If anything, I’m more distracted than ever.
Because now I know exactly what I’m trying not to think about. And Noah Bennett—patient, careful, devastatingly thorough Noah Bennett—is all I can see when I close my eyes.
Worse, he’s what I feel when I open them.
I step into the shower and let the hot water wash away the evidence of what we’ve done.
But it can’t wash away the feeling.
I should’ve known better.
Chapter
Seventeen
Noah
I’m halfway through disposing of the condom and straightening the basement when her words hit me fully.
Thank you. It helped.
My hands still on the throw blanket I’m refolding.
Helped. Like I’m a massage therapist or a stress ball. Something useful. Forgettable.
I’ve had casual hookups. I’ve had relationships that didn’t work out. Hell, I once had a woman tell me straight up I wasn’t enough for her. But this—Alicia’s careful categorization of what just happened as necessary rather than wanted—lands differently.
Because for me? That wasn’t casual.
That was closer to everything.
I grab the box of condoms from the console table—tuck them in the drawer under the security monitors where Stella won’t accidentally find them. Following orders, even when I’m annoyed about it.
I finish straightening up, pull on my clothes with more force than necessary. Grab leftover Thai from the kitchenette fridge. I’m not hungry, but eating gives my hands something to do that isn’t texting Hudson to request reassignment.
I pull up security feeds on my tablet, but the words keep replaying. Thank you. It helped.
Like I solved a problem for her. A task she completed.
The shower turns on upstairs—faint through the ceiling but audible. I track the sound of her moving through her routine. Door closing. Drawers opening. She’s putting herself back together. In every sense.
I don’t expect her to come back down. Smart money says she avoids me until Stella gets home and we can pretend this didn’t happen.
Which is why, twenty minutes later, when I hear footsteps on the stairs, my head snaps up.
I set the tablet down and stand as she appears—barefoot now, in soft gray lounge pants and an oversized sweater that slides off one shoulder. Her hair is damp, face scrubbed clean. She looks younger without makeup—more vulnerable, more real—and it takes effort not to reach for her.
“Hey,” she says, stopping at the bottom step.
“Hey.”
She glances at the empty takeout container. “You ate.”
“Didn’t think you’d be back down.” I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Figured you’d avoid me.”
Her mouth twitches. “I have no plans to avoid you.”
“Liar.”