ohicb by onechangeatthetime

CONTENTS

Title Page Preface Epigraph 1. Faye 2. Henry 3. Faye 4. Faye 5. Henry 6. Faye 7. Henry 8. Faye 9. Henry 10. Faye 11. Henry 12. Faye 13. Henry 14. Faye 15. Henry 16. Faye 17. Henry 18. Faye 19. Faye 20. Henry 21. Faye 22. Faye 23. Henry 24. Faye 25. Faye 26. Henry 27. Faye 28. Henry 29. Faye 30. Faye

Epilogue ROGUE Prologue Chapter 1 About Olivia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely ﬁctitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The following story contains mature themes, strong language and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers. Cover by by Sarah Armitage Design Edited by Stephanie Parent www.oliviahayle.com

PREFACE

Thank you for reading! For new release information and bonus content, please sign up to my newsletter.

EPIGRAPH

“There’s a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.” — Mark Twain

FAYE

What do you do if you’re a broke architect who’s been wrongfully terminated from your job? Throw in a large amount of student debt for good measure, an even bigger dose of ambition, and the humiliation of being turned down by most of the major architect ﬁrms in New York. The answer? You drown your sorrows in wine. My best friend comes over and we open a bottle of white. Technically, we open two, but it’s the light and bubbly kind of wine, so it only counts half as much. “To my latest rejection letter,” I say, and hold up my glass for a toast. Jessie holds up her own. “At least you’re out of Elliot Ferris’s o ce. You could still have to work for that jackass, Faye.” “Yes, and I’d be getting paid,” I say sadly. “But you’re right. Here’s to being broke—but at least there’s no one ogling my ass!” “To no ass ogling!” We toast, and giggle, and descend into the kind of madness we’ve always gotten into. Silly and funny and entirely harmless.

Well. At least it starts harmless. But then Jessie leaves, and I open my laptop for a little bit of midnight fun. Maybe watch my favorite YouTuber break down yet another shopping haul, or a tutorial for braids so intricate I know I’d never manage to succeed on my own. Perhaps do a spot of drunk online shopping. The job searching website pops up—I’d left it open. There’s a new ad, posted in the day since I last checked. Marchand & Rykers is the firm name. They’re a small, boutique architect firm uptown, one I’ve only heard about but never encountered. It’s not one of the big players, but they’re well-known for taking on expensive, prestige projects. It’s also a firm that hasn’t rejected me yet. My heart sinks as I read the job description. It’s not even a position as an architect. Assistant. They’re hiring an assistant to the executive partner. It involves all the usual sort of stu —event managing, calendar work, email and phone. Damn. This city is killing me, not to mention this profession. Five years I’d spent with Elliot Ferris, and in the end, what did I gain? Nothing. No recommendation letter, no promotion— nada. Zilch. Is assistant the best I can do now? Have I really sunk that low? Drunk anger rises up in me as I press the giant blue button that says “apply.” I have my CV ready, so it doesn’t take long to attach it and finalize my application. Please submit a cover letter. Hah. As if they’ll hire me anyway! An idea forms in my mind. It’s so silly that for a moment all I can do is grin at the empty document on my screen. Yes. Why not give them a piece of my mind too? It’s not like I’m realistically going to get this job. I have no background as an

assistant and not a single recommendation to my name. I’m twenty-seven years old and live in a studio apartment in Brooklyn. I start to write. Dear… Damn it. Who’s the head of the ﬁrm? A quick internet search pulls up the name. Henry Marchand. Probably a mean old bastard, with a pudgy stomach and graying hair. Another Elliot Ferris, with his clawing hands and sickly-sweet smile. Ugh. They’re the elitist dragons guarding the building industry in New York, making it impossible to gain a foothold as a young female architect. Assholes. Dear Mr. Marchand (what kind of fancy-pants name is that?), I start typing. You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. Intrigued? You should be. I’m about to tell you everything that’s wrong with this industry. You’re welcome.

I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as the Sahara. My sheets are stuck to my cheek, and I can tell without touching it that my hair is a complete mess. Sunlight streams in through my window. By the looks of it, it’s late already. “Damn,” I murmur to no one and sit up, putting a hand to my forehead. I knew drinking with Jessie had been a bad idea, but then I’d received the letter of rejection from Ford & Sons… God. That made it a total of six rejections. All major architect ﬁrms in New York had rejected me. Me. And I’d been valedictorian of my class at university. Sure, it wasn’t Ivy League, but it had been the best I’d been able to a ord on my scholarship and loans.

I stand on wobbly legs and make it out to the kitchen to grab a glass of cold water. I glance over at the potted palm tree in the corner. “Looks like we might have to go back to Ohio if this continues, buddy,” I tell it. The tree looks morosely back at me. The leaves are turning brown at the edges, despite my tender loving care. I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever bought, but I’m determined that this one won’t su er the same tragic fate. “Hang in there,” I tell him. “I’ll ﬁnd us something. I know you’ll feel better when I have a job.” Not to mention, so will I. I take a seat at my kitchen table and open my laptop. There’s a new email in my inbox. Automatic: Thank you for your application! I frown and lean in closer. I didn’t apply for anything. Marchand & Rykers has received your application. We will be in touch as soon as possible regarding— No. No, no, no, no, no. There was no way. That was a joke. A drunken, stupid little joke, just to amuse myself. I open the documents that I sent in, one by one. My heart is pounding when I open the cover letter—the one I vaguely remember typing in drunken, self-righteous anger. Dear God. I actually sent it.

HENRY

“Mr. Marchand, your one o’clock is going to be fifteen minutes late. Should I push your later meetings?” I press the intercom button to speak with my assistant harder than strictly necessary. When did being on time become a thing of the past? “No, I’ll cut his meeting short.” If you’re late, you’re late, and you pay the consequences. My assistant chirps back. “Would you like me to order lunch?” “Yes. The regular.” “Will do.” She’s e ective. Always on time. Knowledgeable. And working her last week. The decision to leave had been hers, but it still left me in the same awful position I always seemed to find myself in. Looking for another assistant. Somehow, they never seemed to last, even when they were terrific. I’m not a terrible boss, either. Demanding, perhaps. Exacting. But not terrible. I dial Melissa in Human Resources. The ad for a new personal assistant went live just yesterday, but patience is a virtue I don’t possess.

“Mr. Marchand?” “Have you received any applicants for the new position?” “Yes,” she says, “a handful. But the ad hasn’t even been live for twenty-four hours yet. I’m expecting more.” “Send them over.” Brief hesitation. “I haven’t vetted them yet. Would you like me to send you a selection? I could go through them in a few hours’ time.” “No, send the ones we’ve already received.” She’s perplexed, that’s clear, but she doesn’t argue. “They’ll be in your inbox shortly.” Perfect. Something productive to do during the fifteen minutes I’m now forced to wait for one of my head architects. Melissa’s email appears. Seven applicants are included, each in individual files with all their supporting documentation. Excellent. I scroll through the list and open the first one. Faye Alvarez. It’s an unusual name. Her CV is excellent. Valedictorian. A bachelor’s degree in architecture. Worked five years at Elliot Ferris. I grit my teeth at the name—he is no friend of mine—but his firm is undoubtedly successful. I click open her cover letter and can’t believe my eyes. Dear Mr. Marchand (what kind of fancy-pants name is that?): You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. Intrigued? You should be. I’m about to tell you everything that’s wrong with this industry. You’re welcome. Firstly, I don’t have any professional recommendations. That’s not because I didn’t work somewhere nice—because I did—but because my former boss is a lecherous creep. Terribly, terribly lecherous. That’s a good word. Well, it’s a bad word, but it’s forceful. He refuses to give me a recommendation because we had a so-called di erence of opinion. I’ll give you a clue: I was in the right. So here I am, without a recommendation. It’s not because

I’m not good at my job. It’s because I was too good. I’m the best damn architect you’ll ever see. But you won’t believe me when I say it, because you need proof, and I can’t supply it. It’s a catch-22. That’s another good term, a reference to a literary classic. As you can tell from this beautifully written letter, I am very highly educated. But you won’t hire me anyway, because I didn’t go to an Ivy League college. I’m sure you did, and all the other architects at your firm. You probably only hire other Ivy alumni. An unspoken rule, right? I know how New York architect firms work. Well, I couldn’t a ord to. WASN’T MY FAULT! Second, I don’t look like an architect. I’m putting it bluntly here because why not? That’s the truth of it. I’ve been told I’m “a distraction in the workplace.” Too curvy, too sensual, too exotic, whatever that means, I’ve heard it all. Just because my dad was from Mexico doesn’t mean I’m some sort of dish to be sampled. But that’s what all the higher-ups see. They don’t see my perfectly executed calculations; they just see my cleavage. Which I usually try to cover up. Again, NOT MY FAULT! Do you want to know the final reason why you won’t possibly consider hiring me, or even calling me for an interview? I don’t have any previous experience as an assistant, despite being grossly overqualified for the position you’re hiring for. I’m stooping to the level of assistant, and I won’t even get that. But I’m also underqualified to be an architect at your prestigious firm, dear sir, because of the previous reasons I listed. So I’m fucked either way. This industry is sexist, elitist, and protectionist. I thought I could make it anyway, but it seems like I can’t. Reject me and you’ll help confirm my thesis. Thanks in advance. Sincerely, Faye Alvarez. I read it once. Then I read it again.

