12. Cat

This entire weekhas included far more Noah time than I had expected when I signed on to be his PA for the summer. Running his errands and being around him occasionally was part of the deal. What I didn't count on was sitting at his kitchen table every day, choosing models and scene concepts and going over scripts and color schemes and wardrobes. There are so many components to putting together an ad campaign, and while Noah's team at the office is handling the details, he still has to sign off on them. Or, in some cases, provide notes and wait for an updated file to approve.

I'm only here to provide the notes. He likes my feedback—heaven knows why.

To be honest, the more time I spend in his company, the more comfortable we're getting. Like earlier this morning, when I made him a smoothie for his post-run snack while we debated the merits of eye-catching neon clothes, he let me have a sip of his when my glass ran out. It felt natural, which freaked me out.

I'm kneeling on Mrs. Rojas's bathroom floor, scrubbing the bathtub and thinking about that smoothie. No, the meeting. The ad campaign. Work-related things only.

Everything's coming together for the shoot. We settled on an array of models that look like a real group of friends but still seem like they'd vibe with Bree. Not that I know Bree personally, but I've seen a few episodes of The Belacourts over the years. She's the sister who acts like a hippie, with her cardboard water bottles and bamboo toothbrushes, but really just wants to pet sea turtles in her Gucci slides.

That was a few years ago, but I highly doubt she's changed much. Either way, Bree's way more palatable than Olive, the middle sister who's always dramatically proclaiming how much she hates drama while in the middle of gossiping about a guy or a friend or a sister.

I turn on the water to rinse out the suds and keep scrubbing. Cleaning is therapeutic for me. When I was ten, a few months after my parents died, I spiraled into a deep hurricane of depression. Otto took me to a counselor, who hooked us up with a psychiatrist specializing in childhood trauma. Together they got me sorted out and found the right medication to manage my depression. Over the years, I've had to shift medications occasionally to keep up with my life changes, but overall the thing I've found to consistently give me a sense of control is cleaning. I love it. It's cathartic to take something dirty and grimy and make it sparkle. There's probably something about the control it gives me, but it works. I don't mind cleaning at the BB, but what I really love is being able to assist two women who can't get down on their knees easily to scrub tubs or clean toilets or wipe the dust from their baseboards.

The Belacourt job came my way because Mrs. Rojas is a friend of Noah's mom, and I really just wanted the money. But Mrs. Finnigan and Mrs. Rojas? These two old ladies make my days brighter and keep my natural serotonin levels up.

I moved on to the bathroom sink, scrubbing away the grime, when my phone rings. It's my friend Ivy, so I command Siri to answer it in my headphones. She's been back on the island for over a week now. We've talked a few times, but I haven't seen her since her cousin's wedding last week, where we chatted on the beach for a while.

"I'm elbow-deep in Mrs. Rojas's bathroom," I tell her.

"Please tell me she's not the type to leave eyebrow hairs all over the counter. I want to believe better from her."

"She's way too classy for that." I look back at the floor, where more fingernail clippings made it onto the tile than into the trash can. I'll chalk that up to poor vision and not incompetence, though.

"True."

I lean over the counter to spread cleaner along the second sink. "What's up?"

"Are we going to the beach soon?"

"I want to, but probably not this week. I'm swamped. Noah has me helping with an ad campaign for his new app and his sister is flying in for shooting. It's a lot."

"Olive?" she asks, her voice growing serious. She lived through eighth grade with me, when Olive was bent on making me feel less than human every day.

"No, just Bree. Do you know her very well?"

"Not really. She's super young, right?"

"A few grades under us, I think. I don't know exactly. I'm not looking forward to working with her, but the rest hasn't been that bad."

It's silent on the other end of the line.

I stop scrubbing the sink. "What?"

"The rest? Like working with Noah Belacourt? I thought he was a snob."

Should I tell her about how nice he's been? Offering me rides and ibuprofen and feeding me every time we have a meeting? He had muffins waiting for us yesterday. Tacos the day before that. But?.?.?. no. I don't want Ivy reading into it. "He's turning out to be a nice employer, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't wear underwear."

Ivy laughs. "Do I want to know why you think that?" Her voice grows serious. "He's not taking advantage of your position, right?"

