Do you usually fall asleep in strangers cars? Or or am I getting special treatment? Angelene had worked two shifts back to back at the cafe, studied for three exams, and slept 4 hours in 2 days. She was exhausted. When she saw the black Uber waiting in front of the library at 11:00, she got in without checking the license plate.
The back seat was comfortable, actually very comfortable, like suspiciously luxurious for an Uber, but she was too tired to question it. She closed her eyes just for a second and woke up hearing an amused male voice. Do you always break into other people’s cars or am I special? Angeline opened her eyes. The man was sitting next to her.
Expensive suit, magazine cover face, dark hair, and a sarcastic smile. And he was definitely not an Uber driver. When she looked around, the car had a mini bar. Like, who has a mini bar in their car? And that’s when she realized he wasn’t just some guy, but a millionaire. and you snored for 20 minutes, he said. And in that moment, she wanted to die.
This story is going to make you laugh so hard. Trust me. And my name is Kay. And yes, I am the mind behind these stories. And today, I want to thank Pia and James for their comments.
Chapter 1.
the discovery and the offer. You got into the wrong car, and that mistake is about to change everything. No, I should have checked the license plate. That’s the part that kills me when I think about what happened. I should have looked at the damn car number before getting in. But my eyes were burning with exhaustion, and my mind was somewhere else entirely.
Two shifts back to back at the cafe, three exams to study for, four hours of sleep in two days. I was running on autopilot, fueled by pure willpower and gallons of cheap coffee. When I saw the black car parked in front of the library at 11 at night, I assumed it was my Uber. It was black. It was waiting, and I was too tired to question it.
I opened the back door and slid inside like I was coming home. The seat was incredibly comfortable. Actually, too comfortable to be an Uber, but my exhausted mind didn’t register the warning. I just sank into the soft leather, closed my eyes for a second, and let the darkness swallow me. It was the best sleep I’d had in weeks. Deep, dreamless, worry-free, just the welcoming void of exhaustion finally winning until a male voice, deep and clearly amused, cut through my consciousness like a hot knife through butter. Do you always break into other
people’s cars? Or am I special, my eyes flew open. Immediate panic shot through my veins when I realized I wasn’t alone. A man was sitting next to me, so close I could feel his warmth, smell some expensive cologne that probably cost more than my rent. He wore a suit that looked customade, all in dark tones that made him look like he’d stepped out of a luxury magazine.
His hair was perfectly styled, but with that touch of calculated messiness that rich men seemed to master effortlessly. And the face, my god, his face was ridiculously handsome in a way that should be illegal. Defined jawline, dark eyes watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement, and a sarcastic smile that made me feel simultaneously annoyed and strangely warm.
I my voice came out horsearo from sleep. I sat up too fast and my head spun. Sorry, I thought this was my Uber. I wasn’t I wasn’t trying to break into my car. He tilted his head, that irritating smile still playing on his lips. Technically, that’s exactly what you did. And you snored for 20 minutes.
Heat climbed up my neck to my cheeks. I wanted to die right there on that absurdly comfortable leather seat. I don’t snore. You do lightly. It was actually kind of adorable. His eyes sparkled with genuine humor, and I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or scream. That’s when I really looked around for the first time. The car’s interior wasn’t just luxurious.
It was obscenely expensive. It had a built-in miniar, touchscreen displays, wood trim that probably came from some exotic forest. Who the hell has a miniar in their car? Oh my god. The reality of the situation hit me like a punch to the stomach. You’re not an Uber driver. Definitely not. He leaned back completely at ease while I panicked.
I’m Noah Priestley and this is my car, which you hijacked while taking a nap. The name didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but the way he said it made it clear it should. And from the look of him, the car, the aura of controlled power emanating from him, it was obvious he wasn’t just some guy.
He was someone important, rich, could probably sue me for trespassing or something. I’m so sorry. Really sorry. The words came out in a desperate rush. I worked all day, studied all night, and I was waiting for my Uber and I stopped, took a deep breath, tried to recover some dignity. I’ll get out now. Sorry for the inconvenience.
I reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped me. It’s 11:30 at night. What part of the city are you in? None of your business. The response came out sharper than I intended. Exhaustion made me sarcastic. An automatic defense mechanism. He laughed. Actually laughed. A low, genuine laugh that did something strange to my stomach. Fair enough.
But considering you slept in my car, I think I can be minimally concerned about your safety. Let me drive you home. I don’t need charity. My pride, stupid and stubborn, reared its head. It’s not charity. Noah leaned in a little closer, and suddenly the space in the car felt smaller, warmer. It’s common sense.
It’s late. It’s dangerous. And technically, you’re already in a car, even if it’s the wrong one. I should have refused. Should have gotten out of there and called another Uber. But the truth was, I was exhausted, scared to walk alone at that hour. And something in his voice, in the way he looked at me, made my survival instinct relax just a bit.
Fine, I gave in, grumbling. But if you’re some kind of serial killer, I’m going to be really annoyed. Noted. His smile widened as he tapped on the glass, separating us from the driver. James, we can go. The car started moving with a smoothness my shared Uber could never dream of achieving.
I passed my address to the driver, trying to ignore Noah’s penetrating gaze. So, his voice broke the two comfortable silence. Why so exhausted? Normally, I wouldn’t tell my life story to a stranger, but there was something in the way, he asked genuinely curious instead of condescending that made me answer.
Full-time college, two jobs, I sleep about four or 5 hours a night when I’m lucky. That’s unsustainable. There was no judgment in his voice, just observation. Wealth must be nice, but some of us need to work to survive. Sarcasm again, my favorite shield. To my surprise, he laughed again. Touché, but you’re killing yourself, literally.
And you? I turned to face him, meeting those dark eyes fixed on me. I bet you work 80 hours a week and sleep even less than I do. Maybe. A reluctant smile curved his lips. But at least I have a choice. The truth of that hit me harder than it should have. I looked away, watching the streets pass by the window. We were getting close to my neighborhood and I could see the change in his expression when he looked around.
Old buildings, poorly lit streets, graffiti on the walls. It wasn’t the worst place in the world, but it definitely wasn’t the kind of area where someone like Noah Priestley lived. The car stopped in front of my building, and I was already reaching for the handle when he spoke again. I need a personal assistant. It pays well, and the hours are flexible.
I froze, my hand still on the door. I turned slowly to face him. What? You heard me? Noah pulled a card from his jacket’s inner pocket, held it out to me. I need someone to organize my schedule, answer emails, manage the house when I travel, and you clearly need money and a job that won’t kill you from exhaustion.
I don’t need charity, I repeated the words, but this time they sounded weaker. And it’s not charity, Angeline. His use of my name surprised me until I realized he probably saw it on the Uber ID in the app. It’s a fair deal. I genuinely need help, and you genuinely need a better job. Nothing more than that.
I took the card, feeling the expensive paper between my fingers. I’m not promising I’ll call. I’m not asking for promises. He leaned back, that air of controlled power returning. Just think about it. I got out of the car in silence, watching him drive off into the night. I climbed the three flights of stairs to my tiny apartment, dropped my bag on the floor, and looked at the card in my hands.
