Leighton woke up to her phone buzzing. A text from Chloe.

*Emergency at work. Can't do dinner tonight. Rain check? I'm so sorry!*

Disappointment settled in her chest, followed quickly by relief she didn't want to examine too closely.

*No worries. We'll do it another time.*

She set her phone down and stared at the ceiling. Another day in this house. Another day of avoiding Noah while simultaneously wanting to find him.

This was getting ridiculous.

She needed to do laundry. She'd been rewearing the same few outfits all week, and everything was starting to smell like desperation and bad decisions.

The laundry room took twenty minutes to find. Of course it did. This house was designed to make her look stupid.

She threw everything in. All her clothes, her sheets, towels. Might as well do it all at once. She added detergent and started the machine, then headed back upstairs in the tank top and shorts she'd slept in.

An hour later, she went back down to move things to the dryer.

The machine was still running.

She stared at it. Checked the settings. Heavy wash cycle. Two hours total.

Perfect. Just perfect.

She trudged back upstairs. She could wait it out in her room. Except her room was freezing. The air conditioning had kicked into overdrive, and she was already shivering in her thin tank top.

She needed something warm. A hoodie. A blanket. Anything.

Her eyes landed on the door across the hall. Noah's room.

Absolutely not. That was literally rule number three. Stay out of his bedroom.

But he wasn't home. She'd heard him leave an hour ago, talking on the phone about meetings and contracts. He'd be gone for hours. He'd never know.

Just in and out. Grab a sweatshirt or something. Put it back before he got home.

She opened his door slowly, half expecting an alarm to go off.

The room was immaculate. King-size bed with dark gray sheets, perfectly made. Modern furniture, all clean lines. The space smelled like him. That expensive cologne or body wash or whatever it was that made her brain go fuzzy.

His closet was huge. Rows of suits, dress shirts, perfectly organized by color. She pushed past them to the casual section. Found a white button-down shirt that looked soft and worn.

Perfect.

She pulled it on over her tank top. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. She rolled them up and headed back to her room.

Except her room was still freezing.

The kitchen, she decided. She'd make tea. Wait down there until her clothes were done.

She padded downstairs in Noah's shirt and her bare feet. The house was quiet. Peaceful, even. She could almost pretend it was hers. That she belonged here.

She put the kettle on and rummaged through the tea selection. Someone had expensive taste. Everything was loose-leaf and imported and probably cost more than her old grocery budget.

The front door opened.

Her head snapped up. No. He wasn't supposed to be back yet.

Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.

Noah appeared in the kitchen doorway and stopped dead.

His eyes traveled down her body. Slowly. Taking in the white shirt. Her bare legs. Her bare feet. His shirt, hanging off her shoulder where she'd apparently missed a button.

"Hi," she said weakly.

He didn't respond. Just stared at her, his jaw tight.

"I can explain."

"You're wearing my shirt."

"My clothes are in the wash. Everything. I didn't have anything clean and I was cold, so I..." She trailed off. His expression hadn't changed. "I'm sorry. I know you said not to go in your room. I'll take it off right now."

"Don't."

The word came out rough. Almost harsh.

She froze. "What?"

"Don't take it off." He set his briefcase down by the door, his movements careful. Controlled. "Not here."

"Oh." Her face burned. "Right. I'll just go upstairs and..."

"How long until your clothes are done?"

"An hour, maybe?"

He nodded once. Then he moved into the kitchen, giving her a wide berth. Like he didn't trust himself to get too close.

He went to the fridge and pulled out a water bottle. Drank half of it in one go. His hand gripped the bottle tight enough that his knuckles went white.

The kettle whistled. Leighton jumped, then turned to grab it. She poured water over the tea bag, hyperaware of Noah behind her. Of the way his shirt shifted as she moved. Of how little she was wearing underneath it.

"Why are you home early?" she asked, just to fill the silence.

"Meeting got canceled."

"Oh."

More silence. She could feel his eyes on her back. Could practically feel the weight of his gaze.

She turned around, holding her mug like a shield. He was leaning against the far counter, arms crossed. His eyes were dark. Intense.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like you're thinking things you shouldn't be thinking."

