“Same excuse Noahused this morning when he blew off a morning meeting with Ezra? Weird coincidence that you’reboth suddenly suffering from food poisoning on the same day. Try again, sis.”
So the wheelhas started turning.
I sink onto my bed, towel clutched around me, phone shaking in my hands. Maeve suspects something. She doesn’t know what, but she suspects, and if there’s one thing my sister excels at, it’s relentlessly digging in the dirt. Like a dog with a bone, she won’t let this go until she gets answers. They are bound to see Noah’s injuries and find out about the windows at the Newside site.
I stare at the text message, trying to formulate a response that won’t dig me deeper into this hole.
I give up when I come up with nothing.
“Fine. I’ll be there. What time?”
“7pm.Ezra’s making his famous risotto.”
Great.Now I get to sit through an entire dinner of Ezra King showing off his culinary skills while I pretend I wasn’t riding his brother’s dick hours ago. Covering my face with my hands, I groan at the disturbing scene.
I toss my phone onto the bed and pull back on my work-from-home attire. I settle on my bed with my laptop, determined to focus on work and nothing else.
But Noah’s presence lingers in every corner of my tiny apartment. The pillow still holds the impression of his head, it seems. The bathroom still smells faintly of his cologne. Even the coffee mug he used sits in my dish rack, a constant reminder of this morning’s awkwardness.
I close my laptop with a sigh, giving up on the idea of working, and glance at the clock. Five hours until dinner with Maeve and Ezra. Five hours to pull myself together and pretend I’m not falling apart over a man I have no business falling apart over.
My tiny apartment feels claustrophobic suddenly, the walls pressing in, every surface holding some reminder of Noah. I need to get out, need to breathe air that doesn’t smell like him, need to be somewhere that doesn’t echo with the memory of his voice.
I throw on some real clothes—jeans and a sweater—and grab my purse. I’ll go to that dinner; otherwise I’ll rot in this tiny space filled with scorching and embarrassing memories. But first, I need some peace in my life. I decide to go to the office to reorganize my drawers with new color codes.
The King penthouseis exactly what I expected when I first saw it—all sleek lines and modern furnishings, everything in shades of gray and black with occasional pops of expensive-looking art which probably cost more than ten years of my current salary.
As I follow Maeve through the expansive living room, my footsteps sound muffled by a rug that was one hundred percent picked by my sister—it’s pink, to match her hair. The couch pillows and throws are also pink. And there’re a few pink flowerpots scattered across various surfaces. If I didn’t see any of those bright things, I’d consider kidnapping my sister from here because she sure wouldn’t be living of her own free will in such a sterile environment.
“Ezra’s in the kitchen,” Maeve says, leading me past floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. “We just got a new stove, and he’s going bananas over it.”
It takes us a good minute to walk from the door to the kitchen. “I gotta ask, why do we always hang out at my place?” I ask, mesmerized by the view out of the living room and the size of the place once again.
She pauses mid-step. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Nope.” She resumes her walk. “I guess I thought you were lonely there.”
“I’m not.”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“Oops.” She giggles.
“Beatrice!” Ezra’s voice booms from the kitchen as we enter. He’s standing at a massive stove, stirring something in a pan, looking every inch the domestic god. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding us.”
“Wouldn’t dream about it. Just busy with work,” I reply, accepting the glass of wine he offers. The kitchen is stunning—all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances—but it has more warmth than the living room. And more color. So much more. All shades of the rainbow are looking at me from every corner and from every mug.
“Work keeping you busy?” Ezra asks, and there’s something in his tone that makes my skin prickle with unease. “I heard Noah’s been under the weather, eh?”
I take a sip of wine, buying myself time. “Food poisoning. Pretty nasty case, from what I understand.”
“Hmm.” Ezra turns back to his risotto, but I catch him exchanging a look with Maeve. “Funny thing about food poisoning—it usually doesn’t give you black eyes.”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. “What?”
