31. Cat

We've been homefrom New York for two days and things are already strained, which means I've thrown myself into my favorite pastime: scrubbing. Mrs. Finnigan's house has never sparkled so brightly. My back aches and my little baby triceps are sore, but this is what I do when I need to feel in control. It could be so much worse, like an addiction to cocaine or painkillers or—yuck—running. At least this coping mechanism leaves me with a clean house.

I'm itching to have a go at the guest bathroom grout once our guests vacate. Those clean white lines and shiny tiles. To feel my fingers turn to raisins and have the room smell like bleach while the sea breeze laps at me from the open window. It's a drug.

And a distraction. Noah is trying not to press me, I think, because his list of tasks each evening are not even lists. It's been one bullet point each day: see if Mateo needs help with the app launch party.

Guess what? Both days, Mateo told me he has everything well in hand.

The evening before the third day, when Noah texts me that exact same thing, I'm a bit fed up. I sit cross-legged on the chair at our dining table and chew the last bite of the panini I made for dinner.

Cat

You're telling me to do that so Mateo can tell me he doesn't need me, right? I'm not charging you for these days because I'm not actually doing any work.

Noah

You're on call. You get paid

Cat

Don't be ridiculous

Noah

I'm doing what any employer would do

Cat

Fine, then I guess you're not my employer anymore

Noah

Don't do anything rash, Cat.

Cat

Rash? I'm saving my relationship with my uncle. He's not happy about our arrangement. He's looked it up. Even the wealthiest men don't pay their assistants this much

It's been a sticking point for Otto. He wants me to quit and still refuses to accept my help with his bills. He won't accept the argument that I'm paying him back for the years he raised me and all the stress and money that went into that.

I take my plate to the sink and start pulling out ingredients for berry overnight oats for tomorrow's breakfast. Otto walks into the kitchen when I'm pouring oats into the mixture.

"You quit that job yet?" he asks.

"Did you quit yours?"

Otto makes a gruff snort.

"What if we make a deal?" I offer, stirring the oats. "We'll go fifty-fifty on the bill."

He grunts.

"Otto."

"What?"

"You can't give me a house and then not accept any help."

"Half of a house. Your dad left you the first half."

I roll my eyes.

He bends down to tie his shoes. Now that I know about the bartending job, he hasn't bothered to hide his uniform from me. Seeing him in trousers and button-down shirts makes me think of my parents' funeral every single time. I hate it.

Otto lets out a sigh, getting to his feet, and lumbers over to kiss the top of my head. "See you later, Cattywampus."

"Have a good night."

I watch him leave and finish assembling the oats before pouring them into a glass container and putting them in the fridge. Once the house is quiet—the guests are all out—I slump in a kitchen chair and sigh. My phone has gone off a few times, but I don't have the energy to argue with Noah about money right now. Not when I'd rather be hanging out, watching his intense movies and letting him explain how Orcs are made.

Yeah, it's gross. I know. I think I'm smitten.

I sneak a look at my phone.

Noah

I'm tempted to deposit money into your account

Cat

That's an invasion of trust and privacy

Noah

I thought it was called a grand gesture

He has me there. Can we pretend none of this is happening and curl up in his movie room with Jimmy Stewart and The Shop Around the Corner? No, because we need to understand each other first. He needs to understand me.

Cat

I value you and your friendship, Noah. This isn't a pride thing. It's mine and Otto's issue. We have to work it out on our own.

Noah

I just want to help

If we were married, yeah, maybe I'd hand over Otto's account information and let him have at it. A lifelong commitment to have and to hold would be sufficient for me to feel comfortable accepting his help to erase a debt of this magnitude. The whole what's-yours-is-mine jazz is about more than shared accounts—it is a byproduct of the ultimate commitment and pledging entirely to one another.

But now? Fresh on the heels of admitting we have feelings for each other? It's a relationship death sentence. Besides, I value him, not his bank account.

Cat

If you paid it, I would feel like I owe you. I don't want a relationship built on a foundation of favors.

Noah

You want a relationship?

I see your point now. I really do

Do I want a relationship? Probably shouldn't have phrased it like that right after telling him we should only be friends. The correct answer is yes, of course, but the smart answer is no.

Be smart, Cat. Save yourself future heartache.

Noah's golden heart is in a good place though. I get it. If I had ninety-two thousand dollars sitting around, I would have already paid it off.

I straighten in my seat. I don't have the full amount, but I have some of it. Noah gives me checks every other Friday like a normal job, so the money from our first month is sitting in my bank now.

If I pay Otto's bill—or at least what I have so far—he can't argue with me about it anymore. He won't accept the help otherwise. This isn't the same situation as Noah wanting to pay it off for two reasons. First, I'm Otto's closest living relative. Second, despite his insisting he was happy to sacrifice to raise me, he did sacrifice and he did raise me. He gave up the opportunity to leave the island whenever he wanted for sick waves with his buddies because he had a nine-year-old at home. He did that for me. Because I love him so much, I want to do this for him.

I don't have the full amount right now, but I can pay half of it and get the "final notice" taken off the envelope.