"I could say the same to you."

"I'm not..."

"You are." He pushed off the counter. "You've been looking at me like that since you got here. Like you want something from me."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Liar."

The word hung between them. Challenge and accusation and something else she couldn't name.

"Fine," she said. "Maybe I do. So what? Nothing's going to happen. You've made that clear."

"Have I?"

"You listed off your rules yesterday. Stay out of your space. Stay out of your head. Stay away from you."

"I don't remember saying that last part."

"It was implied."

He moved closer. Not much. Just a step. But it felt like the distance between them had shrunk by miles.

"You want to know what I was thinking?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"Liar," he said again. "You want to know. You're dying to know."

She set down her mug before she dropped it. "Noah..."

"I was thinking about how that's my favorite shirt. I've had it for five years. Worn it a hundred times." Another step closer. "And now I'm never going to be able to wear it again without thinking about this. About you in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt, looking at me like you want me to break all my own rules."

Her breath caught. "I'm not..."

"Your clothes aren't in the wash."

"What?"

"You heard me." His eyes bore into hers. "You could have worn your tank top and shorts. Could have grabbed a blanket from the linen closet. Could have done a dozen other things. But you went into my room and took my shirt."

"I was cold."

"Bullshit. You wanted to see what I'd do if I found you wearing it."

"That's not true."

"Then why are you still standing here?" He took another step. Close enough now that she could see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "If you really didn't want this, you'd already be upstairs. But you're not moving. Because you want to know what happens next."

"Nothing happens next." Her voice came out breathy. Unconvincing. "You're Chloe's brother. I'm her best friend. Nothing can happen."

"I know."

"So we should stop. Right now. Before we do something stupid."

"I know," he said again.

But neither of them moved.

The air between them felt electric. Dangerous. Like one wrong move would make something explode.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Lingered there. She could see him fighting with himself. See the moment he decided to leave.

He stepped back. Grabbed his briefcase. "Your clothes should be done soon. You should go check on them."

"Noah..."

"Go, Leighton."

It wasn't a request.

She went.

She practically ran up the stairs, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She could still feel his eyes on her. Could still hear the rough edge in his voice when he'd said *my favorite shirt*.

She stopped outside his bedroom door. The shirt felt different now. Like it was touching her everywhere. Like he was touching her.

She should take it off. Should put it back and pretend this never happened.

Instead, she went to her room and sat on the bed, pulling the collar up to her face. It smelled like him. Like that expensive scent that made her head spin.

She was in so much trouble.

Her phone buzzed. Noah.

*Keep the shirt.*

She stared at the message. Typed back: *What?*

*Keep it. I meant what I said. I can't wear it anymore without thinking about this. About you.*

*Noah, we can't...*

*I know. Trust me, I know. But I'm done pretending I don't notice you. Done pretending I don't want things I shouldn't want.*

*What are we doing?*

*I don't know. But I'm tired of lying about it.*

She clutched the phone to her chest. This was a terrible idea. The worst idea. It would ruin everything with Chloe. Would blow up in both their faces.

But god, she wanted it anyway.

She wanted him anyway.

*Me too,* she typed. Then, before she could overthink it: *I'm tired of pretending too.*

His response came immediately.

*Then stop.*

Two words. Two words that felt like permission and warning all at once.

She lay back on the bed, still wearing his shirt, and wondered how she'd gotten here. How she'd gone from fired and homeless to living in Noah Knight's house, texting him about things they shouldn't want.

Her life was a mess.

But for the first time in weeks, she didn't want to be anywhere else.

Leighton got another interview request two days later. A marketing firm downtown. Better pay than her last job. Actual benefits. Room for growth.

She needed this.

The interview was scheduled for two in the afternoon. She set up in the morning room again, her laptop charged, her notes organized. Professional blazer over a nice top. Hair and makeup perfect. She looked competent. Put together. Like someone you'd want to hire.

She joined the call at 2:30.  

Three people appeared on screen. The creative director, the HR manager, and someone whose title she missed because her internet connection stuttered.

"Can you hear us?" the creative director asked.

