Page 46

“A square, silver chocolate.”

“They’re doing minimalist packaging now.”

Sam raises a brow, one corner of his mouth already hitching up. “Sure they are. Go on then—tell meee…” He singsongs it, nudging my leg with his foot. “Who is it? Spill. I won’t tell anyone.”

I stare at him.

He grins wider. “Okay, no, I absolutely will, but only to people who matter. Like Eleanor. And maybe my mom. No, definitely my mom. Oooh, maybe Ellen in procurement too, you know what she gets like when⁠—”

“Jesus, Sam, can you just—not?” I snap.

His grin falters, and he blinks heavily. “Whoa. Okay. Sorry.”

I press my fingers to my eyes and blow out a heavy breath. “No, I’m sorry. I’m… tired. And sore. And… a little hungover.”

“That’s fair.” He stretches his arms overhead with a groan. “Anyway. I need to shower. I stink of tequila and ass. Want me to make coffee?”

Coffee. In my kitchen. Where he will loiter. And take his sweet time picking a mug. Where Noah will absolutely get caught trying to sneak past him. Also, coffee means time. Which means Sam stays. In my apartment. With his detective brain and his inability to let a single mystery go unsolved.

“No!” I blurt, way too fast.

His brow furrows. “Okay then.”

Shit.

No. On second thoughts—if he’s in the bathroom, door closed, water running—that’s a perfect window for escape. A stealth mission with poor odds, but better than playing hide-the-maybe-secret-lover for another thirty minutes.

I scramble to recover. “I—I mean yes. That would be amazing. Thank you. You’re the best. Go get a shower first. Go do that. Please. Right now. Like immediately.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, then slowly slides off the bed. “Are you high?”

“Nope. Just… enthusiastic. About hygiene. And you not smelling like tequila.”

He backs toward the door, eyes narrowed. “Right. I’m going. Because I’m afraid if I don’t, you’ll actually explode.”

“Valid fear,” I say, beaming at him like a lunatic. “Enjoy. Rinse the shame off.”

He disappears with a shake of his head, muttering something about weird women and weird mornings.

I don’t breathe.

Not until I hear the bathroom door close and the soft metallic squeak of the lock sliding into place. Then I spin around like a woman possessed and make a beeline for the closet, yanking the door open with all the urgency of someone defusing a bomb.

Noah blinks against the sudden light, crammed between last winter’s coats and a stack of boxes, hair sticking up at all angles. His eyes find mine immediately. We just… stare.

Something twists low in my gut.

I should feel justified—this is exactly why we made the rules. No mess, no HR disasters, no whispers around the office. Just clean lines, no one knowing. That was the deal. But looking at him now—shoulders hunched, his collar crooked, clutching his shoes—what I feel isn’t relief. It’s shame.

It’s that I shoved him in a fucking closet like a dirty secret—like some teenage cliché trying to hide the boy from her parents.

And he let me.

He just… went in.

I lean against the edge of the open door, sheets still clutched to my chest. “You okay?” I whisper.

For a second, he almost smiles, but it dies before it reaches his eyes. The sight makes me flinch. Not visibly. But I feel it. All the way down to the soles of my feet.