Page 33 of Defend Me

“That’s no reason not to treat them with respect.”

“I treat them with respect,” I say. “I tip them well at Christmas.”

Noah shakes his head. “Classic Everton.”

I throw out my arms. “What do you want from me? I’m a rich snobby Disney villain and you’re a man of the people. There. Happy now?”

This is not the best way to start off our month-plus of cohabitating, but I can’t help it—Noah has always seemed to know exactly how to push my buttons.

The doors open and I can’t deny my satisfaction at seeingNoah’s eyes pop. My apartment is pretty spectacular. It should be, seeing as I spent a small fortune on an interior designer.

I step onto the polished hardwood flooring. The walls are crisply white, lined with black and white photographs of the city. I walk into the open plan living room and kitchen, tossing my bag on the long sleek island that separates the two. The double height windows let in the late summer sunlight, and I press a button on the wall so the glass panels retract, allowing the room to blend seamlessly with the large terrace outside—a warm breeze tickles my nose and the sounds of the city waft up from the streets below.

“Whoa,” Noah says. “This place is insane. You have a balcony?”

“Terrace,” I correct him.

“Is that a firepit?” He points to the low, rectangular table with artistically placed charcoal in its center. It’s a gas firepit—I’m not one for making fires—with a long white couch on one side and two white armchairs at either end.

“Yes.”

He peeks over the railing then comes back inside, blinking around at the modern furnishings, the waterfall island, and the custom white matte lacquer cabinets. It’s a far cry from the cramped little house on the water back in Magnolia Bay.

“Why is all your furniture shaped so weird?” Noah asks.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not weird. It’s AgapeCasa.”

He points at one of the armchairs in the living room. “It looks like an egg. Who wants to sit in an egg?”

“When you’re done judging my décor, I can show you where you’ll be sleeping,” I say. The first floor has one guest bedroom, a bathroom, and a small study. I’m not letting Noah sleep in one of the guest rooms on the second floor, where my bedroom is. That would feel far too close. Too…personal.

I have a sudden, panicky vision of running into him in themorning, clad only in his boxers. My pulse gives a faint hiccup, and I push the thought away.

Noah seems happy enough when I open the door to his room. “Whoa,” he says again, dropping his bag on the bed and gazing out the window, which offers a view stretching toward midtown, the Empire State Building sparkling in the sun.

“There’s a bathroom just down the hall,” I say. “Noah, we need to talk about?—”

But before I can finish, my phone pings with a text from Harold.

I’m handing your cases to Martin Donovan,he writes.I need you to come in and walk him through them.

Ugh. Martin is a Grade A tool. I bet he’s salivating over this opportunity to steal some of my limelight. The competition between junior partners is fierce.

“I need to go into the office for a bit,” I say. “I’ll be back later.”

“You’re leaving?” Noah asks.

“I have to get the lawyer taking my other cases up to speed,” I tell him.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Read. Meditate. Play Candy Crush. But do not, under any circumstances, leave this apartment.”

“But—”

I point a finger in his face. “No. And no social media either. I don’t want you posting anything until this is over.”

“I don’t really post much anyway,” Noah says.

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