"Yes. Sorry. Connection issue."

"No problem. Let's get started."

The first ten minutes went fine. Standard questions about her experience, her design process. She gave good answers. Smiled. Made eye contact with the camera.

Then they asked to see her portfolio.

"Of course." She shared her screen, pulling up her website. "I've worked on branding projects for startups, small businesses, a few nonprofits..."

The page loaded. Sort of. Half the images appeared. The rest were broken links.

Her stomach dropped.

"I'm sorry, let me refresh." She reloaded the page. Same problem. "This was working this morning, I don't..."

"Take your time," the HR manager said, but her smile looked forced.

Leighton's hands shook as she tried her backup portfolio on Behance. That loaded, thank god. She walked them through her projects, trying to sound confident despite the panic clawing at her throat.

"These are nice," the creative director said. "But they're all pretty similar. Safe choices. What about something that pushes boundaries? Shows real creative risk?"

"I have some experimental work..." She clicked to another page. Another broken link. "I'm so sorry. My website is apparently having issues."

"We can look at it later," the creative director said, but his tone said they wouldn't.

The rest of the interview was torture. Her internet kept cutting in and out. She stumbled over answers. At one point, her video froze mid-sentence, and she had to reconnect.

"We'll be in touch," they said at the end.

Translation: don't hold your breath.

The call ended. Leighton stared at her screen, at her stupid broken portfolio, and felt something crack open inside her chest.

She'd been so careful. Had checked everything this morning. Had prepared for days.

And she'd still failed.

The tears came fast and hot. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold them back, but they wouldn't stop.

This was it. The final straw. Getting fired, evicted, living in someone else's house, rejection after rejection, and now this. Now blowing the one good opportunity she'd had because her website decided to implode at the worst possible moment.

She didn't hear footsteps. Didn't know he was there until Noah's voice said, "Leighton?"

She looked up, tears streaming down her face. He stood in the doorway, still in his suit from wherever he'd been. His expression shifted from confusion to something else when he saw her crying.

"Sorry," she choked out. "I'll just... I'll go to my room."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

"It's clearly not fine." He moved into the room, keeping his distance. Like he wasn't sure what to do with a crying woman. "Was it another interview?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"How bad?"

"Terrible. My portfolio site crashed halfway through. My internet kept cutting out. I looked like an idiot." Fresh tears spilled over. "They were my best shot and I blew it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone. "What's your website?"

"Why?"

"Just tell me."

She rattled off the URL. He typed something, frowned at his screen, typed more.

"Your hosting service is down. Not your fault. Their whole server cluster is offline." He showed her his phone. Sure enough, there was a notice about technical difficulties. "You couldn't have known."

"Doesn't matter. They still saw me screw up."

"They saw your hosting service screw up. There's a difference."

"You didn't see their faces. They already decided I wasn't worth hiring."

Noah pocketed his phone and moved closer, sitting in the chair across from her. "Show me your portfolio."

"What?"

"Your portfolio. I want to see it."

"Noah, you don't have to..."

"I'm not asking to be nice. I want to see what you can do."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her mascara probably everywhere. "Why?"

"Because you've spent some days in my house, and I don't actually know anything about your work." He nodded at her laptop. "Show me."

She hesitated, then turned the laptop toward him. Pulled up her Behance page. "Most of this is from school or freelance projects. The startup I worked for didn't let me include their stuff in my portfolio. NDA."

He scrolled slowly, clicking on projects. A logo design for a coffee shop. Branding for a yoga studio. A website mockup for a bookstore.

She watched his face for reactions. Got nothing. His expression stayed neutral, giving nothing away.

"This one," he said, pointing at a restaurant branding project. "Talk me through your process."

"The client wanted something modern but warm. Family-owned Italian place that had been around for decades. They were rebranding to attract younger customers without losing their regulars."

"What did you start with?"

"Research. I ate there three times. Talked to the owners, the staff, and regular customers. Looked at what their competitors were doing. Then I developed a few concepts." She clicked through the mockups. "They chose this one. Classic Italian colors but with a contemporary twist. The typography is modern but approachable."