And by the end, I’m grinning. This woman is angry. More than that—she’s furious. Not once have I ever been called an old stooge, and certainly not by someone I’ve never met. The part that makes me smile the most is the ending. She signed her cover letter with sincerely, after just having used the word fucked. Impossible. Insane. I look at her CV again. Honestly, she has stellar credentials. Graduated summa cum laude from a mid-tier school. Interned at one of the big firms before landing a job as a junior architect. She was a part of the Century Dome project. Hmm. Impressive structure, that one. I’d been there at the opening. She’s right, though. She’s definitely overqualified to be an assistant. At the same time… she’d need very little training on the architecture part of it. She’d understand all my notes right away. The systems, the projects… sure, she might need to learn how to handle a calendar, but that’s the easy part. The building and development are the hard part, and she already has that down pat. I re-read her letter. It makes me smile again. That’s a good word. Well, no, it’s a bad word. This woman sounds half o her rails, and half brilliant, and damn if it isn’t the first applicant who’s actually stood out to me. I can’t hire her—of course I can’t. But there’s no harm in calling her in for an interview and proving her last prediction wrong. Marchand & Rykers isn’t elitist or sexist. And if the letter is any indication, the call might just be the most fun I’ve had in months. Besides, her first paragraph is unsettling. Old Elliot Ferris not giving her a recommendation because of what she’s hinting… I dial the number she listed at the top of her CV.

A breathless voice picks up after the second ring. It’s soft and sure. “Faye Alvarez speaking?” “I’m Mr. Marchand from Marchand & Rykers.” There’s absolute silence on the other line. “The old stooge,” I add, always helpful. “Hello,” she breathes. “God, I’m very embarrassed about that letter.” “You are? I didn’t get that from the text itself.” “No, well, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind when I sent that.” “Are you telling me you applied to work at my firm while under the influence?” “Maybe,” she says. “The answer depends on whether it will exonerate me or not.” “Exonerate,” I repeat. “That’s another objectively good word, wouldn’t you say?” There’s a distinctively feminine groan on the other end. “I’m very sorry about that letter.” “I understand that you are,” I say, “but I’m not. It was very amusing.” Another groan. “Oh, I’m sure. Has it been passed around the o ce yet? Taped to the water cooler?” “Not yet, but I have big plans for it,” I say gravely. “I’m thinking of turning it into an email forward.” “You wouldn’t,” she breathes, and I can’t help but smile at the outrage in her voice. God, this woman is fun to needle. “I won’t, not if you come in for an interview.” The silence on the other side is complete. “Miss Alvarez? I’m a busy man.” “You genuinely want me to interview for the position?” This time, her voice is dry. “I can’t for the life of me understand why.” “I told you. Your application was very amusing. Besides, you have excellent qualifications. Can you make it to

Marchand & Rykers tomorrow at…” I glance at my calendar. “Nine a.m.?” “I can, yes.” “Until tomorrow, then, Miss Alvarez. And don’t be late.” “Thank you.” “Goodbye, now.” “Bye.” I hang up and spend another ﬁve minutes perusing her cover letter again. It’s ridiculous. Playing along with it is decidedly stupid, too. But it’s also a meeting I’m looking forward to, and it’s been a long time since that’s been the case.

FAYE

The interview has to be a joke. No one in their right mind would hire someone based on the terrible mess of a letter I sent in. I know that—he surely knows it too. So what am I going in for? Amusement, probably. He wants to see what a ridiculous person he’s dealing with. Have himself a laugh, like he did over the phone. I look at myself in the mirror again. Well, he’ll have no such luck. It might only be a joke to him, but I’m not going to waste an opportunity to gain a tiny bit of credibility back. I look professional, from the black pumps to the slick ponytail. I’m wearing my most modest of suits—the pencil skirt goes to my knees, and my silk blouse is nearly covered by the matching blazer. I kept my makeup simple, too. Anything to downplay the features that I know men like this often prey on—or see as a mark against me. I walk into Marchand & Rykers with my architecture portfolio tucked under my arm. I couldn’t resist bringing it, even if the position he advertised was only for an assistant.

The receptionist shoots me an uncertain smile. “Miss Alvarez?” “That’s me,” I say. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Marchand?” “Yes, I’ve heard. Excellent. Let me show you the way.” She leads the way up a wide glass staircase. It’s very obviously an architect firm—the blank white walls, the spotlights at artfully placed angles. Clean and plain. “Have you worked here long?” I ask her. “Nearly three years. It’s a great firm.” She’s quiet for a beat, fiddling with her key card to access the elevators. She presses the button to the eighth floor, and we start moving. “How’s Mr. Marchand?” I have no idea what to expect out of this. My heart is beating a rhythm of nerves in my chest, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. Odds are he just wants to laugh at me. “Well,” she says carefully. “He’s a very talented architect.” She doesn’t add anything else, and it’s not di cult to read the subtext. But he’s an asshole. Most builders and architects of this caliber are. Lord knows I’d encountered my fair share of them. You need a certain kind of ego to push through designs that might very well outlive you. She opens a glass door and leads me down a massive hallway. There’s an empty desk at the end, right next to a floor-to-ceiling window. “His assistant sits out here,” she says, “and Mr. Marchand’s o ce is through this door.” She gestures at a large oak door. Beautifully carved and weathered, it feels incongruous with the rest of the minimalist o ce. Interesting. “All right,” she says. “Good luck, then.”

I pause in front of the giant door. “Does he know I’m here?” “Oh. I’m sure. You were supposed to be here at nine, right?” “Yes,” I say, but she’s already halfway down the hall, like she’s running from the situation. It doesn’t inspire conﬁdence. “Alrighty then,” I murmur to myself and push my shoulders back. I’m Faye Alvarez. I was top of my class. I spent ﬁve years working on some of the most challenging designs in Manhattan. I’m a great architect. I knock on the door. There’s no response, only a soft, electronic click and the door swings open automatically. The o ce is massive. There’s a giant desk in the center, all modern and sleek, but behind it are rows and rows of bookshelves. I can see a classic architect’s desk in the corner, with sketching sheets and a clip-on lamp. A man is seated behind the desk. Well, I think. He isn’t old at all. The man can’t be more than forty. Thick, brown hair is pushed back. One stray lock has refused to obey him, though, and falls over a square forehead. He’s not in a suit. Instead, he’s wearing a navy-blue shirt tucked into a pair of gray chinos. It’s a casual look, but on him it looks like a million bucks. An expensive watch glitters at his wrist. He stares back at me. There’s nothing in his eyes—not surprise, not amusement, nothing at all to signal a welcome. I don’t know if he’s trying to unnerve me, but I refuse to let him know that it’s working. “Hello,” I say. “My name is Faye Alvarez. I’m here for an interview?” He leans back in his chair and looks me over. It’s not leering at all—it’s clinical. I’m being assessed.

“Miss Alvarez of the famous cover letter,” he says. “Have a seat.” I sit down opposite him, trying and failing to hide my surprise. He’s nothing like what I expected. This man is handsome, even if it’s in a detached sort of way. “First and foremost, thank you for inviting me for an interview,” I say. “Despite my colorful language.” “Yes, your application was unusual. Do you make a habit of applying for jobs while… what euphemism did we use? Under the influence.” “Not usually, no.” “You made a special exception for my firm.” I raise an eyebrow at him. Is he teasing me? It’s hard to tell when his face is impassive. “Anything for Marchand and Rykers,” I say airily. “And while I ask that you disregard my cover letter, my CV proves that I’m more than qualified for this position.” “Yes.” He thumbs through papers on his desk and smoothly pulls out my application. I see him glance through my CV. “It’s clear that you’re very well-educated. But then,” he adds, looking up at me, “you already told me that in the cover letter.” Don’t blush. I force myself to meet his gaze. “I did. I might be young, but I have a lot of experience in the field. I started as an intern at the City Planning o ce for five months. You’re welcome to call Anita Roberts, who was my supervisor there.” Henry Marchand leans back in his chair and taps his fingers along the desk, once, twice. “And then you worked for Elliot Ferris.” “Yes.” “But no reference from him. You were fired?” It’s increasingly hard to meet his eyes, green and piercing, but I force myself to do it. “I was, unfortunately.”

“As you made abundantly clear in your letter, you believe this is one of the key reasons why I wouldn’t consider hiring you. Why I’m sure you’ve already been rejected by several firms, since you’re willing to… how did you so flatteringly put it? Stoop to this level.” This time, I can’t stop the flush of embarrassment on my face. “Yes. But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with my work performance. And while I understand that you have no reason to trust me on that, I ask that you do. I have coworkers there who I believe would vouch for my job performance.” Mr. Marchand glances down at my cover letter again. I can almost see the words sticking out on the page. Lecherous. Don’t ask, I beg silently. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at my lap, where my leather-bound architect portfolio rests. It had been a wild shot to bring it here. “You brought your portfolio, Miss Alvarez.” “I did. Ask me anything.” I square my shoulders. “Let me show you that I know this industry.” “We regularly build for clients with very strong opinions,” Mr. Marchand says. “How do you balance function with aesthetic appeal?” Ah. It’s a classic question. He’s going to have to do better than that. “A client’s wish comes first, of course. We’re designing and building for them. But at the end of the day, we’re the ones with formal training in this, and if we don’t point out obvious flaws in their desires, we would be failing them.” “And in your own designs?” he asks. “How do you personally make the distinction?” There’s something unnerving about the intensity in his eyes. “Unless a client demands otherwise, I strive for

