POV Norah
After the whole staircase incident with Madison and Jennifer—when Fiona had swooped in like a shield I didn’t even know I had—things shifted between us.
What started as wary tolerance turned into late-night texts, inside jokes, and an easy rhythm that felt almost like friendship. Actual friendship.
So by now, Fiona didn’t even bother with hello before launching straight into chaos.
She was in full swing before I’d managed a single sip of coffee.
“I heard,” she said, leaning across my desk like a cat about to deliver bad news, “our boss is going to have a baby. Can you imagine? The great Xander Crawford voluntarily reproducing? I wonder who the lucky girl is.”
I choked. Hard.
The coffee went down the wrong pipe, and I was coughing like I’d just inhaled an entire dust storm.
“Oh my god, are you alright?” Fiona’s eyes went wide, but her mouth didn’t stop. “Jesus, Norah, you sound like a horse dick went through your throat.”
That made me choke even harder, a wheeze-laugh hybrid that drew a few curious glances from nearby cubicles. I grabbed a napkin and waved her off, trying to breathe and glare at the same time.
“Don’t… say… that… when I’m drinking,” I rasped between coughs.
Fiona grinned like she’d just won something. “What? It’s a visual. You’re welcome.”
“Please,” I said, pressing the napkin to my mouth and blinking back the tears from coughing, “stick to normal metaphors before I die at my desk.”
She straightened, brushing imaginary crumbs from her blouse.
“So, back to the mystery baby mama… any guesses? Do you think he’d go for someone in the firm? Or would that be way too scandalous?”
My stomach twisted. “No idea.”
She studied me for a second, head tilting like she was trying to read something in my face. Then she shrugged, apparently satisfied with whatever she decided.
“Anyway. We should head back in before Madison sees us talking and gets jealous I stole her favorite target.”
We walked toward the elevator, Fiona still rattling off theories about the hypothetical “lucky girl,” and I focused on breathing evenly.
Inside, my mind was a hurricane—flashes of signing the contract, Xander’s steady voice stating the terms, the figure on the check that would hit my account.
By the time we returned to our floor, my phone buzzed.
Email from: Bank of New York
Subject: Deposit Confirmation
I opened it, and my breath caught.
The check had arrived exactly as promised—six figures, sitting in my account like it had always belonged there. My hands trembled as I pulled up the hospital’s payment portal, entering the amount in one go.
When the confirmation screen popped up, and I called Dad.
“Norah?” His voice was wary, tired.
“It’s handled,” I said before he could ask. “The hospital’s been paid directly. Mom’s surgery is scheduled.”
There was silence. Then a rough exhale.
“How…? Norah, that’s—”
“It’s a company loan,” I lied smoothly. “Part of my employment package. Don’t worry about it.”
The relief in his voice hit me harder than I expected. “You saved her life, honey. You know that, right?”
My throat tightened. “Tell Mom I’ll see her tonight.”
The next day blurred into a rhythm I hadn’t asked for but couldn’t back out of: internship work in the morning, a clinic appointment squeezed into lunch, and paperwork waiting for me the moment I got home.
Hormone shots that left my hips aching. Blood tests that made my veins feel like pincushions. Ultrasounds. Legal consultations with strangers who spoke in clauses and liability terms.
I signed, initialed, and agreed until my signature looked like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Through it all, I kept my head down at the office and avoided Xander unless it was absolutely necessary.
I told myself it made things easier—separating the contract from the man.
That evening, my tote heavier than usual, I was heading out when someone called my name.
“Norah?”
I turned, and there he was—the denim jacket, the easy grin, the warm brown eyes I remembered from that insane day in Midtown.
Chris.
“I knew it was you,” he said, holding up a sleek, stainless steel bottle with the Crawford & Associates’s logo across the side. “You dropped this when you were running after your phone thief.”
My mouth fell open. “You… still had my bottle?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Hard to miss. The logo gave me a place to start. Took me a while to find the right ‘N. Mason.’ Turns out there are a few of you floating around the legal world.”
Then he turned the bottle over, tapping the bottom with his thumb.
“But carving your name into it? Were you afraid someone would try to steal your water too?”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I… maybe. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Well, it worked.” His grin widened, easy and unbothered. “Saved me from chasing down the wrong N. Mason.”
I took it from him, the cool metal solid and strangely reassuring in my hands. “Thank you. I thought this was gone for good.”
“Least I could do,” he said. “Also… saves me an excuse to ask you out for coffee.”
My stomach did a strange flip. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. You know, that hot beverage people drink together while having conversations that aren’t about work?” His grin widened. “You could even call it a thank-you coffee if you want to make it less scary.”
I hesitated. The contract with Xander sat like a shadow at the back of my mind.
No dating. No “third-party drama.”
Those were his exact words.
Still… Chris’s smile was disarming, the kind that didn’t demand anything from you except maybe a laugh.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “But just coffee. To thank you for this. Not… anything else.”
He put a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “Just coffee. Promise.”
I told myself that’s all it was as we walked to the café down the block. Just a thank-you. Just returning a favor.
Not because I was actually interested.
Not because his laugh made something warm curl in my chest.
And definitely not because part of me wanted to know what it would feel like to sit across from someone who didn’t see me as a contract, an obligation, or a ticking clock.
But Chris’s easy smile made me feel things I shouldn’t.