Noah Priestley, CEO, with a phone number and business address in embossed gold letters. Christy, my roommate and best friend, came out of her room with her hair tied up in a messy bun. Are you okay? You’re late. I got in the wrong Uber. I tossed the card on the coffee table and let myself collapse onto the old couch and the car’s owner offered me a job.
What? Christy grabbed the card, her eyes widening. Wait, Noah Priestley. The billionaire Noah Priestley. He’s a billionaire. I closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling me down. Angel, he’s like one of the richest CEOs in the city. and you slept in his car. Christy started laughing. That loud laugh that always made me laugh along. Only you.
For the next 3 days, I tried to ignore the card. I went to work, went to class, studied, survived, but rent was overdue. My manager at the cafe was cutting hours and I was so tired I almost passed out during an exam. Christy found the card still on the coffee table. You’re an idiot if you don’t call this guy.
It’s charity, I protested weekly. It’s a job. One that pays better and won’t kill you. She stared at me with that expression that didn’t accept arguments. Is your pride going to pay the rent? It wasn’t, and she knew it. I called the number the next day, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed.
He answered on the third ring, his deep voice unmistakable. Priestly, it’s Angeline Torres, the girl who broke into your car. I tried to sound confident and probably failed miserably. There was a pause, and then that low laugh I recognized. Didn’t think you’d call. Neither did I, but I need money more than I need pride, apparently.
Brutal honesty was sometimes easier. When can you start? Tomorrow, I offered, hoping it wasn’t too soon. Perfect. I’ll send you the address. Start at 9:00. The next day, his car picked me up. Not Noah, just James, the driver, who greeted me politely and drove me to a mansion that made me question all my life choices. It was obscene.
Three floors of pure ostentation, perfectly manicured gardens, a fountain in front that probably cost more than my entire college education. I felt completely out of place as I walked to the front door. A woman in her 60s greeted me with a warm smile. Gray hair pulled back in an elegant bun, kind eyes that assessed me quickly. And you must be Angeline.
I’m Mrs. Dawson, the housekeeper. She opened the door wider. Come in, dear. Mr. Priestley is in his office. The house was even more impressive inside. High ceilings, art on the walls that was probably worth fortunes, marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. I followed Mrs.
Dawson through hallways to double mahogany doors. She knocked lightly. Mr. Priestley, Miss Torres has arrived. Come in. His voice came from the other side, and my stomach did a strange flip. Noah was behind a massive desk, fingers on his laptop keyboard, but his eyes lifted when I entered. today. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were, well, distracting.
That sarcastic smile appeared when he saw me, but there was something else in his eyes. “Satisfaction? Maybe.” “You didn’t run away,” he commented, standing up. “I need the money,” I responded directly. “Honest? I like that.” He came around the desk, getting too close for my comfort. Should we discuss terms? We spent the next hour talking about responsibilities, organizing his chaotic schedule, answering non-urgent emails, coordinating with Mrs.
Dawson about the house, managing travel. The salary he offered was three times what I made at both my jobs combined. That’s too generous. I couldn’t help saying, “It’s fair for the work.” Noah looked at me directly. And I want to make one thing clear, Angeline. This is a job, not a favor. You’re going to work. You’re going to earn your salary.
Nothing more than that. Something in my chest relaxed at those words. Understood. Great. He extended his hand. Welcome to the team. When our skin touched palm against palm, I felt an electric current run up my arm. From his eyes, he felt it too. But we both pretended nothing happened. Releasing our hands maybe a second beyond professional.
This was work, just work. I kept repeating that to myself as Mrs. Dawson showed me the office that would be mine. As Noah explained his chaotic organizational system. as our eyes met accidentally several times during the day. Just work, even though something deep in my mind whispered that sleeping in that wrong car had changed everything.
That was one of the most unusual situations I’ve ever written. When my friend suggested this idea, I could barely believe it. And are you enjoying this story so far?
Chapter 2.
Working distance. This is just a job, so why does it feel like something dangerous? The first few weeks working for Noah Priestley were a revelation of just how exhausting organized chaos could be.
His schedule was a nightmare of overlapping meetings, double booked appointments, and reminders that made absolutely no sense. Denoi, call M about the thing wasn’t exactly specific, but I quickly discovered that M was Marcus, his lawyer, and the thing was a multi-million dollar merger. I dove into the work with the same intensity I put into everything in my life.
I completely reorganized his schedule, creating a color-coded system that even a child could follow. I answered non-urgent emails with a professionalism I didn’t know I possessed. separating the important from the noise. The house with Mrs. Dawson’s help and guidance ran like a Swiss watch under my management. Noah was impressed.
I could see it in his eyes when he reviewed my work. In that way, his eyebrow would raise slightly before he nodded in silent approval. But the impression didn’t translate into closeness. He maintained an almost military professional distance, working 16 hours a day, leaving early and returning late, barely interacting with me beyond short direct instructions.
I cancel the 3:00 meeting, reschedule the Tokyo call. I need the financial reports by tomorrow. Orders given while walking through the hallways, never looking back, always in motion. As if stopping meant admitting he was human and not a tireless corporate machine. I should have been grateful for the distance.
It made it easier to ignore the way my stomach tightened when I heard him arrive home late at night. It made it easier to pretend I didn’t pay attention to the sound of his footsteps upstairs, the creek of his office chair when he finally sat down to work a little more before sleeping. But there were moments, small, fleeting, impossible to completely ignore, like that Tuesday at 2:00 in the morning when I went down to the kitchen to get water and study a bit.
I had exams coming up, and the silence of the mansion in the early hours was perfect for focusing. I turned on only the light over the kitchen island, spread out my books and notebooks, and lost myself in the economic theories I needed to memorize. Sleep is for the weak. His voice made me jump in my chair. Noah was at the kitchen entrance barefoot, wearing only sweatpants and a t-shirt that hugged his body in ways my tired brain shouldn’t notice.
His hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there in the morning, says the person studying at 2:00 in the morning. He approached, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and leaned against the island across from me, too close. Or maybe it was just the hour.
The quietness of the house, the way the dim light created shadows on his face that made him seem less like a CEO and more like just a man. I have an exam tomorrow, or today, technically. I lowered my eyes to the book, pretending to read the same line I’d already read five times. And you? Why are you up? Proposal for investors.
It needs to be perfect. Noah took a sip of water, his throat moving in a way my eyes involuntarily followed. You’re killing yourself studying and working again. And you’re killing yourself working again. I threw the sarcasm back, raising my eyes to meet his. At least I have the excuse of paying for college. He smiled.
Not that polite CEO smile, but something genuine that lit up his dark eyes and made a dimple appear at the corner of his mouth. Touche. We stood there for a moment that lasted too long and not long enough. The air between us felt thick, charged with something neither of us wanted to name.
Then Noah straightened, the professional distance returning like a mask. Don’t study too late. I need you functional tomorrow. Yes, sir. The response came automatically, but with a touch of irony that made him shake his head as he left the kitchen. I should have gone back to studying. Instead, I sat staring at the empty doorway, my heart beating a little faster than caffeine alone justified. Mrs.
Dawson started to notice. Of course, she noticed. The woman had eagle eyes and decades of experience reading people. The following Thursday, while I was organizing papers in the main office, she appeared with tea and that knowing smile that made me want to hide. You’re doing wonderful work here, dear. She placed the cup beside me, sitting in the nearby armchair. Mr.