simplicity,” I say. “There’s no need to throw in elaborate details that could be outdated a decade from now.” He taps his knuckles along the desk again. That’s really going to start to annoy me. “I start on a new project. Day one, what do I do?” “You focus on the logistics,” I answer, voice calm. “What are the legal property boundaries? How does the sun, the wind, water come into play? What features in the surrounding landscape could be a problem, or an asset?” I let my hands curl around the armrests of the chair I’m in, meeting his gaze head-on. “You start working on permits and timelines. I imagine you’re also mentally assigning tasks to di erent members of your team.” “You worked on the Century Dome,” he says, “if your cover letter is to be believed.” “I did.” And I was damn proud of that structure. Despite the client’s wishy-washy instructions, despite the work environment, it had turned out a ﬁne building. It had received near universal praise when it was unveiled, and while my name was nowhere near it, I know that Elliot Ferris would never have been able to ﬁnish it without me. I wonder if Mr. Marchand sees that pride on my face, because his eyes glitter with amusement when he asks his next question. “What would you change?” “With the Dome?” “Yes.” I want to protest instinctively. It’s perfect. But I can tell that would be to fail this particular test. Instead, I look around his o ce thoughtfully, gathering my ideas. He’s clearly a man with ambition leaking out of his very pores, to have achieved so much at his age. What would impress a man like this… “The name on the plaque,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. “The position is that of an assistant, not an architect.” There’s challenge in his voice. “You realize that you’d be doing no practical architectural work? I have a full roster of architects on board and no space for another. I can make you no promises.” Something in me squeezes painfully tight at his words. “I’m aware, and I’m not asking you to. But I think my experience as an architect will make me a better assistant.” “As it so happens, so do I.” He taps his knuckles on the table a third time. “I don’t have time to teach you things.” My previous admiration of him lessens slightly. Insu erable man. “That’s all right.” “I know my previous assistant is leaving instructions, and Rykers’ assistant can help you get set up. But for the most part, you’ll have to learn on the job.” “I can do that.” “Can you start next Monday?” He braces his arms against the desk. They look unusually strong for a New York builder —the ones who rarely leave their o ces. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.” “We’ll start with a six-week probation period before you’re o ered a full-time contract. I’ll have HR draw up the paperwork and email it to you before the day is out. If you have any salary or time concerns, respond directly to her.” “I will.” Good God, is this actually happening? “Thank you, sir.” He nods and reaches over to shake my hand. His is strong and dry, with calluses in his palm. Again… unusual, for these big cats. “Welcome onboard, Miss Alvarez. I’m taking a chance on you. Don’t make me regret it.” “You won’t,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on and hoping I wouldn’t either.

FAYE

“You’re Mr. Marchand’s new assistant?” “Yes,” I say. This is getting frustrating. “I was hired last week.” Kyle, one of the head architects at Marchand & Rykers, lets his gaze travel from my head to my toes in a very clear dismissal before he turns back to the co ee machine. “I suppose he had to hire someone.” The nerve. I shoot him a blinding smile and turn on the kettle to make myself some tea. “I suppose he did. And seeing how I have a degree in architecture as well, I’m sure I can be of assistance.” Kyle raises a cool eyebrow. His hair is artfully styled, square features complimented by a pair of glasses with bright orange frames. “How delightful. I’m sure you won’t mind helping the architects with some of our blueprints then, when you have some downtime.” I grit my teeth. “After I run it by Mr. Marchand, of course.” “Of course,” he says smoothly. “How lovely.”

He leaves the break room and I take a deep breath of relief. Another attack averted. If there’s one thing this ﬁrm has too much of, it’s self-importance and self-grandiosity. First, it had been Kelly, the receptionist, who looked surprised when I returned and said I was hired. Then it had been Christine, Rykers’ assistant, who had looked me over in clear disapproval. And now Kyle. I put a bag of Earl Grey into my cup and close my eyes for a second, taking in the silence. It won’t be long until I have to go back to my desk and the jumbled mess that is Henry’s calendar. Me, the least organized of people, had somehow been hired for a job where organization was key. Good going, Faye. A deep voice cuts through my musings. “What are you doing?” I blink my eyes open to see Henry himself standing in the entryway to the break room. “Imagining how nice an o ce could be without o ce politics.” Henry frowns and heads to the co ee machine. “I’m not paying you to daydream.” “No, that’s a bonus feature,” I say. “I run two-for-one specials at the end of the month, too.” Nothing. Not a smile, not a twinkle in his eyes. He just turns the co ee machine o and motions for me to join him out of the break room. We walk toward the hallway in the back, the gateway to his giant o ce. Several of the architects and consultants cast glances at us when we walk past. Henry doesn’t acknowledge anyone, back straight and head forward. Cold bastard. He’s wearing a suit today, but without the jacket and tie. His sleeves are methodically folded up to his elbows, showing o his forearms, tanned and strong. I wonder how old he is. Mid-thirties, I think, though he carries himself like

a man with a lifetime of experience. Some of the architects on the team must be older than him. It’s unusual. “Gather your things, and then we’ll talk about your tasks here. Join me in my o ce as soon as you can.” He pauses, a hand on the oak door. “And I’d appreciate it if you upgrade into a model that gets me co ee.” “I’ll work on that right away.” He nods and disappears into his o ce, still without a smile on his face. Damn. The man was ice cold. I’d arrived at work—I had a job!—that morning to find a fully prepared welcome kit for me. A keycard, a login to the computer system, and a new email address. The woman in HR gave me a sour look and muttered something about this going too fast. Maybe she’d had to work overtime to get the expedited details ready for me. Henry had already been in the o ce when I arrived, despite me being early. And from the looks of the several co ee cups on his desk, he’d been there a while. I grab my laptop and my notebook. Henry is sitting at his desk when I enter. It’s not the first time we’ve discussed business today, but it’s the first time we’re going to actively go through my tasks. He nods at me when I come in but doesn’t look up from his screen. Well then. I take a seat opposite him and open my laptop. My list of questions is right there on the screen. “Obvious things first,” he says, still looking at his screen. “There are trips booked. Go through everything and make sure transport and accommodation is arranged.” “On it.” That one I’d already started with. “Handle my invitations to events and the like. We’ll go through them once weekly.” I type that down. “Noted.”

“Lunch and dinner reservations, catering for events, screening my calls. Accompanying me to meetings— sometimes I’ll want you there.” He looks up at me suddenly, eyes shockingly green. “You’re good at taking notes?” “Yes.” I try not to be insulted by the basic question. “Good. I’ll let you know regarding that. Coordinate work with the architect team, pass on designs to me. Keep a roster of all of our clients—I think Sara did that, who worked here before you… Maybe see if you can ﬁnd it. She’d remind me of a client’s history and personal details before I met with them. That was useful.” I take all of this down in my notes. “Sara did leave me some information, yes.” I’d found a little cheat sheet from her. It contained a lot of good information, including some that felt… bizarre. She had written down exactly how Henry liked his lunch, and from which restaurants nearby. Don’t order a Reuben sandwich more than twice a week. Ask for the whole-wheat bread and absolutely no more than two pickles. Never order anything with sesame seeds. She’d underlined the word sesame. She’d included his shoe size and size in suits. Where he usually dropped o his dry cleaning. Frankly, her notes bordered on fearful or downright obsessive. Is he that terrifying of a boss? So far, he doesn’t scare me, even if I haven’t seen him smile once. Even if the others in the o ce clearly keep their distance. “You’re trained yourself, so I won’t go into the details of what I need building-wise. I trust you can catalogue blueprints and ensure my AutoCAD software is up to date with the company’s latest developments.” Excitement itches in me at the suggestion. “I can, yes.” “Email me if you have any questions.”

Even though I’m just sitting outside the door? That seems… excessive, but what do I know. I’ve never worked as an assistant, not to mention ever had one. “All right.” Henry turns back to his computer screen, and it’s clear I’ve been dismissed. I look down at the questions I’d scribbled in my notebook… and ﬁnd that I can’t ask any of them. He’s basically told me to solve most of it on my own. In the week since the interview, I’d googled everything there was to know about being an assistant. Tips and tricks, things to do and to not do. It seems like it’s all about anticipating his needs and reading his mind. Well. It’s time I become a mind-reader, then.

It’s late when I leave the o ce that evening. I’ve spent the entire day organizing his calendar—hello color-coding!—and going through every piece of information Sara left me. I also sent an email to the entire o ce to introduce myself and ask that all non-essential information be sent to me and not directly to Henry. Two people out of twenty-seven had responded with a Hello! Welcome to the company! It seemed like a great start. I wait for the elevator and rub my neck, sti from staring at a screen the whole day. My feet ache, too, from the heels. Turns out you lose the ability to walk in heels a whole day when you haven’t done it for weeks. Christina stops beside me, Rykers’ assistant. Her features soften into a smile. “Good ﬁrst day?” “Yes. Although… it’s a lot.” “It is,” she says with a laugh. “This ﬁrm is busy. It’s no place for slacking, trust me.”

“I believe you.” I resist the urge to release my hair from the tight ponytail. My head is killing me. “Have you worked for Rykers long?” “Eight years. Nearly as long as they’ve had the firm.” “Wow.” She must know all the ins and outs of this place. “And how many assistants has Mr. Marchand had in that time?” We step into the elevator and Christina presses the button for the ground floor. Her face turns thoughtful, and uncertain, and I can’t read her expression. “Six,” she says finally. “And I’m not saying this to discourage you, but they don’t tend to last long.” Wow. What have I agreed to? I give her my winning smile. “Why not? I wouldn’t want to make the same mistakes.” “He’s… exacting,” she says. “Not all assistants can keep up or have the strength to handle it when he corrects them.” It’s not exactly a stretch of the imagination to picture that. All day, I’d only seen the blank, expressionless mask he seemed to wear. Nothing of the man who had enjoyed provoking me during my interview. “Is that why people didn’t bother to introduce themselves today?” I ask, realization setting in. “They don’t think I’ll last?” “Well, I don’t know their motivations.” Her voice is careful. “But it could be, yes.” I shiver, despite myself. I had thought getting an assistant job was beneath me—that I’d be twiddling my thumbs all day. But according to Christina, I might count myself lucky to survive past my six-week trial period. “Wow.” “But don’t let that discourage you. I’m sure you’ll do great. He hired you himself, didn’t he? He usually outsources