He studied the screen. "The menu design is good. Clean."

"Thanks."

"These icons for the different sections. Custom?"

"Yeah. I illustrated them specifically for this project."

He clicked on another project. "What about this?"

They went through her entire portfolio. He asked questions about her choices, her process, and why she'd picked certain colors or fonts. Real questions. Not the surface-level stuff interviewers asked.

When they finished, he sat back. "You're better than the place that fired you."

"You're just saying that."

"I don't just say things." He met her eyes. "Your work is good. Really good. That interview didn't fall apart because you're not talented. It fell apart because of tech issues and bad luck."

"Bad luck seems to be my specialty lately."

"Luck changes."

"Does it? Because from where I'm sitting, I'm twenty-three, unemployed, living in your house like a charity case, and watching my life fall apart in real time."

"You're twenty-three," he agreed. "And you're talented. You just need the right opportunity."

"I've applied to forty-seven jobs. I've had three interviews. Zero offers." She closed her laptop. "Maybe I'm just not good enough."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Talking about yourself like you're worthless. You're not."

The intensity in his voice surprised her. She looked up at him. He was leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees.

"I've seen a lot of designers," he said. "My company hires them constantly. Most of them are technically competent but creatively boring. They do what they're told. They don't take risks." He gestured at her laptop. "You're not boring. Your work has personality. That's rare."

"Then why can't I get hired?"

"Because the job market is brutal right now. And because you're so busy doubting yourself that it shows in your interviews."

"I'm not..."

"You are. I can hear it in your voice when you talk about your work. Like you're apologizing for taking up space."

She thought about what he'd said in the kitchen. *Stop apologizing for existing.*

"I don't know how to be any other way."

"Learn."

"That's not helpful advice."

"I know." He stood up. "But it's true."

She watched him move toward the door, then heard herself say, "Thank you."

He paused. "For what?"

"For not just telling me it'll be fine. For actually looking at my work." She managed a small smile. "Even if you did it to stop me from crying all over your furniture."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "The furniture can handle it. I was more worried about you."

The admission hung between them. Soft. Unexpected.

"I'm okay," she said. "Or I will be. Eventually."

"I know you will." He looked like he wanted to say something else. Then he just nodded and left.

Leighton sat in the empty room, her laptop closed in front of her. Her face was probably a disaster. Her interview had been a train wreck. She still had no job prospects.

But Noah Knight thought her work was good. Really good. Not just saying it to be nice, but actually meaning it.

That shouldn't matter as much as it did.

But it mattered anyway.

Her phone buzzed. Noah.

*Send me your resume.*

She stared at the text. Typed back: *Why?*

*Just send it.*

*Noah, I don't want pity.*

*It's not pity. Just send me your damn resume.*

She attached the file and sent it before she could overthink it.

His response came five minutes later.

*You're overqualified for most of the jobs you're applying to. No wonder you're not getting calls. You need to aim higher.*

*Higher doesn't mean more desperate. It means I'm worth more than the places that keep rejecting me.*

*I can't aim higher. I need something. Anything. I can't stay here forever.*

*Why not?*

The question made her heart skip.

*Because we both know that's a bad idea.*

*Probably. Doesn't change the fact that you're selling yourself short.*

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to explain that aiming high felt like setting herself up for bigger disappointments.

Another text came through.

*Get some sleep. Tomorrow, apply to jobs you actually want. Not just jobs you think might take you.*

*What if nobody wants me?*

*They will. Trust me.*

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that somewhere out there was a job that would actually appreciate what she could do.

But belief was hard when you'd been knocked down this many times.

Still, she found herself smiling at her phone. At Noah's blunt encouragement. The way he'd sat with her and gone through her entire portfolio like it mattered.

Maybe belief was something you built slowly. One small thing at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, Noah Knight was becoming one of those things.

Leighton woke up to an email notification at eight in the morning.

She grabbed her phone, squinting at the screen.

Her heart jumped when she saw the sender: Knight Security Solutions.

Noah's company.

Her stomach dropped.

She opened it.