"No. If anything, he's ultra careful. I'm doing the man's laundry. If he wears underwear, it's not coming through his washer."

"Maybe he dry cleans them."

I wipe the cleaner from the sink and straighten, looking in the mirror at my frizzy, platinum messy bun and zero makeup. The idea of Noah coming onto me is laughable. Him dry cleaning his boxer-briefs? "That's possible."

"I just reached the cafe, so I have to go. Call me when you're ready for the beach!"

"Volleyball?" I ask, hearing the hope rise in my tone. Maybe Noah can come. I promised to teach him, didn't I?

"Yeah. Too bad you aren't still dating whatshisname—that blond jock. He had such a great serve."

Maybe I won't bring newbie Noah. "I'll try to find a boyfriend in the next few weeks with an even better serve."

"That's my girl." Ivy laughs and we both hang up.

I haven't told her or Holland about Otto's medical bills or how much Noah is paying me, and it feels a little weird keeping those things to myself. At the same time, I don't want to talk about Otto behind his back. I only admitted these things to Noah in a fit of madness. I didn't think I'd see him again after that golf cart ride.

I was so wrong.

It takes another hour to finish cleaning the rest of the Rojas' house. I load all my cleaning supplies into the crates and slide them into their utility closet, then find the notepad near the fridge with Mrs. Rojas's shopping list and add Windex and dusting pads so she can replenish them before I come next week.

Noah's golf cart is sitting where I left it in front of the house. My phone buzzes as I slide into the driver's seat and toss my belt bag on the bench.

Think of the devil, and he'll text.

Noah

You busy tonight?

Cat

Depends on whether or not this job involves ice cream

Noah

I'm open to negotiation

He made that too easy. I stare at his text, wondering when we went from business casual to banter. After a week of working together every day, things are easy between us. Too easy? My body stiffens, overthinking this. Also, who dry cleans their underwear? It's just weird.

It also makes me think about his underwear way too much.

That's so unprofessional. We've bypassed business casual-level conversation and have gone straight to flip flops and T-shirts.

Noah

I want to scout a location for the shoot before the sun goes down. If you're free, I'd appreciate your input

Cat

I thought we planned to do it on your family's private beach?

Noah

We will, but there are a few spots that could work. We need to nail them down ahead of time so the crew knows where to go

The photoshoot begins in two days. Every time I think we've got things done and dusted, he pulls another task out of the blue. His work never ceases, and there is no such thing as business hours for Scout, Inc. It's more like around-the-clock hours with some down time in between meetings when the rest of the country is sleeping. We don't work constantly, but very consistently.

I'm starting to see his need for high-salary employees. Noah can get away with this ultra flexible working schedule when he's paying twelve grand a week. Yeah, twelve. So far, Saturdays are working days. But each day chips away at the iceberg that is Otto's medical bills and gets us farther away from foreclosing on our house, so I'm not complaining.

At least I know he didn't hire me out of charity. He's working me too much for that. I'm grateful—I like feeling like I'm earning the paycheck.

Cat

Kind of last minute, Bruce

Noah

Willis? Springsteen? Wayne? At least you've moved on to the heroes

Cat

Sure, all of the above

Noah

Who were you thinking originally?

I'm not going to tell him it was Batman.

Cat

What time should I be there?

Noah

Meet at my house in thirty minutes?

Yikes. Do I have time to shower? No. I can't shower. He'll know I showered because he saw me in this exact outfit with this gnarly hair while I scrubbed his bathroom this morning and then sat at his kitchen island to look at models' wardrobe options while sipping a grapefruit LaCroix.

Like I said, this whole ad campaign thing is involved.

Noah

Or whenever you can get here is fine.

Cat

I'll be there in thirty

After I shower, because I cleaned two houses and Otto's kitchen today, so I'm a mess. Not because I want to impress Noah. Just because I don't want to stink.

My hair ishuge and frizzy by the time I reach Noah's house, because it's still damp and we're in Florida. I knock three times and walk inside without waiting for him to come to the door.

"I'm here," I call out, making my way to the kitchen.

There's no answer.

I put my bag on the counter and pull a glass from the cabinet, then fill it in the sink. I lean against the counter, sipping the cold water. The golf cart is handy—not that I'll admit it to Noah. I arrived today in minutes and not even a little sweaty.