Priestley is much more organized. He even mentioned it yesterday. It’s my job. I kept my voice neutral, focusing on the documents. In 10 years working in this house, I’ve never seen Mr. Priestley laugh. Mrs. Dawson spoke casually, but I felt the weight of the words until you arrived. Now he laughs. Not much, but he laughs. You make him laugh.
Heat climbed up my neck. It’s just we’re sarcastic. We match in that sense. Dear, I’ve seen many assistants come through here. Some pretty, some smart, some both. None of them made him look the way he looks at you. Her smile was kind, maternal. I’m just saying that some bosses and employees transcend those definitions. Mrs.
Dawson, I started but didn’t know how to finish, how to explain that I couldn’t think like that, that I needed this job, this stability, and mixing feelings would be disastrous. It’s just work. It needs to be just work. She nodded, but the smile didn’t disappear. Of course, dear. Whatever you say. The following week, the universe decided to test exactly how well I could keep things strictly professional.
I woke up Monday morning feeling like a truck had run over me twice. My throat was scratchy, my head was throbbing, and my whole body achd in a way that went beyond normal tiredness. I took medicine, drank coffee like it was the cure for all ills, and went to work anyway. I couldn’t miss. Not so soon. Not when I finally had a job that paid the bills and gave me some dignity.
Noah had meetings all day, which meant I managed to hide in my office, answering emails and organizing documents while shivering under the cardigan I’d put over my blouse. The mansion’s temperature was perfect. My body was the one failing. I managed to survive until 3:00 in the afternoon. That’s when Noah returned from a business lunch, entered my office to ask for a file, and stopped mid-sentence.
Are you okay? His voice had an edge of concern that wasn’t there before. Perfectly fine, I lied, trying not to notice how the letters on the computer were kind of blurry. Which file do you need? He approached and before I could protest, he put his hand on my forehead. His palm was cool against my burning skin, and the touch was so unexpected that I froze completely.
You’re burning up. Why are you working? Because it’s my job. I pulled away from his hand, even though the irrational part of my brain wanted to melt into that touch. I’m fine. You’re not. His tone changed from concerned to authoritative in a second. You’re going to stop working now. Go to the guest room and rest. That’s not a request.
Noah, I can’t. I started to protest, but he cut me off. I’m paying you even when you’re sick. Go to the guest room now. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. That CEO voice that moved millions and closed deals. I’ll have Mrs. Dawson prepare the bed. My pride wanted to fight. My body traitorous wanted to cry with gratitude.
In the end, I just nodded, standing slowly because the room spun when I got up. Noah automatically extended his arm, holding my elbow to stabilize me. Can you walk? The concern was back in his voice. I can, but I let him guide me anyway, the warmth of his hand on my arm being the only thing that felt real as we climbed the stairs. Mrs.
Dawson was already preparing the bed when we arrived, her expression maternal and worried. Poor girl, work too hard. Didn’t eat right. I’ll make soup. I sank into the soft mattress, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Even though I was dressed, the room spun slightly, and I closed my eyes to make it stop. I heard low voices, Mrs.
Dawson and Noah talking at the door, but the words mixed into an incomprehensible buzz. I slept deeply, dreamlessly, the kind of sleep that comes when the body finally gives up fighting. I woke to the sound of a door being opened gently. The light was dimmer now, the room bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. Noah was coming in carrying a tray with a steaming bowl. Mrs. Dawson made soup.
He placed the tray on the nightstand beside the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress in a way that made the material sink slightly toward him. As she said, “You need to eat something. She made it, but you brought it.” I observed. My voice still, a smile touched his lips. I insisted. She resisted. I paid more.
Literally, I couldn’t help but laugh, which turned into a cough, figuratively, but she got the point. Noah picked up the bowl, extending it to me. “Are you need to stop killing yourself working, says the workaholic who sleeps 4 hours a night and works on weekends.” I accepted the bowl, but stared at him over it.
“You have no moral authority here.” Touche. That smile again. Genuine and disarming. But at least I choose this. You You’re doing it because you think you don’t have a choice. It’s because I don’t. The honesty came out before I could censor it. College doesn’t pay for itself. Life doesn’t pay for itself. I know, his voice got softer.
But you work for me now, and part of my job as your employer is to make sure you don’t die of exhaustion in my office. It would look terrible on my resume. I laughed again, more carefully this time. How considerate. I ate the soup in silence while Noah remained sitting on the edge of the bed. It should have been strange.
This intimacy forced by illness and concern. But it wasn’t. It was comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. Better? He asked when I finished. Better. I handed back the bowl and our fingers touched briefly in the transfer. That electricity again, running through my skin, making my heart skip a beat. His eyes locked on mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His hand was still close to mine, so close I felt the warmth of his skin. It would be so easy to close that distance, intertwine our fingers, admit that this, whatever this was, was more than professional. Noah pulled away first, standing quickly and grabbing the tray. Rest.
I’ll check on you later, Noah. I didn’t know what I was going to say. Thank you. You don’t need to worry. Please stay. Just rest, Angeline. He stopped at the door, looking back. That’s an order from your boss. And then he was gone, leaving me alone with a heartbeating too fast and thoughts that were definitely not appropriate for an employee thinking about her boss.
Christy showed up the next day. Noah must have called her because my best friend arrived with wide eyes and an expression that mixed concern and pure disbelief. This house is obscene. Those were her first words. When Mrs. Dawson led her to the room where I was um how do you work here and stay sane with difficulty? My voice was still but I felt much better after 16 hours of sleep. Thanks for coming.
Noah Priestley personally called to let me know you were sick. Of course I came. She sat on the bed studying my face and also to see the man who’s clearly obsessed with you. He’s not obsessed. He’s just a good boss. Even as I said the words, they sounded false. Angel. Christy took my hand. He called personally.
He didn’t send an assistant or secretary. He himself dialed my number and explained your condition with a level of detail that suggests he paid very close attention to you. Before I could respond, the door opened. Noah entered, stopped when he saw Christy, and something interesting passed across his face.
Surprise! Discomfort at being interrupted. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor.” He looked at me. “How are you feeling?” “Better, thank you.” My voice came out softer than I intended. Christy looked between the two of us and I could see the gears turning in her head. Mr. Priestley, can I talk to you for a moment outside? Noah looked genuinely surprised but nodded.
Of course, they went out and through the half-cloed door, I heard Christiey’s voice, low but clear. You like her, Miss Park? Noah started, but she cut him off. Don’t give me formalities. You like her. It’s obvious in the way you look at her. In the way you called me worried. In the way you’re here instead of in your office working like you always do.
A pause. You’re a terrible liar for a billionaire. There was silence. My heartbeat painfully hard against my ribs. It’s complicated. His voice finally came low and tired. She works for me and she deserves more than this. This what? A rich guy who clearly cares about her. Who makes sure she eats right and rests.
Who looks at her like she’s the most interesting person he’s ever met. Christy laughed without humor. Angel’s been poor her whole life. What she deserves is someone who truly sees her. And you see her. I didn’t hear his response. The door closed completely. When Christy came back, her smile was way too satisfied. I planted the seed. “What seed?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
The seed of doubt, of questioning, of what if? She took my hand again. Because you two are idiots dancing around each other and someone needed to push. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the closed door and wondered if Noah was on the other side thinking the same impossible things I was.