Dear Ms. Hayes,

We're currently seeking a Senior Brand Designer for our marketing department.

Your portfolio was recommended to us, and we'd like to schedule an interview at your earliest convenience.

The position offers a competitive salary, full benefits, and opportunities for creative leadership.

Best regards,

Jennifer Martinez

Director of Human Resources

Leighton read it three times.

Then she threw off her covers and marched downstairs.

She found Noah in his office, door open, on a phone call.

He glanced up when she appeared in the doorway, his expression neutral.

She held up her phone.

Waited.

He finished his call and pulled off the headset.

"Morning."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

She walked into his office and set her phone on his desk, the email still open.

"This."

He glanced at it.

"Looks like a job offer."

"From your company."

"We're hiring."

"You can't just. You can't do this."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Do what? Have my HR department reach out to a talented designer who's looking for work?"

"You told them to contact me."

"I forwarded your portfolio to Jennifer. She makes her own hiring decisions."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not."

Leighton grabbed her phone back.

"I'm not taking it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's charity."

"It's a job."

"A job you're giving me because you feel sorry for me."

His jaw tightened.

"I don't feel sorry for you."

"Then why did you do this?"

"Because you're good at what you do, and my company needs someone good."

He stood up, moving around the desk.

"This isn't charity, Leighton. It's business."

"Bullshit."

His eyebrows rose.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. This is bullshit. You saw me crying yesterday and decided to fix it by handing me a job I didn't earn."

"You did earn it. I've seen your work."

"For five minutes. While I was having a breakdown."

She shook her head.

"I'm not taking a job from you just because you feel guilty about being cold to me when I moved in."

"That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me recognizing talent when I see it."

"You're lying."

"I don't lie."

"Everyone lies."

"Not to you."

He moved closer.

"I'm offering you a legitimate position at my company because you're qualified. Better than qualified. You're exactly what we need."

"I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because people don't just hand out jobs to people they barely know."

"I've known you for fifteen years."

"You didn't even remember me a week ago."

"I told you I was lying about that."

"Maybe you're lying now."

His eyes flashed.

"I'm not."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me this isn't about yesterday. Tell me you didn't see me fall apart and decide I needed saving."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "I can't tell you that."

Her chest tightened.

"Because it's true."

"Because it's part of it. Not all of it, but part of it."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes, I saw you yesterday. Yes, it bothered me. But I sent your portfolio to Jennifer because after I looked at your work, I spent an hour on the phone with her talking about how we need someone who can rebrand our consumer-facing products. Someone with fresh ideas who isn't going to play it safe. And I kept thinking about your designs. About how they had personality. How they took risks."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not."

"Do you know how many designers I've looked at in the past six months? Forty-three. Your work is better than most of what I've seen."

She wanted to believe him.

God, she wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

"I can't take a job from you."

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, everyone will think I only got it because I'm living in your house. Because I'm Chloe's friend. Because you felt sorry for me."

"Who cares what people think?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to be the girl who slept her way into a job."

"We haven't slept together."

"Yet."

The word slipped out before she could stop it.

The air between them changed.

Charged.

Dangerous.

"Yet," he repeated quietly.

She swallowed hard.

"That came out wrong."

"Did it?"

"Noah, I just. I can't do this. I appreciate the offer. Really. But I need to find something on my own. Something I earned."

"You would be earning it. You'd have to interview. You'd have to prove yourself to the team. Jennifer doesn't hire people just because I recommend them. She's turned down three of my suggestions in the past year."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because those people weren't living in your house. Weren't. Whatever this is."

"And what is this?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I. But I know it has nothing to do with this job offer."

"Everything is connected, Noah. You can't separate it."

"Watch me."

He moved closer.

"The job is real. The opportunity is real. Whether you take it or not doesn't change anything between us."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

"What if I take the job and I'm terrible at it?"

"Then you'll get better. Or you'll figure out it's not the right fit and you'll find something else. But you won't know unless you try."

"I hate that you're making sense."

"I usually do."

"Take the interview. That's all I'm asking. Talk to Jennifer. Meet the team. See if it's something you actually want. If it's not, walk away. No hard feelings."