the interviews to HR.” I have to fight to keep the laughter o my face. There was no way I would’ve been hired if HR had properly read my cover letter. “You’re right.” Christina bids me goodnight as we emerge on the busy New York street. It’s past seven p.m. and I’m too tired to function. I commute on autopilot—down into the subway, in with my earphones, up the stairs, unlock the door to my building—and finally kick o my shoes in my little apartment. I ignore the pile of laundry in the corner and head straight for the kitchen instead. “Hi honey,” I say to my palm tree. “I’m home. How was your day?” He doesn’t respond, but the leaves look a little bit less droopy than the day before. “That good, huh?” He silently agrees, and I sigh at my own silliness. Six assistants in eight years. They rarely last more than a year, then. I wonder why his previous assistant left. Judging by her fastidious notes, she seemed like an excellent assistant. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I lie down on my couch with a bowl of noodles. My place might be small, but it’s mine, every inch of it. The first piece of mine I’ve ever really had. The walls are lined with artfully framed blueprints. It had taken me years to find each one, some of them replicas of old versions, other complete fabrications. A side view of the Colosseum in Rome, showing o the impressive columns and the ingenious design that allow it to stand today, two thousand years after its creation. The Empire State Building. The Sagrada Familia. All of them designs that I love, and have loved for as long as I can remember. It used to be my dream to design my own monument one day. These days, it feels foolish. Very few architects ever

achieve something like that. My phone dings with a text from Jessie. She’s a bartender uptown and always works evenings. Jessie Moore: I know you said not to ask, but I did it anyway. Travis would definitely be down for a blind date with you. And before you say no, you haven’t been out with a guy in ages! I toss the phone away. She’d been nagging me about her cute co-worker for months, telling me I should focus less on my career and more on happiness, that I needed work-life balance and love in my life. As if I have time for that. I’m smack-dab in the middle of the most important years in a person’s career, and I’m struggling. There’s absolutely no time for flings or a airs, and certainly not full-blown relationships. Hell, if I’m going to keep up with Henry Marchand’s apparently exacting demands, I’ll find it di cult to even make time for my friends. I’m nearly asleep on the couch, a bad Netflix show on the TV, when my phone rings. The name on the screen jolts me awake. “Hello?” Henry’s voice is deep with irritation. “My calendar is gone.” “What?” “It’s wiped entirely from the system. Did you accidentally press something? Delete instead of sync?” “No.” I think back to earlier in the evening, when I had made the changes I wanted to. What did I press…? I can’t remember. I’ve never worked in that system before, but it had seemed easy, intuitive even. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” “Well, it’s gone. All of it.” “I’ll fix it,” I vow, though I have no idea how. “I can do it now. I can come in—”

“I’m still at the o ce.” He’s still in the o ce? It’s nearly midnight. I’m already reaching for my pants, my phone locked between my shoulder and ear. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t worry—” But he’s already hung up.

HENRY

I sigh and resist the urge to run a hand through my hair. This was a complication I definitely didn’t need. The coming days were going to be busy enough without suddenly second-guessing where I was going and who I am meeting. Maybe hiring Faye had been a mistake. I had assumed that learning to be an assistant was easier than learning architecture; that she could learn on the job. But maybe I’d been wrong. I had been, often, when it came to assistants. Damn Rykers had been lucky on her first try. I return to the architectural model on the screen. There’s something missing, something in the curve of the outer fixtures that doesn’t work. At first, I’d thought it was a problem with proportions, but balancing that hadn’t helped either. The elevator dings. I click away the project, switching instead to the o ce building we’re developing in the Bronx. Faye is standing in the doorway to my o ce. She’d worn a black dress to work today, complete with matching pumps, but that’s gone now. She’s in dark-wash jeans and an oversized sweater. Her face looks bare somehow… no

makeup on. And her dark hair frames her face, falling long down her back. I frown at her. She looks beautiful, which is yet another distraction I don’t need. Sure, I’d seen it before, when I interviewed her. But then she’d worn her beauty like armor, with sharp eyeliner and hair swept back. This time it’s disarming—seeing her like she’d look on a Sunday morning. She steps into my o ce uninvited, laptop under her arm. “I’m sorry again. Let me double-check this and I’ll have it fixed in no time.” “See to it that you do.” She takes a seat at the large conference table in my o ce, still uninvited. Few people spend time in here apart from me. I can see how her eyes drift as she fires up her laptop, running across the bookshelves I have to the large model in the corner. It’s covered by a sheet, but I still feel unsettled as she looks at it. That project is for my eyes only. She works away on her screen, fingers tapping occasionally against the keyboard. I try and fail to focus on my own screen. “Do you always work this late?” Faye asks, voice cheery. I can’t tell if it’s fake or not. “It’s midnight.” “Often, yes. A lot of people rely on us meeting our deadlines.” I frown again. Why am I volunteering more information? She nods, clicking away. “I can imagine.” “Which is why things like calendars can’t go missing.” Faye’s shoulders sti en, but she doesn’t say anything. We both work in tense silence for another few minutes before she sighs. “It’s back. I accidentally unsubscribed us both to that particular calendar. It was a simple fix. Everything’s still intact.”

I open the email and scheduling program. She’s right. All the information about my eight o’clock meeting is readily available to me again. My fingers fly across the keyboard, quickly taking a screenshot in case she does the same thing again. “Don’t let it happen again.” “I won’t,” Faye says. Displeasure is clear in her voice— like she’s disappointed in me. I frown at her and find that she’s wearing the same expression as well. “I’m sorry. It was a simple mistake.” “No mistakes are ever simple.” She crosses her arms over her chest, the sleeves of the sweater long enough to cover her hands. It’s a vulnerable look, completely at contrast with the fierce determination on her face. “I’m sorry, but I think a mistake on one’s first day is allowed.” “They are. Which is why I’m not making a big deal of this.” Faye rolls her eyes—actually rolls her eyes at me!—and heads toward the door. “Is this why you go through assistants so fast?” I stare at her. She did not just say that to me. Talented or not, beautiful or not, that’s just… well, it’s too close for comfort. She stares right back at me. One of us is going to have to give in, and I can tell from her gaze that she’s not planning to. But if she thinks I am, she doesn’t know a thing about me. This goes on for a long time. Faye doesn’t look away, but her lips curve into a smile. “I didn’t think I’d have a staring contest with my boss on my first day.” “Neither did your boss.”

Her smile turns full-blown. It’s a thing to behold, transforming her face from fiercely beautiful into something that’s nearly luminous. Fucking hell. Why did I think it was a good idea to hire her? “I don’t think either of us likes to lose,” she says. “That’s fairly evident.” I lean back in my chair, trying to find some level of authority in this situation, not breaking eye contact. It’s silly—so damn childish—but I still can’t look away. “Let’s make a deal,” she o ers. “While you have me hostage in this game?” I ask. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.” Her smile turns, impossibly, even brighter. “I know I might make mistakes again. Not get your sandwich wholewheat, for example. Prepare too hot co ee. But I want you to give me the full six weeks of this trial period. A proper chance.” “And not cut it short?” “Exactly.” I pretend to deliberate, tapping my fingers on my desk. The deal she suggests is pointless. I hadn’t planned on cutting the six weeks short anyway, especially not after this little performance. It was insolent… and very entertaining. Faye Alvarez is unlike any assistant I’ve ever had. There is no fear in her eyes and no dislike of my frank manner. “All right,” I say slowly. “If you agree to my tasks. You have more experience in the field than any assistant I’ve ever had before.” “Use me,” she says in agreement, and as if on command, a lovely blush blooms on her cheeks. Yeah, she heard how that sounded—just like I did. I ignore it. “Very well. You have your six weeks, Miss Alvarez, despite any mistakes you might make along the way. Now get out of my o ce before I’m forced to stare at you until sunrise.”

Faye nods and grabs her laptop. She walks backwards out of the o ce to avoid breaking eye contact. I raise an eyebrow at her, and she gives a delicate shrug. The movement shifts more of her thick hair over her shoulder. It gleams in the light. “I’m competitive,” she says, voice apologetic. “Goodnight, Mr. Marchand.” “Goodnight.” The door closes behind her, and I stare at it for a few more seconds in disbelief at the interaction we just had. Well, Faye Alvarez. I’m competitive too. And I always win.

She’s exemplary the next day. “Here’s your cortado, Mr. Marchand, from the place down the street that you like. I’ve ordered lunch for you—a poppyseed bagel with light Swiss cheese and pastrami.” I look down at the co ee in my hand. How did she know that? “And Tanner called from the Exon project. They have to push back your two p.m. meeting by ﬁfteen minutes. I’ve rescheduled your meeting with the architects afterwards to ﬁt.” “Did you book a Town Car for tonight?” “Yes. It’ll pick you up at 6:45.” There’s a faint pause. “And you’re sure you don’t want a dinner reservation?” “No. I’ll handle that on my own.” I glance over at my schedule and at the new meeting she’d set, every Monday morning. “You added a recurring meeting for us?” Faye nods, standing straight and proud in front of me. She’s wearing a navy dress today, her hair swept back in a complicated updo. She looks entirely professional—no trace

of the dressed-down, combative woman she’d been last night. It’s for the best. Any more of that and I wouldn’t… well. For this to work, there needs to be absolute professionalism between us. “Yes,” she says. “To go over your schedule for the week and for me to ask you what’s on your mind. It will make me better at anticipating your needs.” Anticipating my needs? “All right.” “Good.” There’s faint relief in her gaze—did she think I would object?—and then she sweeps out of my o ce in a pair of nude heels. Not only had there been no trace of the casual Faye, but there had been no trace of the silliness she’d displayed. That I’d played into—even enjoyed. I shake my head and return to my emails. Get your head out of your ass, Marchand. Two hours later, her voice chirps out of the intercom. “Your mother is on the line. Would you like me to patch her through?” Damn it. I’d been avoiding this call for two days, but there’s no hiding forever. “Yes.” My mother’s satiny voice rings out. “Hello, chéri.” “Maman.” “I’m glad you had the time to talk to me. Always so busy, Henri. It can’t be good for you.” “I always have time for you.” She laughs at the empty ﬂattery. “Now I know you’re lying.” “Is everything all right at home? Dad is good?” “Yes, yes. He just closed on some big deal in the Midwest, I forget where.” I can almost see her waving her hand in dismissal. In Detroit, I want to say. He ﬁnally closed the Rhett project. But it’s no use. “He’ll be there for a week,

