Maya POV
“You’re kidding,” I said flatly, arms crossed as I stared at Noah.
He didn’t even blink. “No, I’m not.”
“You want me to come to your house?” I asked again, just in case I misheard. Or maybe he hit his head.
Noah looked up from his laptop, calm as ever. “Yes.”
I blinked. “To work?”
“Yes.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“You’re repeating everything.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Because you’re not making sense!”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, every time we try to get something done at the office, Alex barges in, or someone interrupts. We need one night—just one—without distractions. My place is quieter. That’s all.”
I narrowed my eyes. “This feels weird.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t even like me.”
A flicker of something passed in his eyes. “I don’t dislike you.”
“That’s… not convincing.”
“Maya,” he said, voice firm but not unkind, “are you coming or not?”
I groaned. “Fine. But I’m not working in heels. I’m bringing my slippers.”
He smirked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Noah’s house was, in a word, stunning.
Set in a quiet gated neighborhood, it looked like something straight off a Pinterest board—modern but warm, all clean lines, golden lighting, and giant glass windows. Inside, it was just as perfect: hardwood floors, minimalist art, expensive-smelling candles I could never afford, and plants that somehow weren’t dead.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, tossing his keys into a marble bowl by the door.
I walked slowly into the living room, trailing my fingers along the soft leather of his couch. “This place is… intimidating.”
He looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”
“Because everything in here says ‘I have my life together,’ and I left my water bottle in the microwave this morning.”
A soft meow interrupted us. I turned around and blinked. “Is that… a cat?”
Noah’s shoulders dropped just a little. “Yeah. That’s Biscuits.”
Out trotted a chubby orange tabby with a permanent grumpy expression and the slow, confident strut of someone who owned the place.
“Biscuits?” I asked, biting back a laugh. “Seriously?”
Noah crouched down and scratched behind the cat’s ear, his voice lower, softer. “She was a rescue. The shelter said she liked biscuits more than toys. So, here we are.”
Biscuits meowed and rubbed against his leg affectionately.
Something about the image of Noah—towering, moody, bossy Noah—crouched on the floor cooing at his cat… melted something in me.
“She’s adorable,” I said, kneeling down to gently stroke her back. “Hey, little biscuit…”
“She doesn’t like strangers,” he warned.
But Biscuits leaned into my hand, purring.
“Well,” I grinned. “She likes me.”
Noah raised a brow. “That’s a first.”
We both chuckled—actually chuckled—and it startled me how normal it felt. How easy. The moment passed too quickly.
“Come on,” he said. “I made dinner.”
I followed him into the kitchen, surprised again. The dining table was already set—plates, candles, wine glasses. Pasta simmered on the stove, and something that smelled like garlic bread filled the air.
“You cooked?”
“I know how to use a stove,” he said dryly. “Shocking, I know.”
I sat down as he brought over a plate. It looked amazing.
“Wow,” I said, twirling some of the creamy fettuccine. “This might actually be better than your graphs.”
“High praise,” he said with a soft smile.
For the first few minutes, we ate in silence. But not the awkward kind. It was… quiet. Comfortable. Even the clink of our forks felt gentle. And then our eyes met.
I don’t know how long we stared, but it was long enough for my heart to race. His gaze dropped to my lips before flicking back up. The air changed. Thicker. Slower.
Noah leaned forward just slightly, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. And for a breath—just one—I thought maybe he was going to kiss me.
That maybe the fire I felt wasn’t one-sided. I blinked and broke eye contact, pushing my chair back slightly.
“Thank you. For dinner.”
His brows knit together. “Maya…”
“No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “I should, um… we should finish the slides.”
He didn’t move. Just kept watching me. And because the silence was too much, I filled it with the only thing I knew would break the spell.
“You don’t have to pretend to be nice. I know you don’t actually like me.”
His jaw tightened. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to,” I replied, laughing dryly. “You treat me like I’m always one mistake away from being fired.”
“I push you because you’re good,” he said quietly.
I looked up, startled.
“I’m not used to people who challenge me,” he continued. “You do. Every day.”
“I thought you hated that.”
“I thought I did too.”
His voice was low now, almost a whisper. I didn’t know what to say. My heart was thudding in my chest, and I could feel that pull again—dangerous, magnetic.
So I stood.
“Let’s get back to work.”