8. Cat

When Noah'stext comes in late at night with a list of job responsibilities, I'm lying in bed and feeling my first wave of panic. Why did I think I could do this? My plate is already too full. There's no room to add another job. How am I supposed to clean the BB, tidy up after Otto destroys the kitchen making breakfast for the Carmichaels, be at Mrs. Finnigan's house for her weekly cleaning, and bring Noah a coffee from Sunrise Café all in one morning?

A little finagling, I guess. What choice do I have if I want to keep my house? I lay in bed and text Mrs. Finnigan.

Cat

Can we push your cleaning back to noon tomorrow?

Mrs. Finnigan

I have water aerobics at noon, but you can let yourself in. Don't forget to feed the birds.

Cat

That's my favorite part! Thank you, Mrs. Finnigan. Enjoy that booty-shaking

Mrs. Finnigan

I haven't shaken my booty in a long time, young lady. But I will try tomorrow, just for you.

I send her a kissy face emoji and a dancing lady, then go over the rest of Noah's list. Which, to be honest, is longer than I expected for the first day. I guess, for two grand, I should be doing things like spit-polishing his shoes and arranging his MMs by color.

I'll take things like grocery shopping and folding his jeans instead.

Does Noah wear jeans?

Maybe I'll just be folding his socks. Running shorts. Other things.

Noah

Times are flexible, Cat. I'm usually back from my run by 7am, but if you beat me to the house, let yourself in. You know the code.

Coffee with cream, no sugar.

Laundry—baskets located in my closet. Dry cleaning in white, everything else in gray.

I need flowers sent to my sister. I'll leave instructions on the counter.

Dinner meeting. Can you find something at the market that I can heat and put on a plate for three people? No dairy or melon.

Don't buy me a puppy

If I show up with a mini goldendoodle tomorrow, Noah only has himself to blame.

I text him back with a saluting emoji.

Cat

You got it, Zuckerburg.

Also, beat him to the house? What time does he expect his coffee? The man is a lunatic. If I'm alert before seven, I've been abducted by aliens and replaced with a more responsible life source.

I guess I'm becoming more responsible now. Noah has agreed to such a crazy amount of money, I have no choice but to be an early riser.

Maybe I'll get a sunrise out of it.

Noah

Zuckerburg?

Cat

Creator of social media. Rich. Computer genius. Also, did I mention he's rich?

Noah

I'll take computer genius. Have you been spying on me?

Cat

The ads for Scout are everywhere, Zuckerburg. Everywhere.

Noah

That doesn't explain how I'm a computer genius.

Cat

Don't you have to be one in order to develop software like that? Don't try to say you hired someone to develop it for you. I read a BuzzFeed article.

Noah

Ahh right. BuzzFeed never lies.

Cat

Everything on the internet is true.

Noah

Good to know. I guess that means my sister really is pregnant with Travis Kelce's baby and the first ultrasound showed that the baby has an extra heart. I hope her boyfriend doesn't find out.

Cat

I knew that one was fake!

Noah

Not possible. It was on the internet, Cat.

I chuckle, reading back over his message. I don't mention that the article I read about Scout was a few years ago and off the New York Times, of course, because I don't want him to know I'm a snoop. But come on. The guy isn't even thirty and he's developed software to fact-check anything you find on the internet. Scout gives sources too, and I have definitely used it a handful of times. His new dating app coming out—Scoutr—uses the fact-checking software to ensure all dating profiles are legit. There will be no catfishing or exaggerating on there because Scout makes it impossible.

It's brilliant. It's necessary. It's going to cut down on so many inappropriate messages and booty call wannabes.

Besides, I've seen Noah mentioned in multiple BuzzFeed articles. It's not a total lie.

Cat

I'll see you in the morning, Zuckerburg.

Noah

That's already gotten old.

Cat

Noted. Good night, Trump.

Noah

Good night, Cat.

I put my phone down and roll over. Noah is supposed to be a representative of corporate America, all the things that are wrong with the wealth and greed in this country. But, so far, he has been helpful—sometimes to a distressing degree; hello ocean when I wasn't drowning—and kind. He's still a billionaire with more money than sense. And he has a lot of sense.

So I kick the weird, bubbly feeling aside and go to sleep.

Where dorich people get their coffee? From their fancy kitchen countertop machines if they live in Sunset Harbor, probably. Our coffee at the BB is good, but it's just coffee, so I hop on my bike and head to Sunrise Café. Otto was in the middle of making breakfast for the guests when I left, so I told him to leave the dishes in the sink. I'll take care of it later.

