10. Cat

HavingNoah's house to myself while I'm puttering around being all domestic has done weird things to my brain. It's not like I have some fantasy of being the fifties housewife to Noah's working man, but I want to be a wife and a mom, okay? I refuse to be ashamed of that. It doesn't hurt anyone if I turn kabobs and mix a salad while imagining that the baby is taking a nap and the kids are riding their bikes out front and the husband—whoever he is—hasn't gotten home yet.

In this fantasy I'm also about three inches taller, have enough money to pay for Otto's cancer treatments out of pocket, and I'm not wearing a denim apron I found in the back of a kitchen drawer that says GRILL KING in bold red letters and still has the tag on it.

I guess Mr. Belacourt doesn't see himself as a grill king, since he's clearly never used this apron. Not surprising. I can't imagine Noah's dad making his own food.

I'm out on the back patio, grilling steak and pineapple kabobs and enjoying the sea breeze against my neck. I told the Amazon device in the kitchen to play 90s hits and have been jamming out to Whitney Houston and Nirvana while assembling dinner. The Backstreet Boys just came on to sing about being lonely, and I'm humming along while I shut the grill and return to the kitchen to cut the grilled corn from the cobs for a corn salsa.

The front door closes, and I glance at the time on the microwave. I have ten minutes before seven. Everything will be finished right on time.

I command Alexa to stop playing music.

"Something smells amazing," Noah says, coming around the corner with a briefcase in one hand and his jacket slung over his arm. Why does he even take it to work? It's like two hundred degrees outside.

I tried to dress more professionally after I finished cleaning Mrs. Finnigan's house and feeding her birds, but I'm still in shorts and a tank. Just a nicer tank over nicer shorts. It's still summertime in Florida, so let's be reasonable.

I suddenly see myself through Noah's eyes and cringe. This isn't professional. An anklet and Birkenstocks have never screamed professional, and mine are standing out like Whitney Houston in the middle of a 90s rock ballad. I tuck my anklet-clad foot behind my other leg and lean on the counter. "Steak kabobs and salad with chips and salsa. Is that too casual?"

He looks at me for a second, his brown eyes raking over my face. "Did you make dinner?"

Oh, no. I've crossed a boundary somewhere I didn't know about. Confidence is the best way to handle this, right? "Yes," I say. "I thought it would be better than a reheated chicken or something."

Noah sets the briefcase on a kitchen stool, looking at me. No, not just looking. Observing. Examining. I feel his gaze reach my bones. "It smells better than a reheated chicken," he says.

I step around the side of the kitchen island to pick up an onion and bring it to the cutting board. "I can't tell if you're mocking me or not."

"Definitely not," he says quietly, picking up his briefcase again. "I'm going to change. I'll be down shortly."

"Dinner will be ready in ten."

This isn't helping with my fantasies. He is not my husband. This is not my house. This is definitely not my apron.

The onion stings my eyes, but I don't wipe them. I don't need to lose my contacts or transform into a racoon again. I chop quickly and move onto the avocado and tomatoes. Mrs. Finnigan started putting on the Food Network while I cleaned a few years ago, and I got in the habit of sitting down with her when my job was finished and watching it for a while. The habit grew until I was putting it on at the Rojas and Belacourt houses while I was cleaning, if no one was home, and I picked up a few things. Yes, Otto is the chef in our family, but it's a fun pastime, and I like cooking for other people.

Noah returns downstairs in chino shorts and a plain navy shirt that hugs his chest and drapes down like the thing was custom made for him. I swivel away, retrieving the dressing I had made earlier from the fridge and drizzling it over the corn salsa. Stirring corn has never been so riveting.

Also, these bits of avocado. So green. So appetizing. If I focus on them, I won't ogle Noah. When did he get so handsome? I remember him in high school. He was hot then, yeah, but easy to ignore since his family was so full of themselves. They were bursting with pride and money and conceit. But this Noah? If he's an arrogant rich kid somewhere deep inside, he doesn't act like it.

"That salad looks great."

