“I’m starving, so you’re officially my favorite person today.” She smiles.
“Careful,” I tease, setting the bags down. “I’ll start expecting thank-you speeches.”
She laughs, warm and easy, and for a moment the world narrows to paperbacks and the smell of coffee and the quiet magic of a place where stories are still allowed to matter.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed my Noelle fix, she’s who got me through the last two years.
“Eat?” I ask.
“Step into my office,” she says, giggling.
She leaves the door cracked just enough to let the low murmur of the shop drift in. I spread everything out on the small table like a reveal.
“There’s a system,” I say, already untying knots. “Don’t rush me.”
Noelle leans back in her chair, eyes lighting up. “I trust you implicitly.”
Out comes a paper-wrappedroast chicken sandwich, still warm, rosemary aioli soaking into crusty bread. Apear and arugula saladwith shaved parmesan and candied walnuts. A container oftruffle friesthat smells so good, I could eat them all. Last, I pull out two sparkling waters.
“Looks so good.” She moans, and then I pull out a small box at the bottom and set it in front of her.
She opens it and actually gasps. “Is that?—”
“Mini olive oil cake,” I confirm. “Citrus glaze. Don’t ask me how I got it, it’s top secret.”
She closes her eyes on the first bite. “You’re uninvited from ever letting me eat sad desk lunches again.”
“Perfect,” I say, settling in. “I accept.”
We eat for a minute in silence, the good kind. The kind where you don’t have to perform. Where crumbs don’t matter.
Then, casually, I drop, “Aleks and I are… friends.”
Her fork pauses mid-air, then she laughs. Full, head-back, belly laughter. “Friends. Friends who have sleepovers?”
I sip my water, unbothered.Mostly.“Nothing happened.”
She eyes me over a fry. “Sure.”
“It didn’t,” I insist. “We talked. We slept. Literally slept.”
She chews thoughtfully. “Okay, to be fair, you have whatever coming I decide to dish out. You were rabid about Dash and me. Like… feral. Also, no kidding. I wrote angry-fuck scenes with you two at Rockefeller Center as inspiration.”
I choke on my sparkling water. “That’s not happening.”
“Mmmm,” she hums. “I’m not convinced.”
“Swear on these truffle fries, nothing has happened.” She rolls her eyes. “Taste one, then you’ll know I mean business.”
She does and even moans. “Fine. I’ll wait until I see you two together again to judge further.”
“Speaking of sleepovers,” I say brightly. “Tomorrow night?”
She perks up immediately. “Go on.”
“The Pembrooke–Sterling mansion needs a girls’ night christening. Snacks. Wine. Zero men except Paul.”
Her grin is instant. “I would love that.” Then, she asks, “And when do we get invited to your tower?”
