No, no, no, no, no. This cannot be happening. I set my empty glass down with too much force, nearly shattering the delicate crystal. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t?—
“Great,” Ezra says, looking pleased. “See you in twenty.”
I want to die. Right here, right now, I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Noah is coming here. Noah, who I kissed last night, who slept in my bed, who I can’t look at without remembering the feel of his hands on my skin or his giant cock in my v—is going to be sitting across from me at dinner while my sister, her husband, and the most perceptive gossip in New York watch our every interaction.
“Noah’s joining us,” Ezra announces, setting his phone down. “Apparently he’s feeling well enough for risotto.”
“How wonderful!” Martin claps his hands together, looking absolutely delighted. “We can all wear the socks I got from that place I told you about, Bea. We really should go there together sometime.”
Maeve studies my face with narrowed eyes. “You okay, Bea? You look like you might be sick.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice strained. “Just very hungry.”
“You sure are,” Martin coughs into his glass, getting a jab into his ribs from Maeve.
I reach for the wine bottle. I need more alcohol if I’m going to survive this evening.
35
Noah
I don’t knowwhy I agreed to this dinner. It’s going to be a total disaster; I already know that. Going through the interrogation Ezra has in store for me is bad enough, but having it in the same room with Beatrice is much worse.
But since Ezra was getting suspicious of my silence today and that traitor George spilled that he picked me up from Bea’s place with a black eye, I might as well face the worst tonight and be done with it. There’s no way my face will heal in a couple of days anyway, so people finding out that something happened is just a matter of time. Plus I need to update Ezra on the project. I didn’t want to mention anything until I knew how long it would take to fix.
I stand outside Ezra’s door for a solid minute, debating whether to turn around and go back home. My ribs throb with every breath, I look and feel like hell, and I’m about to walk into what will undoubtedly be the most awkward dinner of my life.
What possessed me to say yes? I should be at home, nursing my injuries with whiskey and painkillers, not voluntarilysubjecting myself to Ezra’s questioning. And certainly not putting myself in the same room as Bea after what happened last night and this morning. I wasn’t joking when I called her mine, and she seemed to want that too. So seeing her without being able to touch her seems like a torture I’m not ready for just yet.
Bea. Just thinking her name sends a jolt through me that pinballs off my injured ribs. The memory of her lips against mine, her hands in my hair, the soft sounds she made when I touched her—it’s all burned into my brain like a brand. And now I have to sit across from her at my brother’s dinner table and pretend none of it happened. How can I taste food when all I can taste on my tongue is her?
I adjust my jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at my bruised ribs, and finally knock. Maybe she won’t be here. Maybe she made an excuse and left already. Maybe?—
The door swings open, and there’s Ezra, looking annoyingly perfect in his chef’s apron, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance, and so do mine, mostly because I’ve never seen my brother so domesticated.
“Jesus, Noah.” He steps aside to let me in, his gaze cataloging every visible injury. “What the hell happened to you? George told me you hit your eye, but damn, this is bad.”
“Food poisoning,” I say flatly, brushing past him into the penthouse. “Really aggressive strain.”
“Are you back tothat?” His voice drops with a warning.
To what? He has never known that I used to frequent fight clubs. There were weeks when we didn’t see each other, even working in the same building. Marrying the Wrong girl has made him soft, apparently they do that to men.
I don’t answer, too busy scanning the open living space for any sign of honey-blond hair. The kitchen is visible from here, and I can hear voices—Maeve’s laugh, Martin’s dramaticcommentary, and underneath it all, a softer voice that makes my chest tighten.
She’s still here. Of course she is. Thank fuck she is.
“Noah!” Maeve calls out, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a wine glass in hand. Her smile falters slightly when she sees my face. “Oh my god, what happened?”
“Your husband’s already heard the food poisoning story,” I mutter, following Ezra toward the kitchen. “I’ll stick with that.”
As we enter the kitchen, my eyes immediately find Bea sitting at the marble counter, and everything else fades into the background. She’s wearing a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She looks beautiful and completely miserable, her knuckles white around her wine glass.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and I watch her face go pale. Then her gaze starts darting around the kitchen as if searching for an escape route. My chest tightens at her obvious discomfort, and I hate that I’m the cause of it.
“Well, don’t you look like death warmed over,” Martin drawls, eyeing me with undisguised interest. “Food poisoning, was it? Must have been quite the toxic meal.”
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Something like that.”