Chapter 3.
Cracks in the wall. What happens when the walls we built start to break? Two months passed in a blur of organized schedules, answered emails, and a routine that should have become comfortable, but was far from it.
The tension between Noah and me grew with each day, silent and inevitable like a storm forming on the horizon. Small moments accumulated. Looks that lasted a second too long. Hands that almost touched when passing documents. Conversations that started professional and ended dangerously personal. I became an expert at pretending I didn’t notice, that I didn’t feel my pulse quicken when he entered the office, that I didn’t pay attention to the smell of his cologne when he passed too close, that I didn’t count the hours until he arrived home
late at night, just so we could exchange a few words before separating to our respective corners of the mansion. The routine was established. Professionalism theoretically, too. But the cracks in the wall we’d built were becoming impossible to ignore. I need you to come with me to Boston, Noah announced on a Thursday.
Entering my office with that controlled energy that meant important business. Meeting with potential investors. It’s going to be critical and I need you to organize the documents. Make sure everything’s perfect. When? I asked already opening the calendar tomorrow. We’ll be back Sunday. He leaned against the desk. that casual position that made the muscles in his arms tense under his shirt. Cool.
I know it’s short notice. No problem. I’ll arrange everything. I kept my voice professional. Even though the idea of traveling with him, of spending entire days in his company without the barriers of the mansion and routine did something strange to my stomach. The flight the next day was my first experience in a private jet.
I tried not to look impressed when I climbed the stairs and entered what looked more like a flying living room than a plane. Cream leather seats, mahogany tables, even a complete work area with computers and a printer. First time? Noah asked, that knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched me try to act natural.
Is it that obvious? I sat in one of the seats, sinking into the absurdly comfortable leather. I usually travel in economy class, squeezed between a crying baby and someone who stole the armrest. He laughed, sitting in the seat across from me. Welcome to the other side. Babies are strictly prohibited. The flight passed too quickly.
We worked most of the time reviewing presentations and numbers, but there were moments of pause where we just talked about nothing important. Small things like favorite songs and foods we hated. The kind of conversation normal people have, not boss and employee. The hotel in Boston was predictably five-star. The lobby had more marble than my entire old neighborhood combined.
The manager greeted us personally, professional smile plastered on his face as he led us to the top floor. Your sweets, Mr. Priestly, he opened two adjacent doors, the finest in the hotel, as requested, with connecting balconies. My suite was bigger than the apartment I shared with Christy.
King-size bed, marble bathroom with a separate tub, living room with a city view, everything impeccable, expensive, intimidating. I put my things away quickly and joined Noah in his room to review the plans for that night’s business dinner. He was on the phone when I entered, gesturing for me to sit while he finished a call in fluent Mandarin.
“One more thing I didn’t know about him,” added to the growing list of fascinating details. “Dinners at 8,” he hung up, taking off his jacket and tossing it over the armchair. His shirt sleeves were already rolled up to his elbows, revealing the forearms I’d learned not to look at directly. “The investors are traditional, conservative. I need to impress them.
You always impress.” The words came out before I could filter them. His eyes met mine. something unspoken passing between us. Your confidence is motivating. The restaurant was sophisticated and quiet, the kind of place where each fork had a specific purpose, and the wine cost more than college tuition. I was there to take discreet notes, observe reactions, be invisible but useful.
The three investors were older men, expensive suits and watches that probably cost as much as cars. The conversation flowed over numbers and projections. No one navigating the questions with the ease of someone born for it. I took notes on important points on my tablet, half hidden at the end of the table. Everything was going well until one of the investors, a man named Richard with gray hair and an oily smile, decided to include me in the conversation.
Priestly, besides excellent numbers, you have excellent taste and assistance, beautiful and efficient, I imagine. The atmosphere froze. Or maybe it was just me. My whole body tensing at the disrespectful way he spoke, as if I were a decorative accessory instead of a professional. Noah’s posture changed subtly.
His jaw tensed, his eyes darkened, and when he spoke, his voice had an edge of ice that wasn’t there before. Miss Torres is my executive assistant because she’s the best at what she does. Her professional merits are unmatched. Now, about the third quarter numbers, the subject change was firm, leaving no room for argument. Richard backed off, clearly realizing he’d stepped into dangerous territory.
The rest of the dinner proceeded without more inappropriate comments, but the tension remained beneath the polite surface. In the elevator back to the room, finally alone, I let out the breath I’d been holding. You didn’t need to defend me. I can handle comments like that. Noah stared at me, his expression serious. I know you can.
But I don’t like it when people talk about you that way. Why? The question came out more vulnerable than I intended. Silence, heavy, loaded, full of things neither of us was saying. His eyes on mine, dark and intense in the soft light of the elevator. His breathing changed, became deeper, and I realized we were too close.
That the space between us was shrinking without me noticing. The elevator stopped with a gentle jolt. The doors opened to our floor. The moment shattered like glass. Good night, Angeline. Noah got out first, his voice tense. Rest. Tomorrow will be long. I entered my suite without looking back, closing the door and leaning against it. My heart was beating erratically.
My hands trembling slightly. This was getting dangerous. Not the way he defended me, but the way I felt when he did. Protected, valued, seen. I changed clothes, tried to sleep, failed miserably. At 11:30, I was on the balcony. The cool October air helping to clear my confused head. The city glittered below, lights stretching to the horizon.
A knock on the sweet door made me jump through the peepphole. I saw Noah standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, hair messy, as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly. I opened the door. Everything okay? I can’t sleep. He looked at me, vulnerable in a way I rarely saw. Do you want to talk? It was strange for him to ask for company.
Noah Priestley, the man who worked alone until the early morning hours, who kept his distance from everyone, was at my door asking to talk. The balcony, I indicated with my head. I noticed that ours connect. We went out into the cold air, sitting in the comfortable chairs the hotel provided. The city pulsed below us, distant and surreal.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just existed in the same space without the usual barriers. My parents are alive. Noah broke the silence abruptly, but they might as well not be. They call on my birthday at Christmas. Send expensive gifts that prove they don’t know me. It’s lonely growing up in a house full of everything except affection.
I looked at him, surprised by the raw honesty. That’s why you work so much. Fill the void. And you? He turned to me. Why do you work yourself to death? The answer caught in my throat for a second. No one asked. Everyone assumed it was just financial necessity. My parents died when I was 14. Car accident. I went into the foster system, bounced around some homes until I turned 18.
I learned that the only person I can trust is myself. That no one’s going to save me, so I have to save myself. Angeline. His voice got softer. I work so much because I’m afraid, I continued, the words flowing now that they’d started. Afraid of going back to being that girl with nothing. Afraid of depending on someone and them leaving. Afraid of not being enough.
You’re more than enough. Noah leaned forward, elbows on his knees. You’re extraordinary, and it scares me how much I think about that. My heart jumped. Noah, you’re the first person in years who sees me as human, he continued, looking at the city, but speaking to me, not as an ATM or a useful business contact.
You argue with me, laugh at me, challenge me. It’s refreshing, addictive. You’re the first person who helped me without making me feel inferior, I admitted quietly. Who offered me opportunity instead of charity. Who treats me as an equal even when we clearly aren’t. He turned to me so fast I startled. We are equals.