"And if I do walk away? You promise it won't be weird?"

"It's already weird."

She couldn't argue with that.

"I need to think about it."

"Fair enough."

He checked his watch.

"You have until five to respond to the email. After that, Jennifer moves on to the next candidate."

"You're giving me a deadline?"

"I'm telling you how my HR department works. If you're interested, you need to say so today."

Leighton looked down at her phone, at the email still open on the screen.

A real job.

With benefits.

At a successful company.

Everything she'd been desperate for a week ago.

"I need coffee," she said.

"There's a fresh pot in the kitchen."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"Leighton?"

She looked back.

"For what it's worth, I think you'd be good at it. Great, even. You just need to believe that about yourself."

Something in her chest cracked open.

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and left.

In the kitchen, she poured coffee with shaking hands.

She pulled up the email again.

She thought about yesterday.

About how Noah had looked at her work like it mattered.

He believed in her work.

Maybe it was time she did too.

She grabbed her phone and typed a response before she could change her mind.

Dear Ms. Martinez,

Thank you for reaching out. I'd be very interested in discussing the position. I'm available for an interview at your convenience.

Best regards,

Leighton Hayes

She hit send before her brain could talk her out of it.

Her phone buzzed immediately.

A response from Jennifer.

Wonderful! Are you available tomorrow at 10 AM? We can meet at our downtown office.

Tomorrow.

Less than twenty-four hours to prepare.

She typed back: Yes, that works.

Perfect. I'll send you the address and details. Looking forward to meeting you!

Leighton set her phone down and pressed her hands to her face.

She'd done it.

She'd said yes.

She heard footsteps behind her.

Knew without looking that it was Noah.

"I sent the response," she said without turning around.

"Good."

"I have an interview tomorrow."

"I know. Jennifer just texted me."

Now she did turn.

"You're still watching this whole thing?"

"I like to be informed about what's happening in my company."

"This feels like you're meddling."

"I prefer the term 'staying involved.'"

He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

"You're going to do great tomorrow."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

"Because I've seen you work. I've seen how you think. And I've seen how much you care about getting it right."

He took a drink.

"That's what Jennifer looks for. Passion. Drive. Someone who gives a damn."

"What if she asks how I heard about the position?"

"Tell her the truth. That you're staying here temporarily, and I forwarded your portfolio."

"Won't that look bad?"

"Why would it?"

"Because it looks like nepotism."

"It's networking. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Nepotism is hiring someone unqualified because of personal connections. Networking is connecting qualified people with opportunities. You're qualified. I'm just making the introduction."

She wanted to argue.

Wanted to find a flaw in his logic.

But she couldn't.

"I'm scared," she admitted quietly.

"Of what?"

"That this will ruin everything. Everything like you and me and whatever this is becoming."

He set down his water bottle and moved toward her.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She didn't step back.

He stopped close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low.

"The job has nothing to do with us. Whether you work for my company or not doesn't change what I feel when I look at you. Doesn't change the fact that I can't stop thinking about you in my shirt. In my kitchen. In my space."

Her breath hitched.

"Noah."

"You want to keep things separate? Fine. At the office, you're an employee. Here, you're..."

He trailed off, his eyes searching hers.

"You're whatever we decide you are."

"And what do we decide?"

"I don't know yet. But I know I'm tired of pretending there's nothing here."

"So am I."

His hand came up, catching her chin.

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

"Take the damn job, Leighton."

It wasn't a request.

She nodded, unable to form words.

He held her gaze for another long moment, then stepped back.

"I have meetings all afternoon," he said, his voice back to normal. Professional.

"But if you need anything before tomorrow, let me know."

"Okay."

He grabbed his water bottle and walked out, leaving her standing in the kitchen with her heart pounding and her whole body trembling.

She touched her lip where his thumb had been.

She could still feel the pressure.

The promise.

Tomorrow she had an interview.

Tomorrow she'd have to be professional and competent and prove she deserved this opportunity.

But tonight, all she could think about was the way Noah had looked at her.

Like she was something he wanted but was trying not to take.

And god help her, she wanted him to stop trying.