Chapter 3 Midnight Collision

Day three, and Leighton still couldn't sleep.

She'd applied to twenty-seven jobs. Had one phone screen scheduled for tomorrow. Spent most of her time in her room, venturing out only when she was certain Noah was locked in his office or gone entirely.

The avoidance strategy was working. She'd barely seen him since the kitchen incident last night.

But now it was 1 AM, and her stomach was staging a revolt. The protein bar she'd eaten for dinner wasn't cutting it.

She pulled on her sleep shorts and a thin camisole, too tired to bother with the hoodie. The house was always warm anyway. Noah probably had some fancy heating system that cost more per month than her old rent.

This time, she knew the way to the kitchen. Small victories.

The house was dark and quiet. She padded down the stairs, her bare feet silent on the cool marble. She was getting used to the space now. Starting to memorize which hallways led where, which doors opened to what rooms.

The kitchen light was on.

She froze at the entrance.

Noah sat at the kitchen island, laptop open in front of him, a glass of amber liquid next to his hand. He'd changed since earlier. No shirt, just gray sweatpants. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it.

He looked up when she appeared.

For a second, neither of them moved. His eyes traveled down from her face, taking in her pajamas. The thin straps of her camisole. Her bare legs. Then his jaw tightened, and his gaze snapped back to his laptop.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were down here."

"It's fine."

She should leave. Go back upstairs. Eat the stale granola bar she'd stashed in her room.

But she was so tired of hiding. And she was hungry. Really hungry.

She moved into the kitchen, giving him a wide berth. She opened the fridge and studied its contents as if she were taking a test.

"There's leftover lasagna," Noah said without looking up. "Second shelf."

"Thanks."

She found it and put some on a plate, then stuck it in the microwave. The hum of it filled the silence. She kept her back to him, hyperaware of how little she was wearing. The camisole had seemed fine in her room. Now she felt practically naked.

The microwave beeped. She pulled out her plate, the smell making her mouth water. She grabbed a fork and turned to leave.

"You can eat here."

She looked at him. He was still focused on his laptop, his face lit by the blue glow of the screen.

"I don't want to bother you."

"You're already bothering me. Might as well commit."

She couldn't tell if he was joking. His voice gave nothing away.

Slowly, she walked to the island and sat on the stool across from him. Far enough that there was no chance of accidentally touching. Close enough that she could see what he was drinking.

"Is that whiskey?"

"Scotch. Macallan 25."

She had no idea what that meant, but it sounded expensive. Everything in this house was expensive.

She took a bite of lasagna. It was incredible. Homemade, with real mozzarella and herbs she couldn't name. Nothing like the frozen stuff she used to buy.

"Did you make this?"

"I have a chef who comes three times a week."

Of course he did.

"Must be nice."

He glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Must be nice to have food?"

"To have someone cook it for you. To live in a house with fifteen bedrooms. To not worry about rent or bills or getting evicted."

His expression darkened. "You think I didn't work for this?"

"I didn't mean..."

"I started my company when I was twenty-four. Worked eighty-hour weeks for three years straight. Nearly went bankrupt twice. So yeah, now I have a chef. I earned it."

"I wasn't attacking you."

"Sounded like it."

She set down her fork. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was rude."

He studied her for a long moment, and she fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. Then he picked up his glass and took a drink.

"Why graphic design?" he asked.

The question surprised her. "What?"

"Your degree. Chloe mentioned it. Why that?"

"I like making things. Creating things that didn't exist before." She shrugged. "It's the only thing I've ever been good at."

"You must be decent if you got hired out of college."

"I was. Until they decided decent wasn't worth the salary."

"Their loss."

The words were casual, throwaway. But something in her chest warmed at them anyway.

She took another bite of lasagna. He went back to his laptop, typing something, then frowning at the screen.

"What are you working on?" she asked.

"Contract negotiation. A company in Tokyo wants to license our software. They're being difficult about the terms."

"At one in the morning?"

"Tokyo is fourteen hours ahead. It's business hours there."

She watched him work, fascinated despite herself. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. Every so often, he'd take a drink, his eyes never leaving the screen. This was Noah in his element. Focused. In control.