Money doesn’t change that. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Everything you’ve achieved, you did alone. I was just born into the right family. We were too close again. I could count the color variations in his eyes. See the way his pulse beat in his neck. His breathing was irregular, matching mine.
The air between us became thick, charged, impossible to ignore. He leaned in. Or maybe it was me. It didn’t matter. The distance shrank until I felt his breath on my face. Until our lips were inches apart, until I pulled back fast, awkward. My heart beating so hard it hurt. I can’t, Angelene. There was pain in his voice.
I can’t, I repeated, standing, putting physical distance between us. I need this job. I can’t risk complicating things. If this goes wrong, if I lose everything again, I can’t. Noah sat for a long moment, jaw tense, hands clenched on the arms of the chair. Then he stood too, nodding slowly. I understand, but there was clear disappointment in his eyes.
Contained hurt and something else. something intense that made me want to take back the decision, throw caution out the window, and just feel we should sleep. My voice came out horsearo. Early meeting tomorrow. Yes. He started to go back to his own suite, but stopped. For what it’s worth, I would never let you lose anything, but I respect your decision.
And then he was gone, leaving me alone on the balcony with a broken heart and the certainty that I’d made the right choice, even though it felt completely wrong. The flight home on Sunday was torture. We tried to work, but the atmosphere had changed irrevocably. Every accidental touch when we passed papers felt like it burned. Every look that met lasted too long.
We couldn’t go back to cold professionalism, but we also couldn’t cross the line I’d drawn. Mrs. Dawson noticed immediately when we returned. Of course, she did. The woman had radar for romantic tension. How was the trip? She asked too innocently while I organized the mail that had arrived. Productive? I kept my eyes on the envelopes.
The meeting went well. Hm. The sound she made made it clear she didn’t believe any of it. You two seem tense. It’s just work. The lie sounded pathetic, even to my ears. In the following weeks, the tension only increased. Small accidental touches happened with suspicious frequency. Hands meeting when reaching for the same pen.
Shoulders brushing when reviewing documents side by side. Fingers touching when passing coffee in the morning. And the looks, God, the looks across the office during meetings. At dinner when Mrs. Dawson insisted we eat together. In the morning when we ran into each other in the kitchen before either of us was fully awake, Mrs.
Dawson watched it all with that knowing smile but had the decency not to comment. She just smiled and made sure we were alone together with suspicious frequency. I need a date for an event, Noah announced one day in October, entering the office with that energy that meant he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it.
Corporate charity gala Friday night. Do you want me to arrange a date? I asked, ignoring the stab of something unpleasant in my chest. No. He put his hands in his pockets. That gesture he made when he was nervous. I want you to be my date professionally. There will be important contacts and I need someone with me who understands the business.
Oh, my voice came out small. Of course, professionally. I’ll have a dress delivered, he continued, not looking at me, appropriate for the event. The dress that arrived on Thursday was stunning, black, elegant, probably cost more than 6 months rent. I touched the delicate fabric, imagining what it would be like to wear something like this.
It’s a work uniform, Noah said when I protested about the price. That sarcastic smile back. You can’t go in jeans. I rolled my eyes but accepted. What choice did I have? On Friday, I got ready carefully. The dress fit perfectly, hugging curves I didn’t know I had. Subtle but elegant makeup, hair pulled back in a loose bun.
When I came down the stairs, Noah was waiting in the hall, gorgeous in a black tuxedo. His eyes widened when he saw me. They traveled over my body slowly, not disrespectfully, but appreciatively, almost reverently. You look stunning. Heat climbed up my neck. It’s the dress. It’s not. His voice got deeper.
It’s definitely not just the dress. The event was in a huge ballroom decorated with opulence that made me feel like I’d walked into a movie. Crystal chandeliers, tables with silk tablecloths, people wearing more jewelry than some countries had in their GDP. Noah kept his hand on my lower back as we navigated the ballroom, introducing me to important contacts.
The touch was light, professional, but it burned through the fabric of the dress. We were talking with a group of executives when she appeared. Tall, blonde, perfectly made up, wearing a red dress that showed miles of sculpted legs. Model, obviously, or maybe an actress. Noah. She glided up to him with a familiarity that made my stomach tighten.
It’s been so long, Victoria. He was polite but distant, his hand still on my back. “How are you?” “Better now,” she batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly, completely ignoring me. “We need to get together. Have that coffee you promised. I didn’t promise anything. I could see in his eyes.
” But Victoria continued, flirting openly, touching his arm, laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny, and I felt it. Jealousy, green, ugly, consuming, ridiculous, because he was my boss, not my anything. But seeing that beautiful woman touching him, smiling at him, clearly wanting more, did something brutal to my chest.
And who’s your date? Victoria finally looked at me, her eyes traveling over my body from top to bottom with a cold assessment. Angelene Torres. Noah pulled me slightly closer. My executive assistant. Indispensable. Indispensable. The word should have made me feel professional, valued. But all I heard was assistant, employee, not girlfriend, not romantic interest, just indispensable assistant.
Victoria smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She’d seen the competition and was marking territory. How lucky for you, Noah. Competent assistants are so hard to find. We talked for a few more minutes, or rather, they talked while I pretended interest. When we finally walked away, I felt her eyes boring into me, judging, assessing, finding me lacking.
“Sorry about Victoria,” Noah murmured, his hand still on my back. “She’s persistent.” “Ex-girlfriend?” “Something like that. Nothing serious.” He guided me to the bar. “Do you want something to drink? Champagne?” “I needed alcohol, just a little, just to take the edge off the absurd jealousy.” Noah ordered two glasses, and we stood there watching the party, closer than we should be.
I heard his breathing, felt the warmth of his body against my side. Everything about him pulled me like gravity. You said, “Indispensable,” I commented quietly. He looked at me, his eyes dark and intense. Because you are not just at work, Angeline, in everything. Before I could respond, someone called Noah for photos. He went reluctantly, leaving me alone with confused thoughts and a heart beating too fast.
Victoria appeared at my side like a snake. Is he a good boss? The best. I kept my voice neutral. Hm. She took a sip of her drink. Take good care of him. Noah deserves someone who understands his world. The message was clear. I wasn’t from this world. Never would be. I was just a temporary employee in his life. But when Noah came back and immediately searched for me in the crowd, when his eyes lit up finding me, when his hand returned to my back like it belonged there, I thought maybe Victoria was wrong.
Maybe I didn’t understand his world. But maybe he didn’t want someone who understood. Maybe he wanted someone who made him forget about this world for a moment. And maybe I was tired of fighting the inevitable. This is a dilemma a lot of people go through. When the love of your life comes from a totally different world, in moments like that, the big question hits.
Does love really conquer all?
Chapter 4.
The almost. The week after the event was unbearable. If we cross this line, there’s no going back. Not the exhausting or stressful kind, but the kind that made the air heavy and hard to breathe. like the entire mansion was waiting for something to happen. The tension between Noah and me had gone from silent to deafening, impossible to ignore, even when we desperately tried.
We avoided each other and sought each other out simultaneously in a pathetic dance that was probably obvious to anyone with functioning eyes. I passed by the hallway leading to his office more times than necessary, hoping for a casual encounter. He appeared in my office with transparent excuses about documents he could have asked for by email.
