”
“It absolutely is,” she says, mouth twisting. “Contagious and career-ending.”
“I’m your boss at work,” I say, hearing how inadequate that sounds as it leaves my mouth. “Outside it?—”