hammering out the details. Always working, always working… So like you.” “Yes.” “You haven’t been home for a while now. You know we all miss you.” Paradise Shores is only a few hours’ drive to New York, I feel like saying. Everyone is welcome to visit. “I’ll come home soon. I’ll be home for the wedding, you know.” “Yes, but that won’t be just us, just family.” Mom sighs. “That’s what I was calling about, you know. Your sister is a mess of nerves, trying to organize all this. I told her—how many times did I tell her?—to hire my party coordinator, but no, this had to be her show… Small, she kept saying, intimate… We have too many guests for that!” “Lily wants it her way,” I say. “Let her and Hayden plan their day however they want it. If they want it small, that’s okay.” “Yes, but there are expectations on the family. Oh, I thought you’d understand, Henri…” “I do, but we both know that you can’t change Lily’s mind about anything.” She sighs again, ever the dramatic. I’m reaching the end of my patience. “Who are you bringing? I’ve been asking and asking, but you don’t seem to have an answer. We have you down for a plus-one, of course. Your brothers are both bringing dates.” Yes, my little brothers had both found dates—as pressured by Mom as I was. “I’ll bring someone. Stop worrying.” “Fine, ﬁne. You know your grandmother will worry otherwise. You’re nearly thirty-six, Henri.” Thanks for enlightening me. “I’m aware. Mom, I have to go. I have a meeting in ﬁve.”

“Oh, do you really?” No. “Take care then, Henri. Tell me as soon as you have a name. Lily needs them for place cards, you know.” “I know.” “Bye, chéri.” “Bye. I’ll call soon.” I lean back in my chair. A headache is coming on—not surprising. There is no way my little sister is concerned about who I’m bringing. This was all Eloise Marchand, our mother, and her perfectionist, scheming ways. She might mean well, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant to bear. The worst part is that she wasn’t wrong, either. I don’t have a date for the wedding and haven’t taken a woman out in months. My last relationship, if you can call it that, had ended poorly. Avery wanted more than I was willing to give, even if I had been clear with her from the beginning. You love your work more than me! Yes, I’d had to tell her, because I didn’t love her at all. And I needed to finish my build and the architectural model before the deadline, which was now only a few weeks away. I hadn’t spent nearly two years on a design only to give up at the finish line. Which was exactly why I didn’t have time for women. It was never just simple—and my attempts to simplify things just left them hurt, instead of enlightened, which was my aim. My mind drifts to the dark-haired woman sitting outside my o ce. At the fire in in her eyes when she challenged me last night to give her a fair chance. To her obvious ambition and competitiveness. Her quick tongue and the way her body curved beneath the o ce-appropriate dresses. I halt that train of thought. It has clearly been far too long if I’m finding myself drawn to my own assistant. Not once

have I lusted after my own assistant, and I refuse to start now.

FAYE

“One week done,” Jessie says and raises her glass to mine. “Only ﬁve more to go.” “Before I’m fully employed, yes. Can you picture it? A full-time contract… I think I’ll frame it. Hang it on my wall at home.” Rey grins at me. “Get it tattooed.” “Forever the property of Henry Marchand.” I roll my eyes. “No thank you. I’ll gladly take the salary and the workload—but I don’t need more of the man.” “Is he really that bad?” I look over at my friend, who handles creeps regularly in her job as a bartender. “No,” I say honestly. “It’s not that he’s bad, exactly. He’s more… unnerving. He has high standards, and they’re di cult to live up to. Plus, the man never smiles.” Rey nods. “So he’s like the male version of you.” “What!” “Come on, Faye,” she laughs. “You’re the most ambitious person I know.” “Well, sure, we have that in common. But that’s the only thing. I smile.”

“You both love architecture, and you both have high standards.” “But I don’t have unreasonably high standards for people around me. Don’t look at me like that, Jess. I don’t.” “Remember the last guy you went on a date with? You complained about his table manners. Not to mention your last boyfriend.” I don’t want to be reminded of Aiden. “Yes, well, I guess we’re similar in some ways. But Henry’s scary, and I’m not. I can tell that others at work are afraid of him.” “Afraid?” “Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. They’re not cowering in the corners or anything. But I’ve noticed that they push themselves very hard to meet his deadlines. And no one shows up to a meeting with him without being very prepared.” “But you’re scared of him?” I think of the staring contest we had in his o ce, or when he called and introduced himself as the old stooge. “No. He’s intimidating sometimes, but never scary.” “Well, I think he’s scary,” Jessie says. “Hiring you based on that cover letter means he’s clearly a psychopath.” I laugh at her, and she joins in. “You’re probably right about that, actually. I still can’t believe he did.” “Me neither, but whatever works, honey.” She pushes her red hair up higher into a ponytail. “Have you thought more about my text?” I bury my head in my hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.” “Oh, no I haven’t. What do you think? Do you want to have drinks next week with Travis? It would be good for you. Just a little drink, with a cute and interesting guy.” I resist the impulse to roll my eyes. “If he’s that amazing, why haven’t you snatched him up for yourself?”

“Me?” Jessie puts a hand to her chest, the picture of innocence. “You know I would never date a co-worker. It’s unethical.” “Sure.” “Plus, I’ve already called dibs on Steve, our delivery guy. He has bulging arms, just my type. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you—and Travis.” ”Fine, ﬁne. You’re probably right, anyway.” I take another sip of my wine. “I’ve been out of the game for too long.” “Yes! I’ll set it up. Next week, all right?” “I’ll be there. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my work for Mr. Hardass, that is.” “No, God forbid. You have to make it ﬁve more weeks.” “I will.” His face rises in my mind, unbidden. Not the indi erent mask he wore at work, but the way he’d smirked when we had the staring contest, bragging that he didn’t know what losing was. “I’ll make sure I last.”

Henry has rolled up his sleeves again, and it’s only ten a.m. on a Monday morning. He’s not wearing a tie, hair perfectly pushed back, but those arms… I shake my head at myself. I’ve never been a forearm person. The sight of his tan skin, strong muscles and wide hands shouldn’t a ect me, and for more reasons than one. I need the date with Jessie’s friend, if this is how I’m reacting to my own boss. Henry sits down at the large conference table in his o ce. “All right. You have your Monday meeting. Let’s go through the week ahead.” I open my laptop and work through the questions I’ve listed one by one. He has a busy schedule this week, ﬁlled to the brim with client meetings, investors and contractors.

Henry listens to everything, giving me short, factual responses. Yes. No. Push that back. Email Rykers and ask if she can go instead. His eyes are unwavering; the same clinical, assessing manner he always adopts with work. I can see how it would unnerve some, but it clarifies everything for me. Me, assistant. Him, boss. It takes balls to treat people like that, I think. Without small talk or pleasantries. He might be insu erable, but the man’s e ective. “I have some final questions. I’m finalizing the last things for your trip to Chicago in a few weeks. Do you want me to book airport transport from your apartment or from the o ce?” “What time’s the flight?” “Ten a.m.” “Book it from the o ce. I’ll come in early.” “The Founders’ Association has asked for a follow-up on your invitation to the Founders’ Gala in two weeks. We need to make a decision, preferably sooner than later.” He taps his fingers against the table. “Tell them yes. Tell them I’ll have a plus-one, too.” “I will.” I stave o my curiosity, noting down the response. “You have a four-day weekend blocked o for personal time next month. You haven’t mentioned anything regarding that, but do you need anything booked? Prepared?” “No.” “Alrighty, then. Last point: Kyle Renner from the architect team wants to have a private chat with you about one of his designs. It seemed… important to him.” Henry gives a low groan. “Yes, I know. He’s been trying for weeks. See if you can pencil him in this week. No more than fifteen minutes.”

“Will do.” I jot it down. “Do you have anything you want to add? Perhaps feedback on my performance from last week?” “No feedback. Please book a table somewhere nice on Friday. Seven p.m. for two.” “Sure thing. Who are you wining and dining?” I ask, already creating a post in his calendar. He regularly takes clients out, like most builders and developers. It makes sense, but still, I would love to see his version of schmoozing. The man never smiles. “It’s a personal dinner.” “Ah,” I say delicately, avoiding his gaze. Maybe a date, then. As much as I would like to see Henry schmoozing, I want to see his version of dating more. What kind of women does he go out with? Blonde models looking for someone willing to spend money? College architecture professors? Henry clears his throat, almost like he’s uncomfortable, but his gaze is as steely as always. “Choose one of my regular places—they should be in the notes from your predecessor. Needs to be walking distance from my apartment.” I look down to hide my surprise. “Will do. I’ll email you the details when it’s all booked.” Wow. He’s hoping to score, then. Maybe he always does. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy you’d say no to, after a full meal and drinks, with his demanding eyes and demanding questions. I could almost picture it—teasing him for a full evening, drawing out those elusive smiles, and knowing that he would be just as exacting in the bedroom. That he would— What? No. Head in the game, Faye. I close my laptop. “Is that all, Mr. Marchand?” “Yes.” He taps his ﬁngers against the table in that infuriating manner. “Actually, no. I’d like you to accompany me to the Rexﬁeld build-site tomorrow for the inspection.”