When we did run into each other, the conversation was too professional, forced. The looks lasted too long. The silences said more than words, and each interaction left my heart beating erratically and my mind spinning in circles about things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Mrs. Dawson was officially tired of our nonsense. I found her in the kitchen on a Thursday morning making coffee, and the way she looked at me made it clear her patience had run out.
“You two are idiots,” she declared without preamble, placing the cup in front of me with more force than necessary. He loves you. You love him. The end. What are you waiting for? Divine intervention. I almost spit out my coffee. Mrs. Dawson. I don’t. Don’t lie to me, dear. I’m too old to tolerate She sat across from me, her eyes kind but firm.
I’ve worked here for a decade. I know Noah. I’ve seen him with other women, seen relationship attempts that lasted weeks before he completely lost interest. He has never ever looked at anyone the way he looks at you. It’s complicated, I mumbled, looking at my cup. I work for him. I depend on the salary. If it goes wrong and if it goes right, she tilted her head.
My dear, life is too short to let fear decide for you. And that man upstairs is absolutely in love. I can see it in the way he says your name, in the way his face changes when you walk into a room. He’s suffering just as much as you are. I didn’t respond. Didn’t know how because she was right. and admitting that out loud would make it all too real, too scary.
On Friday, Noah had the meeting, the meeting he’d been obsessing over for weeks that could make or break a multi-million dollar contract that would determine the future of an entire division of the company. He was stressed beyond normal, which for Noah meant practically vibrating with controlled tension.
I found him in the office at 6:00 in the morning, already working, his hair messy from running his hands through it repeatedly, his shirt wrinkled like he’d slept in it. He probably had. Good morning. I tried to sound normal. Coffee, please. He didn’t even look up from the paper spread across the desk. And if you can figure out how to add 3 hours to the day, that would be great, too.
I went to the kitchen, made the coffee the way he liked it, strong and no sugar, and did something impulsive. I grabbed a post-it, wrote quickly, and stuck it on the cup before taking it back. I left the coffee on his desk, returned to my office before I could see his reaction. But through the halfopen door, I saw when he picked up the cup, saw the note, and stopped completely.
His shoulders relaxed. A small genuine smile curved his lips. He touched the yellow paper delicately like it was something precious. You’re going to kill it. You always do. That’s all the note said. Simple, true, and apparently enough to completely disarm the most controlled man I knew. The day passed in a fog of secondhand nervousness.
I knew the meeting was at 2:00, that it would last at least 3 hours, that everything depended on how he presented the numbers. I tried to work but caught myself looking at the clock every 5 minutes. At 5:30, I heard the front door open. Quick footsteps, energy different from normal. I stood from my chair automatically, my heart racing.
Noah appeared in my office doorway and his face said everything. Bright eyes, huge smile, that euphoric energy I rarely saw in him. We got the contract. His voice came out loud. Happy. Completely different from his usual controlled tone. We closed it. All the terms we wanted. It was perfect. I stood without thinking.
Happy for him in a visceral way that went beyond professional. Noah, that’s incredible. I knew you could do it. And then, without planning or rational thought, we were hugging. His arms around me, firm and warm, pulling me against his chest. My arms around his neck, feeling the muscles tense under his shirt.
The smell of cologne mixed with something that was just him, enveloping and familiar and completely addictive. The hug should have lasted three seconds, four at most. The socially acceptable amount for professional celebration, but it went past 5, 6, 7, and neither of us pulled away. His chest rose and fell against mine, his breathing getting deeper.
I felt his fingers move slightly on my back. Not a conscious touch, just automatic reaction. When we finally separated, it was slow, reluctant, but we didn’t pull apart completely. His hands still on my waist, mine still on his shoulders, too close, too dangerous. Our eyes met and the world stopped. It wasn’t the first time we’d looked at each other.
But it was the first time without barriers, without pretense, without the protection of professionalism, just us, just the raw and terrifying truth of what we felt. Angeline. His voice came out horsearo, loaded. My name sounded different on his lips, like prayer and question at the same time. Reality hit me like cold water.
I stepped back, my hands falling from his shoulders. No, Noah, we can’t. Why not? He took a step forward, closing the distance I tried to create. Give me one real reason. You’re my boss. The words came out desperate. I depend on this job. I can’t risk. What if I wasn’t your boss? His eyes were intense, penetrating, seeing through all my excuses.
What if we changed that? But you are. I crossed my arms, trying to create some barrier between us. That’s reality. Then fire me. The words came out impulsive, almost desperate. Angeline, fire me now. You’re fired. I laughed, but the sound came out without humor, almost hysterical. Noah, I’m serious. He ran his hands through his hair, frustration clear in every line of his body.
I can’t pretend this is just professional anymore. I think about you constantly. When I travel, I count the hours until I get back. When you’re in the same room, I can’t focus on anything else. Just you. Always you. My heart was beating so hard it hurt. You’re a billionaire. I’m the poor student who fell asleep in your car.
This doesn’t make sense. It wouldn’t work. It makes perfect sense. He approached again slowly like he was approaching something wild that might run. You’re the only person who sees me, really sees me. Not my money, not the status, not the CEO, just me, the man. And I see you. the strong, smart, sarcastic woman who broke into my car and changed everything.
Noah, please. My voice came out broken. Don’t make this harder. Hard. He was too close now. So close I felt the heat radiating from his body. What’s hard is being near you and pretending I don’t want to touch you. What’s hard is hearing your voice and not getting lost in the sound.
What’s hard is seeing you everyday and not being able to have you. And then before I could breathe or think or protest, his lips were on mine. The kiss was everything I’d imagined and nothing I expected. It wasn’t gentle or hesitant. It was deep and desperate with months of tension exploding all at once. His hands on my face, holding me like I might disappear.
His fingers in my hair undoing the bun I’d put up that morning. My arms around his neck, pulling him closer, impossible not to respond with the same intensity. His taste, coffee and something sweet, was completely addictive. The low sound he made when I deepened the kiss, guttural and needy. We moved together until my back hit the bookshelf behind me. The books rattled.
I didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the feeling of him against me. His lips on mine. The way the world disappeared and there was only us. When we finally pulled apart to breathe, his forehead against mine. Both of us panting. Reality came back with brutal force. I can’t. I pulled away, putting my hands on his chest to create distance.
Noah, I can’t. If it goes wrong, I lose my job. I lose my home. I lose everything. I have too much to lose. What if I promised you’d never lose anything? His hands still on my waist, his thumbs drawing circles through my blouse. Evangelene, even if we broke up, I would never leave you with nothing. Never. You can’t promise that.
I shook my head, tears burning in my eyes. Relationships end. People change their minds. I can’t depend on promises. I don’t want it to end. His voice got lower, vulnerable in a way I’d never heard. Angeline, I’ve never felt this before. For anyone, it scares me. It scares me so much that sometimes I can’t breathe right thinking about it.
But you know what scares me more? The idea of losing you, of never knowing what we could be. I looked into his eyes, seeing the truth there. Fear and desire joining with complete vulnerability. Noah Priestley, the man who commanded rooms full of executives who moved millions with a word, was emotionally naked in front of me. I opened my mouth to respond to say that I was scared too, that I also wanted to take the risk, that maybe we could.