"It's salsa," I say, giving it another good stir before I carry it to the table. I've set one end of the long table for four, using wicker placemats and dishes I found in the cupboards. After the salsa is on the table, I pour a bag of chips into a wooden bowl.

"Can I help?"

I look up. Is he serious? "You're paying me to do this," I remind him. "I don't offer discounts."

He shrugs one careless shoulder. "I can still help. I fully anticipated having to heat up and plate whatever you picked up from the store."

"Now you don't have to."

"That's a good thing for both of us. I can only really make one thing, and it's not the best summer meal."

I put the chips on the table and move to the patio door to fetch the kabobs. "What is it?"

Noah follows me to the back patio. "Fettuccine alfredo."

"I was expecting you to say scrambled eggs or toast."

"Okay, I can make three things."

"Then you're cooking next time."

"Deal."

I lift the grill and pull the kabobs off with the tongs. Once they're plated, I glance at Noah. "What did you mean by that?"

"Which part?"

"It's a good thing for both of us that I cooked. Why both of us?"

Noah rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows rising. "Well, that's the thing. I was going to invite you to join in the meeting so you could meet Gina and Mateo and familiarize yourself with them since it's likely you'll work together sometime this summer. Gina isn't coming anymore, and Mateo won't be here for another half-hour. Which means it's just us for dinner." He hurries to add, "Unless you have somewhere to be, of course. We can do this another time."

I stare at him. This meal was supposed to be for Noah and his colleagues. Now it's like Noah saw my fantasy and decided to play along for a hot minute. Walking out the door and going home to have dinner with Otto isn't an option now, because Noah's my boss. He's paying me two thousand dollars today to do some basic chores and make him dinner. I realize I don't have to stay and eat. But imagining Noah seated alone at the table in this monstrous house eating a dinner I made for four people tugs at my heartstrings. I won't ditch him.

"Mateo's coming?" I ask, brushing past him to take the food inside.

He clears his throat and follows me. "He had to take care of something, but he should be here soon. Ish. He told me to start without him."

"Okay." I smile broadly and take the broccoli salad from the fridge. "Food's ready."

Noah pulls out a chair and stands behind it, looking meaningfully at me.

I stare at him. He's not sitting.

"Is there something else you need?" I ask, searching my brain for what the table might be missing besides the broccoli salad in my hands.

"This is for you," he says, dipping his chin.

"For me?"

His head tilts to the side like a golden retriever. "Has no one pulled a chair out for you before?"

"We don't do that at the grand Keene Bed and Breakfast, no."

"Well, we do it at Casa Belacourt."

He isn't moving, and it's just getting awkward, so I put the salad on the table and take the seat, letting him push my chair in. He's so smooth; he's clearly had practice. All those etiquette lessons at his fancy boarding school, no doubt.

He sits kitty-corner at the head of the table, and our meal starts off rocky. We pass around the dishes in near silence, making small comments about the food in an overly polite way. It feels like I'm fifteen and sitting down to dinner with my school principal. I would never choose to eat with Noah in a million years, so I don't want to be here. Yet, as my boss, he's someone I need to impress, so I crave a sign that he's enjoying the food I made.

If one of us doesn't start a conversation soon, this will go down as the worst dinner I've ever had, which is a shame because my kabobs are delicious.

What can I even talk to Noah about?

I'm clueless about yachts. I haven't ever driven a car that doesn't have rust on the rims or skied the Alps or hung out with famous movie stars. I don't know anything about tech, so Scout is off the table.

Noah's athletic, so maybe that's a safe space? "You run on the beach," I say. "That must be?.?.?. hard, right?"

He chews his bite of steak, looking at me longer than necessary. Why is he always so observant? His deep brown eyes are mini X-ray machines, boring into me, making me wonder if I put my clothes on inside out. I want to text Ivy so she can psychoanalyze this situation with me. She knew Noah back in the day, and she would totally find this just as weird as I do. Maybe she'd have some conversation suggestions for the next time I'm stuck with him like this.

"I've been doing it for years, so it's not too bad," he finally says. "Used to be much harder."