Also, it's only ten minutes after seven, so I think I'm doing pretty good so far for the personal assistant of a guy who is finishing his run before seven.

Once the coffee is in hand, I pop a splash stick into the drinking hole and hop back on my bike. I like the Carmichaels, but once they head home we won't have a guest for a few days and I'll be able to use one of the golf carts again, which is always nice. Otto would probably let me take one even with them here, but we have a guests-first policy, so I usually leave the extra one for him. He's active, yeah, but he's not young. If one of us has to ride a bike, it might as well be me.

We live close to the center of the island. The ride through the town square and up Main Street toward the ritzy side of Sunset Harbor doesn't take too long, but it's already warm. By the time I reach the Belacourt mansion, the sun is out in full force, blazing down on me. Perspiration lines my forehead and rolls down my spine, gathering on the small of my back.

I really wish I had just taken the golf cart.

Using the edge of my T-shirt sleeve, I wipe at my forehead and slide my phone into my pocket. I'm in pink running shorts and a white shirt, my Birkenstocks keeping the look extra casual. Oh, no. Am I too casual? A personal assistant usually wears professional clothing, don't they? But I can't sport a pencil skirt while I mop Mrs. Finnigan's original wood floors, so this will have to do.

I knock on the door, hot coffee warming my already warm hand.

Should I have gotten it iced? It's too hot for hot coffee, right?

Get a grip, Cat.I've never over-thought anything in my life, but now I can't seem to stop. Can overthinking be contagious? Because Noah must be rubbing off on me.

The door swings open, and it is a glorious sight to behold. Noah's chest is heaving like he just sprinted inside from his run. He's holding the bottom of his shirt up to mop his sweaty face, not unlike I did a moment ago, except in so doing, he has revealed a full triangle of glistening abs.

The man exercises regularly, clearly. He must have an entire regimen dedicated to those beauties alone. If he'd been running on the beach alongside me when I'd lost my mom's scarf last week, he definitely would have caught it before it hit the ocean. Maybe there's something to this working out thing after all.

I mean, I can't look away.

I've seen his abs a lot, okay? We live on a long, narrow strip of land surrounded by turquoise ocean and white sand, so there are always the boating, surfing, and beach occasions for shirtlessness. Then there's the time Noah did a cologne ad when we were all in college that I might have found on YouTube and watched on repeat after a particularly bad breakup. I wasn't a fan of Noah, obviously. His sister ruined my life in eighth grade, and his whole family is wild and entitled.

But he's nice to look at.

Yet none of those previous occasions compare to the specimen that is before me today. I make a point of not objectifying people, just in general, since our worth shouldn't be tied to how we look or what shoes we're wearing or how many yachts we own, but for a long moment I allow myself this one small treat.

He drops the shirt. "Good morning."

And treat over. Time for professionalism. My arm juts out with the coffee. "It's still hot," I say. "Want me to pour it over ice?"

Noah's gaze runs over my face like he's frosting a cake. Did he catch me staring? By the small smile playing over his lips, he totally caught me staring.

"Ice sounds good," he says. "There's a pebble ice maker in the kitchen."

I nod once, trying to channel Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada when she's good at her job, and step past him into the house. If I hold my head high enough, he won't notice my running shorts—I don't run, they're just easy to clean in—and dingy old shirt with a dirty sweat-wiped sleeve.

"I just need a quick shower," he says, passing the kitchen and heading for the stairs.

I go in search of a tumbler and fill it with ice, then take the lid off the coffee to let it cool off. It takes me ten minutes to follow the instructions he left for Bree's flowers and order some online to be delivered later today with a note.

Good luck, Bree. You've got this.

—Noah

First off, I try not to find the encouragement adorable. I know Bree is Noah's youngest sister and she's in the middle of filming for Bela-babes Take Manhattan, but I can't help being curious about why he's sending her good luck flowers in Nashville. The girl isn't even in New York City. Maybe they're doing a travel episode.

By the time the flowers are finalized and paid for—with the card Noah left on the counter beside his note—the coffee is poured over ice and I've checked out what he has in his fridge so I can plan something for his working dinner tonight. He comes downstairs, bringing both laundry baskets with him. He's wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, ready for the office. Does he ferry into work every day? Does he work from home at a level of adulthood that means he wears the whole work outfit, even when Zoom meetings will only show him from the chest up?