“Really?” My surprise must be evident, because amusement ﬂickers in his green eyes. “Yes, really. And bring another pair of shoes. Those heels are a safety hazard.” I have to swallow down my excitement. “I will. And… thank you, sir.” “Don’t thank me. You’re there to work—I’ll be asking you to take notes.” He rises from the table himself. “Now we’re done with the meeting.” Despite the dismissal, I’m excited the rest of the day. I haven’t been to a building site in months, not since Elliot Ferris and the Century Dome. They’re rough places, but there’s something about the potential—knowing you’re walking into a space that will one day house people, with their lives and work and hopes and dreams. The next day, I come to work in a pair of suit trousers, a pair of loafers tucked into my bag. Let it never be said that I don’t listen to instructions. Henry steps out of his o ce thirty minutes before the meeting. He’s wearing Timberland boots, but other than that, he looks impeccable, dressed in a navy-blue suit. He looks me over, his gaze snagging on my footwear. “No heels,” I say, “per your speciﬁcations.” “Those are boat shoes.” I look down at the navy loafers I’d gotten at a bargain price at the outlet outside of town. “They are?” “Yes.” “Oh. I’ve never been on a boat in my life.” He gives me a look I can’t decipher. Without my heels, I feel small next to him, more than a head taller than me and powerfully built. I still don’t understand how he maintains a physique like that when all he does is spend time in the o ce. Henry breaks the eye contact. “Let’s go.”

We walk through the o ce in silence, and ride the elevator in silence. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s not tense, either. The company’s car is waiting for us by the curb. Henry opens the door for me. His expression looks wry, like he’s warning me not to get used to it. Don’t worry, buddy, I think and shoot him a blazing smile. He doesn’t return it, getting into the seat next to me. “I trust you’ve read up on the Rexfield project.” “I have, yes.” He runs a hand over the smooth leather finish of the door, watching as the city passes us by outside. The project is uptown, so it shouldn’t take us long. “Tell me about it.” So I do. I run through all the stats I can remember. “It’s a fifteen-story building. Set to be completed by the end of the year. Developed by us but commissioned by the Rexfield corporation. Work is contracted out to Sanders & Sons. It’s a standard, run-of-the-mill New York o ce building,” I add, thoughtlessly. Henry’s eyes narrow. “Run-of-the-mill?” Damn. But I won’t lie. “Yes. It’s designed to fit into the neighborhood it’s located in. Similar colors and structure to the other buildings on the street. It needed to fit zoning regulations. For the interior, Rexfield wanted something functional. They’re a medicine company,” I say, making my voice slightly apologetic. “They’re not interested in a building fit for Architectural Digest.” He nods slowly. “You’re not wrong. But I would caution you to call any of our developments standard or run-of-themill around clients. Or around anyone else at the o ce, for that matter.” “I won’t.” I consider apologizing, but then decide against it. Nothing I’d said had been incorrect.

“We’re here.” He gets out first, opening the door for me again. The chivalrous gesture must be ingrained. Outside, the sun is high in the sky. It’s unusually warm for May. Martin from Sanders & Sons is waiting at the build. He gives Henry a thorough handshake. “So glad you could make it, Mr. Marchand. We have a lot to show you today.” “I’m looking forward to it. This is my new assistant, Miss Alvarez.” Martin shakes my hand. “A pleasure. And as you’ll both see, we’re bang on time on schedule, as well.” Henry nods—as if he expected nothing less—and we begin our tour through the skeleton-like building. Martin’s knowledge is near encyclopedic. He can answer every question Henry throws his way, even the curveballs. I wonder if that’s a requirement for working with Marchand & Rykers. I take notes on everything. Henry doesn’t use any props at all. No paper or blueprints. Does he remember it all? It seems implausible, but then again, knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise me. Martin takes us through the di erent levels of rough concrete, saving the view from the top floor for last. I think back to the original sketches for the building—this was to be made into the executive management’s o ces. The meeting runs much later than I anticipated in Henry’s schedule. He’s deep in conversation with Martin, and I don’t want to interrupt, but there’s no chance he’ll be in time for his lunch meeting with a few of the architects at the firm. “Thank you,” he says finally to Martin. “You’ve been running point with Rhett from my o ce on this project. Has he been to your satisfaction?”

Martin’s eyes widen. “Yes. Yes, absolutely, sir. He’s very involved.” I resist the urge to grimace. Involved, yikes. Not usually a contractor’s wet dream. Henry nods. “Please ensure the project continues to run on schedule.” It’s past one p.m. when we finally leave the building site. Henry sighs, brushing o dust from the sleeve of his suit jacket. The sun hits him directly, and in the light his brown hair gleams with auburn notes. His square jaw has faint hints of a stubble, as if it’s already started to grow from his morning shave. I try to look away, but it’s hard. He really is a very impressive specimen of a man. A date, I tell myself. You need to get back out there. Travis. “What did you think?” I blink once, drawn out of my musings. “Of the building project?” “No, of Martin’s beautiful blue eyes,” he deadpans. I blink at him. He jokes. “Oh. Well, it’s unusual that the project is on track to meet the original, unrevised schedule. You have great contractors.” “Or great incentives,” he says. “Yes. But… the design of the top floor bothered me slightly.” He turns to face me entirely. I thought I was used to the clinical way he looks at me, but now it feels like far too much to be the recipient of all that attention. “Tell me,” he orders. “The view is terrific. It’s the most valuable per-squarefeet of the entire property. Using it only for executive o ces feels like a waste.” “What would you suggest instead?” “A boardroom that can double as a conference room. Not something boring, but a place where they can pitch to

investors. A place to present new medication. To use that natural light somehow—a beautiful space, like a showroom.” “Atrium-like?” “Yes.” “They could hold functions there, too,” Henry adds. “It’s a good idea. It’s something Rhett should have thought about. It’s not surprising that the company pushed for o ces for the executives—themselves, basically—but it’s an architect’s job to give suggestions. To be better than the client.” “Yes.” He looks at me for a long beat. “Good catch.” To my horror, I ﬁnd myself blushing from the praise like a schoolgirl. To hide it, I open my bag and dig out my phone, ﬁnding his calendar. “This meeting ran later than expected.” “It did.” “You only have twenty minutes until your next meeting, and no time to get your regular lunch.” “You didn’t prepare a plan B? Come on, Miss Alvarez.” Henry shakes his head, eyes clearly disapproving. “My leniency has boundaries.” My mouth hangs open. “Sorry? But that’s not… how could I have known this meeting would run late?” Only then do I catch the amusement in his expression. He’s so good at hiding it on his face—but his eyes give him away. “It was just a joke,” he says. “Let’s get something on the way. I’m in the mood for kebab.” He must have seen my surprise, because he raises an eyebrow. “What? You don’t think I eat street food?” There’s absolutely nothing I can say in response to that, apart from the obvious. “No, but now I’m curious to see it. Lead the way, sir.”

HENRY

I choose the seediest place I can find, just to see the expression on her face. “Let’s eat here,” I say, stopping in front of a hole-inthe-wall kebab shop. There are a few chairs outside, directly on the sidewalk, but no tables. The place smells like fries and grilled meat. There’s a faint furrow on her brow. “Here?” “Yes,” I say, wondering if she’ll call the blu . She doesn’t, of course—not Faye Alvarez. She’s as competitive as me. “I love kebab,” she says smoothly, stepping up to order. I watch in amused silence as she gets the biggest kebab on the menu, including fries. “The same,” I say, paying for us both in cash. “We’ll eat here.” Faye frowns at me. “But your meeting? We need to get going.” “It’s with the architects at the firm, and it’s in-house. We can take ten minutes to eat our lunch.” She nods, but her eyes are wide. I’ve surprised her several times in the past few minutes, and despite myself, I find that

I enjoy it. She’s always so sure of herself—of her opinion of me—that it’s impossible to avoid needling her. We’re sitting right on a bustling New York street, and it’s not even tree lined. It’s not my usual place, sure, but it’s worth it to unsettle the unsettlable Faye. She crosses shapely legs, visible even through her smart trousers, and frowns at me. “You made your point,” she says. “You eat takeout. I underestimated you.” I run my ﬁngers along the steel table. “You loved that building project.” “I did? I thought I upset you by saying it was run-of-themill.” “No, not the outcome. You love being at a building site.” It had been clear in her dark eyes when we followed Martin. I’d seen the excitement, even if she tried to hide it behind a cool mask and diligent notetaking. But she wasn’t as good at hiding her emotions as me. Faye nods, slowly. Her long hair is up in a tight bun, no trace of the shimmering sheet of black she’d worn down at the o ce that night. But it only enhances her heart-shaped face and the fullness of her lips. “I do. I can’t describe it… but I always have. There’s something about the potential, you know? The progression each day, the laying of brick and concrete…” She shakes her head. There’s conviction in her voice, and feeling. She burns for this business. “It’s hard to explain, but I’m sure you know. You love it too.” I raise an eyebrow. “I do?” “Yes,” she says, eyes challenging again. “At least I think you do.” “And why do you think that?” “I’ve met many developers and builders. Most are only interested in dollars and cents, and they wouldn’t visit a building site like this. They’d send their middleman. But you

knew everything about that project,” she says. “Either your memory is infallible, or you genuinely find it interesting.” I glance away from her. There’s truth in her words, more truth than most people guess. It was the reason I was drawn to the same business as my father in the first place. Creating —building—is the closest to making things last. To bringing something to life, something that might or might not outlast you. But for my father, money and legacy was the important part. Not the architecture—not the art. “I enjoy it,” I say carefully. “And I find that it’s often more e ective if I get involved myself.” “Remind everyone who’s boss?” Faye asks, her voice clearly teasing. It never stops surprising me how easily she switches between the professional and the friendly. “Exactly,” I say. “Food’s here.” She watches me silently for a second, as if she doesn’t really believe I’ll eat a kebab, so I take a big bite to show her just how wrong she is. She rolls her eyes and digs in to her own. It makes me want to laugh, her incredulity. As if I’m some silver-spooned Upper-East-Sider who would never deign to get my hands dirty. Hah. If she only knew. She takes a sip of her soda. “I haven’t emailed you yet, but I got a reservation at Salt for Friday at seven p.m.” Damn, I’d nearly forgotten about that dinner. Chelsea Moreno lives in the apartment building next to me and drops regular hints whenever we bump into each other at the taxi stand in the morning. I know next to nothing about her, apart from the comments she’d made about a career in fashion, her love of yoga, and that she goes to the hairdresser twice a month to maintain her platinum blonde. She doesn’t particularly interest me. But after my mother’s phone call last week, I needed to take action.