Different from the cold, irritated version he'd been with her.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"You just did."

"Can I ask you another something?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Go ahead."

"Do you remember me? From before. When I used to come over with Chloe."

His hands stilled on the keyboard. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she'd walked in.

"Yes."

"You acted like you didn't."

"I know."

"Why?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he closed his laptop and picked up his glass, swirling the scotch. "Because it was easier than acknowledging that Chloe's little friend grew up."

Heat flooded her face. She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what it meant.

He stood up, draining the rest of his scotch. "You should finish eating and get some sleep."

"Okay," she said quietly.

He moved to the sink with his glass. Leighton stood too, grabbing her plate. She turned toward the sink at the same time he turned back, and they collided.

The plate slipped from her hands. She grabbed for it, overcorrected, and her elbow hit his glass instead.

It shattered on the marble floor in an explosion of crystal and scotch.

"Oh my god." She dropped to her knees immediately, reaching for the pieces. "I'm so sorry. I'm such a disaster. I'll pay for it. I'll..."

"Don't touch it."

She looked up at him. He was standing over her, his expression unreadable.

"You'll cut yourself." He moved to the pantry and came back with a broom and dustpan. "Move back."

"I can clean it. It's my fault."

"Leighton. Move."

She scrambled backward, pressing against the island. He swept up the glass efficiently, his movements quick and sure. When he was done, he dumped it in the trash, then grabbed paper towels and cleaned up the liquid.

She stood there uselessly, her heart pounding. "I'm really sorry. That glass looked expensive."

"It was."

"How expensive?"

"You don't want to know."

She closed her eyes. Perfect. She'd destroyed something that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. "Send me the bill. I'll find a way to pay you back."

"Forget it."

"Noah..."

"I said forget it." He threw away the paper towels and turned to face her. "It's just a glass."

"A really expensive glass that I broke because I'm clumsy and stupid and..."

"You're not stupid."

"I can't even hold onto a plate without causing property damage."

"It was an accident."

"I keep saying that about a lot of things lately." She pressed her hands to her face. "I'm sorry. I should just go back to my room and stop breaking your stuff."

She moved toward the door, but his voice stopped her.

"Leighton."

She turned. He was standing by the island, his hands braced on the counter, his dark eyes intense.

"Stop apologizing for existing."

"I'm not..."

"You are. You've apologized about fifty times since you got here. For eating. For getting lost. For breathing. It's exhausting."

Her throat tightened. "I'm taking up space in your house. The least I can do is..."

"The least you can do is stop acting like you're not allowed to be human." He pushed off the counter. "You're Chloe's best friend. That means something to her. Which means you're not going anywhere for two weeks, whether I like it or not. So stop walking on eggshells."

"Do you? Like it?" She blurted out, shocking herself.

The question hung between them. She shouldn't have asked. It was too direct. Too honest.

But she was tired of pretending.

He moved closer, and her breath caught. He stopped a foot away, near enough that she could smell the scotch on his breath, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

"I don't know yet," he said quietly.

Then he walked past her out of the kitchen, leaving her standing there alone, her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with breaking his glass.

She touched her fingers to her lips. They were trembling.

This was dangerous. The way he'd looked at her. The way her body had responded when he got close. The way she wanted him to come back.

She was so screwed.

She left her plate in the sink and went back to her room, but sleep was impossible. All she could see was the way his eyes had traced down her body. The almost-smile when she'd asked her question. The intensity in his voice when he'd told her to stop apologizing.

*Chloe's little friend grew up.*

What did that mean? Was he attracted to her? Annoyed by her? Both?

She rolled over and grabbed her phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Anything to stop thinking about Noah Knight standing shirtless in his kitchen, looking at her like maybe she wasn't invisible after all.

Her alarm would go off in five hours. She needed sleep.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. And she wondered what would have happened if she hadn't dropped that glass. If they'd stood there, inches apart, for just a few seconds longer.

Nothing good, probably.

Noah Knight was off-limits for about a thousand reasons.

She just needed to remember that.