Otto hasn't moved the medical bills, so I find them quickly and call the automated number, glancing at the clock. Just in time. They close in ten minutes.

The computer-generated system gives me the runaround, but I finally get a human on the line.

"How can I help you?" she asks.

"I want to make a payment on a bill."

"Can I have your name and the account number, please?"

"I already gave it to the computer system. Do you need it again?"

"To confirm your identity, I need your name and the account number again."

I rattle off the information.

"You have a zero balance on that account, ma'am."

She must be confused. I double check the last bill that's sitting in my hand. "I'm showing a balance of $92,410.06."

The woman hums. "That is the amount for the most recent payment, but you are now showing a zero balance. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"Wait, hold on. You mean someone paid it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who?"

"I don't have that information, ma'am."

"When was it paid?"

"Just a moment." She keeps humming while she's looking at the information. "It appears it was paid on July 2nd."

Yesterday. Noah. It had to be.

"Is there anything else I can help you with today, ma'am?"

"No, thank you." My hands shake as I hang up the phone. Did we not just go over this? Why did he let me say all those things? I push my phone into my pocket and get directly into my—no, Noah's—golf cart, and head straight for his house. My blood is boiling, overheated from Noah's audacity. I can't believe he went over my head and took care of the bill, knowing I didn't want him to. When I reach the house, I ring the bell three times too many.

It swings open to reveal Noah in shorts with no shirt. The porch light is working against me, sending golden light over the ridges on his abdominal muscles while his face holds cautious excitement, like he wants to take me in his arms but he's waiting for permission.

The universe hates me.

I swallow my flaring attraction, shoveling it under the welcome mat. I'm here for a reason. "Asking to take care of Otto's bills is one thing, but going over my head and doing it? That's crossing a line."

"What are you talking about?" Bless his heart, he looks confused.

"The medical bill. It's gone. Someone paid it."

It only takes a second for him to connect all the dots, and his eyebrows shoot up. "It wasn't me."

I guffaw in a really unattractive way.

"It wasn't me, Cat. Someone else must have done it."

"Who else has that kind of money? I don't. Otto certainly doesn't. No one else who's aware of our situation can afford to do that." I'm fighting tears. I just want to crawl into his arms and let him hold me, but instead I'm feeling small and lied to. "What else am I supposed to think?"

He takes a step forward, the muscle working on his jaw. "Definitely. It makes sense to jump to this conclusion. But, Cat, I mean it. I did not pay the bill. I wanted to, but I didn't do it."

"Would Mateo have done it on your behalf?"

"No."

I feel so defeated. It's such a small thing, but my pride is really caught up in it. Now that I'm here looking at him, his brown eyes soft and brow bent in concern, I know he's telling me the truth. Why would he have asked permission to pay it an hour ago if he'd already done it? He's not manipulative.

Noah steps forward, cupping my cheeks to raise my face. He brushes his thumbs over my scowling forehead, and I can feel the tension ease slightly. "I can help you get to the bottom of this if you need to know."

I nod, his hands moving with my head. He seems to sense how much I crave comfort and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me. His chest is warm and hard beneath my cheek. I should be elated the bill is gone, but it just feels icky on a different level, like someone has crossed a boundary into my personal space without permission. Walked into my room and tried on my clothes. Stepped into my bathroom and cleaned the toilet. Used my shower scrubber on their own back.

You just need to ask before you do these things.

Noah's voice is a low purr as he continues. "Or you could choose to be grateful for the gift, and?—"

I step back, missing his comfort immediately. "That's a lot of money, Belacourt. I'm not just going to move on with my life like it didn't happen."

"The person might wish to remain anonymous."

"Because the person is you?" I ask, heart in my throat.

"No, it's not me. But I might have an idea?—"

"Who?"

He hesitates, rubbing a hand over his chin. "I don't know for sure. I shouldn't give you a name unless I'm certain."

I shake my head and take another step back. "It doesn't add up."

"Cat—"

"No, this is?.?.?. I don't know, but something doesn't add up."

He looks ready to argue, hurt flashing in his brown eyes.

"I believe you didn't do this, but I need some time to figure it out." I can't shake the weird feeling buzzing in my arms and stomach. I want to step out of my skin and into a more comfortable set. I need to get away. It's too hard being here with him when he's not holding me. "Honestly, maybe it's a good time to break this off. We don't need the money anymore, which is the real reason you hired me in the first place."

"Cat, don't do this," he says, his voice low. "Of course I need you."

I cringe because he sounds hurt. He doesn't need me in a professional capacity, not when he has Mateo. We both know this. "It's not you. I don't like how I feel right now. We should dissolve our professional relationship so I can focus on my other jobs again." I turn to leave, halting at the golf cart. It's his. I toss the key on the seat and start walking down the driveway, crying in earnest now.

"Just take it, Cat," he says. "I'll get it back later."

"It's okay." My voice is high. I try to sound normal, but the tears are obvious in my tone.

He lets me walk away, probably in a chivalrous move to give me the space I asked for. But every step feels like it's chipping away at an open sore and tearing me in two.