Not to mention I needed to get my assistant out of my mind. “I’ve been to Salt before,” I tell her. “I know where it is.” Her tone becomes a shade too innocent. “So, is it a good place for a date?” This woman. “Miss Alvarez…” “Just asking for future reference, so I know where to book your personal meetings.” She grabs a fry and it dangles between her slim fingers. “To ensure I’m the best assistant I can be.” She’s fishing. I resist the urge to smile. “Yes, it’s a good place for a date,” I say, thinking about the soft lighting and the intimate booths, with enough privacy for deep conversations. Faye would look stunning in that environment. “So you have one planned for Friday?” “You’re impossible.” “Sorry. Too personal?” I take the last bite of my kebab. She doesn’t look the least bit contrite. Usually, this kind of insolence would bother me, but instead I find myself intrigued. A woman like this… no way she’s unattached. There’s no ring on her finger, but there has to be someone—a boyfriend, or two. Women who have her brains and look like her don’t stay single long. “Relationships are hard in this business,” I say instead, leaning back. “Working the sort of hours we work.” “Yes. It’s why I haven’t…” She shakes her head, thinking better of it. “You’re right.” “Why you haven’t what?” “I technically have a date, too, on Friday. So we’ll both be out romancing.” She looks away and her cheeks flush slightly. The sight is unusual—she’s never anything but confidence personified. It must be serious, then. It bothers me. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Who with?”

“Someone my friend is setting me up with.” “You’re going on a blind date?” What in all the world? This woman is a perfect ten in every category. Why would she need to be set up with some lowlife? “Yes.” She sighs, still looking ﬂushed. “But you have to get out there, you know.” I ball my napkin up and gather our combined trash. “Are you ﬁnished?” “Yes.” “Let’s head out. I don’t want to be too late.” Faye nods. The lovely blush on her olive features is receding fast, quickly replaced by a mask I now recognize as her own professional armor. We head back to the o ce mostly in silence. The few things we talk about are all workrelated. And damn it all, but now I want to know who she’s going out with. I try to picture Faye on a date. What would she wear? Her hair down, for one. I bet she’d use that blinding smile of hers mercilessly. She’d probably run circles around him with her wit. Poor fellow. I doubt he’d be able to satisfy her, with her ambitions and determination. Or perhaps he would—he might satisfy her all too well. And to my surprise, that thought displeases me even more.

It’s not working. There’s something missing—the facade isn’t quite right. Damn it. I run my hands over my face. The deadline for the submission is less than two months away, and I’m no closer to ﬁnishing the design than I’d been weeks ago. The city of New York has commissioned a new opera house. It’s one of the biggest building projects in the city’s

modern history, and in the spirit of artistic competition, they’re accepting submissions from architects all over the world. All final plans are to be submitted by early July. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have no doubt the biggest names in the world will submit their designs, but it’s a blind contest. The judges will have no way of knowing if they’re looking at Frank Gehry’s design or mine. And that might work squarely in my favor. But only if I have a perfect design to showcase. And so far, the facade isn’t working. I can’t put my finger on it, staring at the model in front of me. It’s simplistic; curving like the rippling of a flag, in a single sheet of bent steel. It’s innovative, energy-e cient… beautiful. But not quite there. I need another pair of eyes. Damn it. There’s no one else I can ask. My old friends from college are working in firms across the city, and they’re all mercenary bastards. Great for a beer—but not for this. Not for a project that could make or break an architect and a building firm. I don’t trust them. And the architects at my own firm are vultures. Excellent, all of them—I wouldn’t have hired them otherwise—but I can’t use them for this. Most of them don’t know I still design myself, let alone that I’m planning on submitting my own design as the firm’s contribution to the city’s opera project. Faye’s voice rings out over the intercom. “Rykers is here to see you.” I toss the sheet over the model and cross my o ce, taking a seat at my desk. It’s unusual for my architecture partner to visit like this—unannounced. Both of us live by our schedules and routines. “Send her in.”

The door opens and Marlena Rykers steps in. In her midforties, Rykers is a force to be reckoned with. We started as junior architects at the same firm once open a time, but quickly clawed our way up through the ranks until the firm’s constraints chafed. She had wanted independence; I’d craved it. We both had significant capital to use to start our own business—her from a divorce, me from my trust fund. There’s no pretension between us. Both of us want to make money, and both of us want to grow the business. She focuses on her designs and I focus on mine, sharing the team between us. It works well. “Marchand,” she says by way of greeting, taking a seat in front of me. “Rykers.” “The pitch for Priority Media is coming up.” She’s telling me something I already know. “Yes.” “We’ve put Kyle and Terri on it, but I don’t think they can handle it.” I lean back, tapping my fingers thoughtfully against the desk. The two are head of one of our architect divisions and usually a great combination. “That’s a problem.” “They’re bickering like children,” Rykers says, waving a dismissive hand. “We both know this pitch is too big to screw up.” It certainly is. If Marchand & Rykers gets Priority Media, we’ll be building for years to come. The multi-media platform wants new headquarters in New York and has a multi-million budget to back it up. “Can we put someone else on it?” “I’ve checked. We don’t have anyone else to spare at the moment. But we could rotate Rebecca in occasionally, and I’ll have a chat with Kyle and Terri. Tell them to straighten up or they’re o it entirely.”

That’s why I’ve always liked Rykers. She’s straightforward and cold-blooded. “And if they don’t, let me know. I think I might have a solution,” I say. Because she’s wrong about one thing: we do have another architect inhouse, even if she wasn’t hired as one. Rykers nods. She looks just as businesslike as usual, but her gaze turns thoughtful. “Are you going to the Founders’ ball next Friday?” “Yes.” “Good. One of us should attend.” I raise an eyebrow. “Am I taking the hit for both of us, then?” “Yes. You’re better at networking, anyway. I just scare them o .” Hah. There might be some truth to that—and that’s saying something, given how pointless I ﬁnd many of the occasions. And if my date on Friday goes well, I might even have someone to bring along, as is expected at events like that. But somehow, that makes the prospect seem even more boring. Having to battle small talk on all fronts, both with other guests and the one you’ve brought along with you. I’ll have to ﬁnd a way around that.

FAYE

It’s late on Thursday evening. That’s no surprise. Henry Marchand works late every day, and as his assistant, so do I. It’s exhausting—the man never seems to rest. I stifle a yawn and scan through my mailbox. Everything is replied to… everything’s organized. His calendar is all set for the next day. I’ve made the calls I need to—I’ve answered the people I need to answer. There’s nothing more for me to do. My phone pings, and I swipe at Jessie’s message. Jessie Moore: Travis is really excited for tomorrow. I can tell! Oh, no. The man himself had only exchanged two texts with me—one to confirm the time and the second to confirm the place. I didn’t like that Jessie had to be the messenger. Faye Alvarez: You’re too invested in this. It’s unhealthy. She responds with a variety of emojis that lets me know just what she thinks about that. Jessie Moore: What are you wearing I hadn’t thought about that yet. In all honesty, I was less and less enthusiastic about this date with each passing day. How high were the odds of finding love on a blind date, anyway? But Jessie was objectively right. It had been far too long since I went on a date and put myself out there.

Aiden had been over two years ago. And in the time since, I’d only focused on work, until Elliot Ferris saw fit to let me go over his own wounded pride. He couldn’t have someone on his team who had e ectively built Century Dome without any recognition. I was a risk, and I was let go in a way designed to ruin me. I shake my head. I don’t want to think about that. The time on my computer reads nearly seven p.m. If Henry doesn’t need anything else, I’m heading home. I press the intercom button. “Do you need anything else before I head home, Mr. Marchand?” He usually answers right away, but there’s a nearly minute-long pause before his voice rings out. “Yes. Come inside.” Frowning, I head through the door to his o ce. He’s not at his desk. Instead, he’s standing by the model in the corner. It’s the first time I’ve seen it uncovered. It’s definitely not one of Marchand & Rykers’ current projects, because I know those by heart by now. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. The building is shaped a bit like a violin, with graceful curves in steel. Even from the small model, it’s clear the building is planned to be very large. Steps lead up to a concealed entrance in one of the curves. It’s gorgeous. There’s something elegant about it. Understated. My eyes slowly shift to Henry’s. For the first time, his gaze isn’t clinical at all. He runs a hand along the sharp edge of his jaw. “I want your opinion.” “My opinion?” I step closer, looking at the meticulous details. Is this another test? “Yes.” His voice makes it clear he’s not entirely comfortable. “You had good notes for the Rexfield project,

about the use of the top floor.” Ah. Maybe I’ll see something he’s missed, he means. It’s not uncommon for architects to ask each other for input. But by the way he’s holding himself, sti y and uncomfortably, it’s clear that it’s unusual for him. “I’d need to see the blueprints for the digital model for that,” I say softly. “But the outside is stunning.” “Hmm.” “You don’t think so?” “I think something is missing,” he says carefully, “and I don’t know what.” I lean closer, looking at all the details. The model is in complete 3D and beautiful from all angles. My first instinct is that there’s nothing missing at all. But after he points it out, I can see what he’s saying. It’s cold in its beauty. It’s clearly a building meant for the arts—a building to admire from afar. “I’d add wood,” I say impulsively. “Wood?” I ignore his o ended tone, the snob. “Yes. Some natural element to anchor the… the floatiness of the curves. These steps here, see? They could be made out of stacked timber. And this portion here could be in dark wood.” I point, seeing it in my head. “I’d play around with a digital model and see how that changes the e ect.” He crosses his arms over his chest. There’s still denial there—I can tell that he doesn’t appreciate my suggestion about a natural component. But he doesn’t protest, just stares at the model like it holds all the answers. “What is the building for?” Henry meets my gaze, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “It’s an opera house.” Oh. I stare at him with newfound respect. “You’re planning on participating in the city’s design competition.”