The phone rang loud, shrill, destroying the moment completely. We looked at the device on the desk like it was a bomb. Christy, her name flashed on the screen. Answer it. Noah stepped away, running his hands through his hair. It might be important, I answered with trembling hands.
Christy, Angel, sorry to call you at work, but we have an emergency. Her voice was tense, stressed. the apartment. The plumbing exploded. Everything’s flooded. Like everything. The firefighters are here. They said we’ll have to leave for at least 2 weeks for repairs. My stomach sank. What? But I’m going to Jason’s place. But you? Where are you going to stay? Christy sounded genuinely worried.
We don’t have renters’s insurance, so they won’t relocate us. I looked at Noah, who was watching me intently, clearly hearing at least my side of the conversation. I I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Angel, I’m sorry. I know it’s the worst timing, Christy sighed. But I need you to come get whatever you can salvage before they closed the building.
I’m coming now, I hung up, looking at Noah with an expression that probably looked as lost as I felt. My apartment is flooded. I need to go. I’ll send the car. He was already grabbing his phone, dialing, James will take you. And Angeline, he stopped, his eyes on mine. You have a place to stay here. You always have.
The offer hung between us, loaded with meaning. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about everything. About us. I’ll think about it, I mumbled, grabbing my bag. I need to go. I left before I could see his expression before the temptation to go back and finish what we started became impossible to resist. In the car, touching my lips, still swollen from the kiss.
I felt like the universe was conspiring. The flooded apartment, his offer, the kiss that changed everything. Maybe some things were inevitable. Maybe fighting it was as feudal as fighting the tide. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being afraid and start living. But first, I needed to deal with the apartment disaster because apparently when it rains, it pours.
See, it’s not just in real life that plumbing acts up. Even our beloved characters can’t escape life’s little mishaps.
Chapter 5.
The choice and the beginning. What if the wrong car was exactly the right place? The apartment was destroyed. There was no other word to describe what I found when I arrived. Water everywhere.
The smell of mold already starting to set in. The few pieces of furniture we had soaked and ruined. The firefighters had cordoned off the area only allowing us to grab the essentials before closing the building completely. Christy was in the hallway with Jason, her boyfriend, surrounded by improvised suitcases.
Her eyes were red, but she was trying to keep her composure. I managed to save our clothes and some books. The rest, she gestured to the disaster behind her. Will need to be replaced. How long until we can come back? I asked the firefighter coordinating the operation. At least 2 weeks for structural repairs. Maybe three. He consulted his clipboard.
And you’ll need to hire a specialized cleaning company after. It’s going to be expensive. Expensive? Of course it would be. Everything always was. I looked at my belongings piled in plastic bags and felt the familiar weight of financial uncertainty squeeze my chest. Where was I going to stay? How was I going to pay for specialized cleaning? The landlord’s insurance would cover the building, but our personal belongings weren’t insured.
“You can stay with us,” Jason offered. But his expression made it clear it was politeness more than real desire. His apartment was tiny, barely fit him and Christy. “I’m not going to intrude on you two.” I forced a smile. “I’ll figure something out.” Christy pulled me aside away from Jason.
“You know you have a place to stay, right? Noah practically offered you the entire house. It’s complicated, I mumbled, feeling the ghost of the kiss still burning on my lips. Life is complicated, she squeezed my hand. But you don’t have to go through everything alone. He cares about you, Angel. Really, and you care about him. Sometimes we need to accept help.
I grabbed what I could salvage, said goodbye to Christy, and went back to the car where James waited patiently. During the entire drive back to the mansion, I stared out the window, the phone weighing heavy in my pocket. Should I call Noah? look for a cheap hotel, try to find some hostel. But the truth was, I didn’t have money for a hotel for weeks.
And the idea of staying anywhere that wasn’t near him, especially after that kiss, felt wrong in a visceral way. Noah was waiting when I arrived. Not in the office working like always, but in the entrance hall, hands in his pockets, his expression tense with concern. His eyes went straight to the bags I was carrying.
Is that all you could save? His voice had an edge of anger that wasn’t directed at me. Most of it. I put the bags on the floor. Too tired to keep up appearances. The rest is destroyed. Stay here. It wasn’t a request or suggestion. It was a statement. The guest room is yours for as long as you need. No discussion. Noah, I started, but he cut me off temporarily, he added, as if that made the offer less loaded with meaning until the apartment is ready. It just makes sense.
You already work here. You’re already here most of the time. It’s practical. Practical. as if practicality was the reason we both knew this would change everything. Okay, I gave in because I didn’t have a real choice and because honestly, I didn’t want a choice. I wanted to stay. I wanted to be near him.
I wanted to see what could happen if we stopped fighting the inevitable. Temporarily, the smile that crossed his face was small but genuine. I’ll have Mrs. Dawson prepare the room. In the first few days, I tried to keep my distance, use the room just for sleeping, spend the minimum amount of time possible in common areas, act like living there was purely transactional.
But the mansion had a way of breaking down barriers. Like when I woke up early on Tuesday and went down to make coffee, only to find Noah already in the kitchen barefoot and sleepy making scrambled eggs. “Good morning,” he said, his voice still from sleep. “Want breakfast?” And somehow we ended up sitting at the kitchen island eating together while the sun rose through the huge windows, talking about nothing important, plans for the day, a funny news story he’d read.
Domestic, normal, like we’d been doing this for years. Or like on Thursday night when I got home late from class and found Noah on the living room couch watching some documentary about behavioral economics. This one’s good, I commented, stopping at the door. Want to watch? He gestured to the space next to him on the couch.
I should have refused. Should have gone to my room, kept the safe distance. But I found myself sitting, leaving a respectable space between us at first until the documentary got interesting until I leaned forward to see a graph better until somehow we ended up side by side, shoulders touching, sharing the same bowl of popcorn.
When the program ended, neither of us moved. We just stayed there in the comfortable silence of the sleeping house, too aware of each other. I should go to sleep, I mumbled, but didn’t move. You should, he agreed. also not moving. We stayed another 15 minutes before sanity 1, and I finally stood up, murmured, good night, and practically ran to my room. Mrs.
Dawson watched it all with that knowing smile, but had the wisdom not to comment. She just made sure we had dinner together when Noah got home late. That breakfast was ready for both of us, that we had constant reasons to share the same space. The domesticity was addictive, dangerous. I caught myself looking forward to the moments together, to the morning coffees and late night movies.
caught myself memorizing the small details about him. How he liked his coffee would show he preferred when he was too tired to think. The sound of his laugh when something really amused him. And from his looks, he was doing the same, memorizing, learning, falling deeper, just like me. On Friday night, 2 weeks after moving in, we were watching another movie, some comedy that neither of us was really paying attention to.
I was tired, exhausted from a long week of classes and work and confusing emotions. The couch was comfortable. Noah was warm beside me and without consciously realizing it, my head ended up resting on his shoulder. I felt him tense for a second, then relax. His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me slightly closer. Safe, comfortable. Right.
I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute, I mumbled, already half asleep. Sure, his voice sounded amused, affectionate. Just a minute. I fell asleep there on his shoulder, the same way I’d fallen asleep in his car months ago. Only this time, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. I woke briefly when I felt him lifting me, his strong arms holding me against his chest.