Okay, maybe a little sweaty. Again, Florida.

When ten minutes pass and Noah still hasn't shown up, it starts to get weird. I text him but get no answer. I check all the downstairs rooms, the back patio, the garage, the pool house, the walk-in pantry, the theater room. He's not here.

Well, he's not downstairs.

"Noah?" I call from the foot of the stairs.

Nothing.

I should go up and make sure he's all right. I've been upstairs many times before, so it's not weird. I was supposed to meet Noah fifteen minutes ago, and in the week since we started working together, he's never been late.

My phone shows no response, so I start upstairs.

"Noah?" I call, mounting the stairs.

There's no response. There's no noise at all. The bathroom is open and empty, but Noah's door is closed, so I knock.

"Hello?" His voice comes from inside but sounds weird. "Oh my—hang on. Cat?"

He sounds so frazzled I can't help but smile. "Yeah, it's me."

"Time got away from me," he calls through the door. There's some noise inside, like he's rustling with something.

Should I go downstairs to wait?

"Coming," he says, and a second later the door opens.

I've seen Noah's room many times—like this morning when I vacuumed it—so this isn't weird, but what's different this time is the computer on a desk against the wall. It's big?.?.?. no, it's multiplied.

"What did you do?" I ask, stepping past him into the room.

"Oh, that's not—" Noah steps around me and yanks a cord that makes everything go black.

But I saw things on the screens before that happened. Things with wings, a man in armor—not medieval, but some weird leather and brass armor—old scrolly letters, a screen entirely in code. It looked like The Lord of the Rings mixed with Vikings.

My gaze swings to Noah. "What was that?"

He looks at me, the power cord dangling from his hand. Well, that's incriminating. His brown eyes are wide and hold mine with a fierceness that takes me by surprise. His usually immaculate hair is mussed, and I'm guessing he was wearing the headset that is sitting on the desk.

He's hiding something. He's definitely hiding something.

I really want to tease him for it, but he's my boss.

Freaking work relationships. When is teasing crossing the line? When someone pays your salary, are you allowed to call them a nerd? I fold my arms over my chest, biting down a quip. Two thousand dollars. That's how much I'm getting to keep my mouth shut.

"Should we head to the beach?" I ask, hooking a thumb over my shoulder.

Noah drops the power cord and a sigh slips from his mouth. "Yeah, let's go."

He waits for me to leave the room before following me to the hallway and shutting the door behind us. I can sense the discomfort coming off him in waves.

My curiosity is rising. I walk down the stairs, biting my tongue between my teeth to keep the questions from spilling out of my mouth. When I reach the bottom, I give up and turn to face him.

Noah stops abruptly, and I didn't leave him very much room, so he's pretty close. Mmmm, he smells good.

Focus, Cat.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Just a computer."

"Like five computers."

"Five? Try three."

"Okay, Belacourt," I say patiently. "Why do you have three new computers?" My first assumption would be a home office, but I happen to know Scout doesn't have any tech involving Viking wizards.

"Well, three and a half. Kind of. If you count the laptop."

"I'll rephrase." I bend my neck to see his eyes better. They're so brown and deep and nervous. "What are you doing with so much technology and a ton of code?"

He swallows, pulling my attention to his throat. I've never actually been attracted to a guy's neck before, but Noah has a really nice one. Objectively speaking, he has a really nice everything, which has been easy to ignore until now because I can't stand his family or ideals or business practices or gobs of money.

Noah is starting to prove some of those things false—at least where he's concerned. Jury's still out on all three of his sisters.

His throat bobs again like he's nervous. It's right in my line of sight. What would it feel like to kiss him? Would he be as generous and thoughtful in that regard as he is an employer?

Okay, Cat. Pull back. This is getting into dangerous territory.

Noah's staring isn't helping either. Is he thinking Move, chick. Get out the way? Or is he thinking about how kissable I look, too?

NOT THAT IT MATTERS. Employer, employee.

Like magic, the door opens with the exact reminder I need to keep a steady distance between myself and Noah.

Bree Belacourt walks in on five-inch heels with a tiny dog yapping from her purse. She pushes enormous sunglasses onto her head and beams at us. "Honey, I'm home!"