Oh my gosh. This is more painful than eating dinner with a principal. It's cringey, like watching your friend get chatted up at a bar by a guy who laughs too loud and smells like wet dog.

Except Noah's chuckle is the right kind of manly and he smells like a dream.

We fall back into silence. Part of me is tempted to ask how his sisters are doing, but I also don't want to hear about their perfect lives.

"And you?" he asks. "Do you often swim in the ocean in your shoes?"

I can't be mad that this is the direction our conversation has turned when I'm the one who brought up that day on the beach. All I can think about is how scary it was to almost lose my mom's scarf, and how it made me jump in the ocean without thinking, which I haven't done in years. Fifteen years? Maybe longer.

It's just not something I do.

"I don't really swim," I say lightly. "So that was a weird situation."

Noah pulls a chunk of pineapple from his skewer and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. "You don't really swim," he repeats.

"Nope."

"That's funny. I remember you swimming at Jake's house a lot back in high school."

My body freezes. How can he remember anything like that? He wasn't there. Were he and Jake friends and Jake never told me? Just another thing that makes me feel like I never really knew my boyfriend. "That was a pool. I avoid the ocean."

"Oh." He looks at me like my words are hitting him belatedly, his eyes widening just so slightly. "Oh. Because of your parents?"

I guess we're just airing all my history right now. It's not a surprise he knows the story of how my parents died—everyone does. My mom was heading into the surf and a rip current pulled her out to sea. My dad tried to save her, but he was dragged away as well. They were close to the beach. I would have been with them if I wasn't at home with a sore throat that day. They had left me with Otto while they went for a picnic because it was their anniversary.

It was tragic. Two healthy adults. Two strong swimmers. So near the safety of the beach. But the ocean takes no prisoners. They must have fought the current too hard, forgot in the heat of the moment what they were supposed to do to free themselves. I've long since come to terms with the trauma of their deaths, thanks to therapy and Otto, but I stay away from the shore.

Noah being aware isn't weird, but I'm surprised he remembers it. "Yeah, I guess so. I've never?.?.?. I just avoid it if I can."

"Do you still go out to the water, but you just don't swim? Or is the whole ocean off limits?" he asks, watching me so closely I can't slip away. "What about boats? Kayaks? That sort of thing."

I frown. I'm not sure I've thought about this before. "I don't know. I mean, I take the ferry, but that doesn't feel very dangerous. I've been out on boats plenty—I just don't get in the water."

"I'm sorry, Cat. I wouldn't have mentioned it if I realized?—"

"Don't worry about it. We live on an island. Not being comfortable in the ocean isn't really typical around here, is it?"

"I've never cared much for what's typical," he says.

Why would he? When you have that much money, you get to be comfortable in your own skin. You get to do and say what you want and don't have to try to fit in with everyone else. People with money don't have to stress out on the first day of school when they're still wearing last year's sneakers or don't have the glitter gel pens that are in everyone else's backpacks.

Which is why Olive's friendship had been so exciting in the beginning. She'd shared her gel pens and complimented my bright yellow Converse—even though they weren't new—and we'd clicked. Until one day when we didn't, and she went from telling me my hair was cute to loudly asking on the ferry to school if I cut it myself because it looks like someone had taken a weed whacker to the back.

My uncle had trimmed my hair. It stung.

I still had Ivy, so I wasn't friendless, and Ivy never cared what my hair looked like or what shoes I was wearing. She was a real friend. But Olive Belacourt? She made eighth grade miserable for me, and I was never so happy as the day, a few years later, when I learned her parents decided to ship her off to boarding school.

"I like volleyball," I say brightly. "And I'm not too bad at it. There are other ways of enjoying the beach."

Noah looks at me over the rim of his glass, his dark brown eyes brooding. For a second I catch my breath, wondering what it is he's considering saying to me. He seems to shake himself. "You'll have to show me sometime."

My gut reaction is to refuse him, but now he's my boss. Yes, I know I'm not getting paid to hang out with the guy, but since he's my employer, I do need to be polite. Besides, these small sacrifices are worth getting Otto out from under the mountain of debt that is threatening my home.

"I'd be happy to."