I refuse to consider the thoughtfulness of his gesture in carrying down the laundry. He probably just wants his clothes washed so his workout shorts don't make his bathroom smell.

"Thanks." I take the clothes into the laundry room and get to work.

There isn't much, so it only takes a minute to sort and start the first load. When I turn around, Noah is leaning in the doorway.

His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, his shoulder leaning against the door jamb. "I'm getting you a card for expenses. It should be here by the end of the day. I have Mateo working on it."

I pop a hand on my hip. "Your other assistant?"

"Yeah, he handles those things most of the time. Also, can you make that dinner for four instead of three? Mateo will join us tonight."

"Sure thing."

His gaze sweeps over my clothes in a way that makes me second, no?.?.?. fourth guess what I'm wearing, but there is zero judgment on his face. I want to say it's appreciation lurking in those dark brown eyes, but that's ridiculous. Obviously, the uphill bike ride in the heat has messed with my head. "Anything else?"

"I'll put keys to one of the golf carts on the counter."

Oh my gosh. He saw my bike, or my sweat, or something. He must be trying to save us both the embarrassment of me showing up sweaty with his dinner later tonight in front of his colleagues and the assistant who actually knows what he's doing.

But I don't need charity.

"My bike is perfectly?—"

"It has nothing to do with your bike," he says, straightening. "Though you're welcome to leave it in the garage. The cart feels necessary since you'll be running all over the island for me. I don't expect you to bike around with my dry cleaning or my groceries, Cat."

He makes a fair point.

"You can use the one that doesn't have any Belacourt Resort labels, so Otto won't have to put up with my logos in front of his BB."

My lips curl into a smile and my hand drops, my ire gone. Trying to balance his clothes on a bike would have been a hassle. Same with trying to bike up his dinner tonight once I figure out what it's going to be. I could totally do it, but a golf cart would make things easier.

It would also help me get around faster.

And be generally less sweaty, which is a good enough reason on its own.

"Think of it as your company vehicle if you need to."

I was sold five minutes ago, but I nod at this. "Okay. Thanks."

Noah looks away, shoving a hand into the pocket of his slacks. He seems uncomfortable with the gratitude, which makes me want to be more effusive all of a sudden. He clears his throat and looks away. "I need to get to work, but I'll see you tonight."

"What time is dinner?"

"Seven. I'll take the dry cleaning to the mainland, so don't worry about that anymore."

A whiff of something delicious floats my way, rich and deep and swathing us in hues of black and white. Did we just step into a men's fragrance ad? It smells like it.

Quick, Cat. Time to mentally get back on track. "Do your lists often change?"

Noah smiles guiltily. "Mateo and I have a fluid communication thing going, but if it doesn't work for you, I will try to be more consistent."

"It's great," I say, quickly backpedaling. I can tell right away that a flexible schedule is going to make it easier to juggle all the balls in my life, so I support Noah and I having a fluid thing, too. I put both thumbs up like The Fonz and make a weird throat noise. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy old shows and movies? Right now, I wish I hadn't watched Happy Days reruns last week and instead watched something that would make me seem smart and sophisticated, like Audrey Hepburn. Audrey wouldn't point two thumbs at herself like a fifties greaser.

Be more like Audrey.

But then Noah smiles, his eyes lighting up, and I feel like maybe he's not just laughing at me this time.

"Have a good day at work," I say, hoping it pushes him out the door. A little space and the chance to step out of this noir moment would be beneficial to my mental health.

Noah nods once, stepping back, his hand sliding into his pocket again. He has so much suave. He just oozes handsome charismatic business owner vibes. If he could bottle that and sell it as a cologne, he wouldn't need to work another day in his life.

Okay, so he already doesn't need to work another day in his life, but my point stands.

I smile broadly in what I hope is an I'm definitely not affected by you or your smell or your thoughtful gestures or your gorgeous ocean view, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Time to get my head back on straight. Otto's dishes and Mrs. Finnigan's birds are counting on me.

"Have a good day, Cat," he says, walking away.

"You, too, Scrooge McDuck."

He turns a furrowed brow back on me. It has the effect of looking half-smolder and fully attractive. "The uncle, right? The duck triplets' uncle?"

I swallow. "Yeah, the one who swims in a pool of money."

"Oh, so you've been to my basement?"

I let out a snort. Now I'm glad I didn't call him Christian Grey.

He smiles softly like he can read my mind. "Bye, Cat."

I'm just a little bit disappointed when I hear the door shut behind him.