I should protest, say I could walk, but I was warm and safe and too tired to care. Noah, I mumbled, half asleep. Shh, just taking you to bed. His voice was low, gentle. Sleep. Thank you. The words came out slurred as I sank back into sleep. I didn’t see when he laid me on the bed, when he pulled the blanket up to my chin.
I didn’t see when he stopped at the door. Looking back at where I slept, I didn’t hear when he whispered. So low it could have been imagination. How am I going to let you go? But the next morning, I woke up with the sun coming through the window in the absolute certainty that we couldn’t keep going like this. Dancing around each other, pretending it was temporary, that it didn’t mean anything.
Something had to change. I found Noah in the kitchen already dressed for the day, drinking coffee while reading something on his tablet. He looked up when I entered and his expression changed to something softer, more open. Good morning. Sleep well? He asked, and there was something in the way he said it. Some new intimacy that wasn’t there before.
Noah, we need to talk. The words came out before I lost courage. He put the tablet aside immediately, his full attention on me. About I took a deep breath. About this, about us. I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t. Angeline, he started, but I cut him off. Let me finish, please. I waited for him to nod before continuing.
You scare me. This scares me the way I feel when I’m near you. When you look at me, when when you kiss me. I’ve never felt anything like this. And I’m afraid that if I let myself feel completely, if I really fall, you’ll realize you could have someone better and I’ll be destroyed. There is no better. Noah stood up, coming around the island to be near me.
Angeline, I can’t pretend anymore either. I love you completely in a way that scares me because I’ve never loved anyone like this. Never wanted to spend every second with someone. Never felt like I needed another person to breathe right. Tears burned in my eyes. I love you, too, but how does this work? I still work for you.
How do we separate the professional from the personal? Then we change it. He took my hands, his thumbs caressing my knuckles. Do you want to keep working? Yes, I answered immediately. But not as your assistant. Not if we’re together. I can’t mix it like that. I need autonomy, independence. Mrs. Dawson is thinking about retiring.
Noah said slowly, as if considering the idea while speaking. I need someone to manage the property, lead the house staff, higher pay, total autonomy. You’d be the boss, or he hesitated. I can help find a position at another company if you’d prefer complete distance. I thought about the options. Working somewhere else would mean separation, clear independence, but it would also mean less time together, fewer moments like the morning coffees and evening movies.
And the idea of managing the property, of having my own domain within the house I already loved, was appealing. I want to stay, I decided, squeezing his hands here with you, but as an equal, not as a dependent employee. I never want there to be any doubt that we’re together because we chose to be, not because I need the money or the house.
His smile was luminous, transforming his entire face. It was always equal. From the moment you woke up snoring in my car, invading my life and changing absolutely everything. I don’t snore, I protested, but I was smiling too, tears finally falling. You do, he pulled me closer, his hands framing my face, his thumbs wiping away the tears lightly. It’s adorable.
And then we kissed again, but this time it was different. There was no desperation or fear or hesitation. It was certainty. promise beginning. When we pulled apart, breathless and smiling, Noah rested his forehead against mine. So, we’re doing this officially. Officially, I confirmed.
But I’m paying back what you spent on my college. It’s not a gift. It’s a loan. He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. You’re impossible. And you knew that when you offered me the job. I did. He kissed me again, light and sweet. And that’s exactly why I offered it. The following months were a blur of changes and adjustments. Mrs.
Dawson personally trained me to take over property management, clearly delighted with the romantic development. I knew from day one, she said with that satisfied smile. You two were too obvious. The apartment was eventually fixed, but I never went back. Christy understood. Happy for me in a genuine way that only best friends can be.
You deserve this, she said when I helped move her things back. You deserve to be happy and he makes you happy. He did. Noah made me incredibly happy. Not in a perfect or problem-free way because real life isn’t a fairy tale. We fought occasionally, disagreed about small things, had difficult days, but we always came back to each other, always talked, always remembered why we chose this.
I continued studying, insisting on paying my own tuition with the new salary. Noah accepted reluctantly, clearly wanting to argue, but respecting my need for independence. It was that respect, that mutual understanding that made the relationship real. 6 months after officially starting, Christy came to visit one Saturday afternoon. She found Noah and me in the kitchen.
Him trying to cook some complicated recipe he’d seen online and failing miserably. Me laughing so hard my stomach hurt. Both of us completely comfortable and ridiculously domestic. Who would have thought? Christy said, leaning against the doorframe with that knowing smile. He fell asleep in the wrong car and woke up in a fairy tale.
It’s not a fairy tale, I corrected, stealing a piece of whatever Noah was destroying. It’s real. Messy sometimes, but real. Noah pulled me by the waist, kissing the top of my head and perfect like this. I looked at him at the eyes that knew me completely at the smile that was only mine and agreed it was perfect, not in a movie sense, but in the sense of right, of chosen, of ours.
Later that night, after Christy left and the kitchen was cleaned from Noah’s culinary disaster, we went for a walk. Just us, the starry night and his car waiting in the garage. I got in the back seat on purpose, a smile playing on my lips. Noah got in right after, his eyebrow raised in amusement, breaking into my car again, he asked, his tone full of affection.
“Technically, I live here now,” I replied, snuggling into his side. “Half the car is mine. Half of everything is mine. Technically, everything that’s mine is yours,” he pulled me closer, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that still made my heart race even after months. “How romantic!” I mumbled against his mouth. And financially questionable.
I learned from the best. He smiled. That smile he saved just for me. We stayed there for a few more minutes before finally going inside. To the house that was ours to the life we built together. And as we walked hand in hand, I thought about how it all started. A mistake. Getting in the wrong car.
Sleeping where I shouldn’t. Invading a stranger’s life. Sometimes mistakes take you exactly where you need to be. Sometimes sleeping in the wrong car leads you to the right place with the right person, building something real, something strong, something that was worth every moment of fear and hesitation.
And yes, I still snore lightly sometimes. No one never lets me forget it. And honestly, I don’t mind one bit. Behind the scenes of the wrong car, when I started writing this story you just watched, I only had one image in my head, thanks to an idea my friend gave me. an exhausted girl waking up in the wrong car and finding a sarcastic billionaire looking at her.
From that embarrassing moment, the entire story unfolded naturally. And from there, I kept thinking about how the best encounters sometimes happen at the worst moments. Angeline wasn’t glamorous or prepared when she met Noah. She was snoring lightly in the back seat. This created an authentic dynamic between them from the start without games or masks.
Writing the building tension was delicious and torturous at the same time. Every almost kiss scene, every prolonged look, every accidental touch was carefully constructed to increase the anticipation for the big moment, and I hope you felt that way, too. The scene on the balcony in Boston was particularly important because it showed both their vulnerability, revealing why they connected so deeply.
Mrs. Dawson was my favorite character to write. She saw everything, knew everything, and had no patience for the dance that Noah and Angeline were doing. The line, “You two are idiots,” came from my own exhaustion with them resisting the obvious. The flooded apartment wasn’t just a plot device. I needed to force Angeline to accept genuine help, to live in intimacy with Noah, and realize that dependence doesn’t mean weakness when there’s mutual respect, ending with them in the car again, but this time by choice.
Closed the circle perfectly. Mistakes sometimes take us exactly where we need to be.