“Yes.” He throws the sheet over the model, all the beautiful curves hidden again. “I am.” Damn. I take a step closer. “Does anyone else know?” “No one at the ﬁrm does. And I’d like to remind you that you signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of your contract.” God, this man. “I’m not going to tell anyone.” Henry nods and steps back toward his desk. “Good.” It’s his classic form of dismissal, and I retreat back to the o ce door. My gaze can’t help but ﬂick back to the model in the corner. I didn’t know that Henry actively designed. Most builders at his level outsource all of that to the architecture teams. I’d been right, then, when I asked him earlier this week if he loved it too. It’s clear, with every painstaking detail in his model, that architecture is in his lifeblood too.

Before my date with Travis, Jessie is all rainbows and sparkles on the phone. “It’ll go so great.” “I’m sure.” I smooth my hand over my dress—red, Aline, perfectly date-appropriate—and roll my eyes at her optimism. “You’re using the tone that says you’re indulging me.” I laugh. “I’m just not quite as sure as you. But I am looking forward to it. Now leave me alone, he could be here any minute.” “Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow at the gym—I can’t wait to hear everything!” We say our goodbyes and I slide my phone into my purse. I’ve been waiting outside the bar for a few minutes, but so

far, no Travis. I head inside and take a seat at the bar. The place is half-full, waiters carrying out fancy cocktails served in intricate glasses. The spot had been his suggestion, and since he’s a bartender, I’d gladly accepted. “A martini, please.” The bartender shoots me a smile and starts mixing the drink with practiced movements. Tonight will be good, to get back into the dating game, to meet someone new. Good. Very good, in fact. Henry would be on his date too. I had looked up Salt beforehand, and it was a beautiful place. No doubt his date was someone beautiful, too. I’d googled Henry Marchand before—hadn’t been able to stop myself—and I’d only found one picture of him with a date. He’d been in a tuxedo, and the woman on his arm had been stunning. Slim and with big doe-eyes. The title had been mocking. The son of famous New England developer attempts to make a mark on the New York scene. In the picture, Henry stared into the camera in a way I was getting used to, like he was daring it to take a picture of him. His green eyes indi erent, as if whatever you choose to do—or don’t do—doesn’t matter to him in the slightest. It’s a look I recognize. It’s what makes him a challenging boss. Not to mention a great architect—the opera house had been impressive. My hands had itched to get closer, to see the blueprints and bring it to life on my screen. It was exactly what I’d worked on at Elliot Ferris, the large, grandscale projects. He competed in every possible design competition worldwide, which was exactly how we’d gotten the Century Dome project. Just thinking about the Dome brings tightness to my chest. For ﬁve years I’d poured everything I’d had into that project, and Elliot Ferris had taken all the credit. All of it— and let me go without so much as a recommendation.

Damn it. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not about past mistakes, nor about Henry and his stern gaze and eye for design. The bartender nods at me. “Waiting for someone?” “Yes,” I say. “Must be late.” “No worries. If he’s not here when you’re done with your drink, the next one’s on the house,” he says with a wink. I can’t help but grin back. At least someone is here to appreciate the e ort I put in with my dress and makeup tonight. “Thanks.” The minutes inch forward and no Travis in sight. He hasn’t even texted to let me know he’ll be late. Henry would never be late. No doubt, he’d been bang on time tonight for his date. My mind drifts to what he would wear—how his suit would hug his wide shoulders and strong arms—before I shut it down. I’m not on a date with Henry Marchand, and I never will be. Travis shows up nearly half an hour late. He smiles crookedly when he sees me, looking exactly like the picture Jessie had sent me. About my height, with brown hair and lanky limbs. Cute, in a boyish kind of way. “Faye?” “That’s me.” He leans in to kiss my cheek, smelling like smoke. “Glad you could make it tonight.” “Likewise,” I say dryly. Travis doesn’t apologize for his lateness and the rest of the evening follows suit. I’m bored out of my skull an hour later, trying and failing to follow a story about his roommate’s poor taste in video games. I clear my throat. “Do you enjoy bartending?” “Nah. It’s all right, you know. Pays the bills.” He grins, cheekily. “But I deﬁnitely feel like I have a future

elsewhere.” “Really? Doing what?” “I’m not sure you’d understand.” “No, try me,” I say, intrigued for the first time in over an hour. “What do you want to do instead?” He leans in, smiling at me like he’s about to tell me a secret. “I saw this great documentary last week about Neil Armstrong. It was so cool. I mean, he was so cool. What he did, you know? Man, that guy really did something with his life, you know. And the documentary really showed that, like, in-depth.” “Right,” I say slowly. “So you want to become a documentary filmmaker?” He laughs. “No. An astronaut.” “Wow.” “Yeah. I figured it’s a lot of work, but you have to start somewhere. I know I just made the decision, but I’m really committed.” “I can imagine.” “I’ve already ordered a few books about it. Well, one. Introduction to physics. Seemed a good place to start.” Oh, god. What the hell had Jessie been thinking, setting me up with this guy? We couldn’t be more di erent if we tried. He was a blank canvas and still trying to figure out what to become. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t someone I was interested in dating. And when he asked me what I did for a living—the first question he’d asked me all night—and promptly confused an architect with an archeologist… Travis raises an eyebrow when I call it a night. “Already? It’s not even ten.” “I’m an early riser,” I say, putting down two twenties for my own drinks. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Sure you have to go? Jessie said a lot of nice things about you, but she didn’t do you justice.” His smile turns flirtatious, eyes glittering. “I live close by, you know.” Yeah… it’s definitely time to go. “I have to. Thanks for tonight.” “I enjoyed myself,” he says. “See you around.” Despite the stifling New York air, I breathe in deep gulps as I leave the bar. Jessie, my kind, crazy, impulsive friend. She’d been wild when she suggested this. An astronaut. He wanted to become an astronaut based on one week of knowledge. I walk down the street and watch people mill about around me. New York is always a bustle of people, never asleep, never quiet. When I first said I wanted to move here, my parents had been confused. Why? It’s all money and work and people who don’t smile at one another on the street. It had been di cult to describe it to them. I loved my parents. I loved the small town in Ohio where I grew up. But it hadn’t felt big enough for my dreams, or for the person I grew into as soon as I left for college. My phone rings, an insistent vibration in my pocket. Probably Jessie, calling to check in on the date, unable to stop herself. I consider letting it go to voice mail—she’ll be disappointed that I didn’t like Travis. But eventually I fish it out of my pocket, and when I see the caller ID, it isn’t Jessie at all. It’s Henry.

HENRY

“It’s hard, you know, to travel so much,” Chelsea says. “It gets lonely to be on the road all the time. And I never really feel like I’m home when I’m home either, you know? But of course you know. You work a lot yourself.” “I do, yes.” She flicks a strand of curled hair over her shoulder. “I like men who work a lot. Who have ambition. And I’m sure you do.” “I enjoy my work, yes.” Watching paint dry would have been more fun than this discussion. For over an hour, Chelsea had been running the conversation, avoiding all my attempts to talk about something even remotely interesting. “I read up on you before this. I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, and bats expertly elongated eyelashes, “but I’m too honest. I have to confess.” God help me. “And what did you find?” She leans in across the table. “Well, I knew you were impressive before, but the search confirmed it. Started your own firm at just twenty-seven, quickly became one of the biggest names in Manhattan. You won the Hugh D. Lehn award. Your father is a developer, too, right?”

“Yes.” I scan the restaurant for the waiter. I need to pay this bill and end this. “Is that why you got into the business?” “I didn’t—” “Because that’s why I love fashion. My mother was a famous model, you know. Very beautiful. People say I look like her, but I don’t see it.” Chelsea smiles. It looks sickly sweet. “Do you think I do? My mom is Cindy White.” The name barely rings a bell. “I’m sure the resemblance is striking.” Her smile falters, but only slightly. “Let me just tell you how excited I was when you asked me out for dinner.” She had looked vaguely bored when I’d o ered. What had brought about this change? The google search of my net worth and history? “I’m glad you accepted.” Chelsea shoots me another practiced smile and starts to complain about something so inane that I do my best to tune it out, my features impassive. She’s taken pictures of the place, of the food, and of our drinks. At least she didn’t try to take a picture with me. I glance down at my watch. It’s half-past nine. Faye is out on her date as well. Her blind date. It’s far too easy to imagine her sitting on a barstool, her eyes teasing as she challenges the poor guy she’s been paired with. What kind of men does she like? In my mind, the guy she’s smiling at shifts from muscly jock to a tall investment banker. Neither feels right. Faye’s too… she’s too much for that. For single-minded men who can’t keep up with her intelligence. Or they’re hitting if o and she’s blushing for him, like she did for me when I asked her about the date. The low lights of the bar setting o her olive-toned skin perfectly.

Chelsea is still droning on. Just a few months ago she would have been exactly the kind of date I’d enjoy wining, dining, and bedding. A companion for events. She’d know what was expected and anticipated; it was a comfortable sort of arrangement, always unspoken. Enjoyable conversation, if not particularly deep. Both parties aware it’s casual. Now, the thought of spending another hour pretending to be interested in the newest Birkin bag feels like torture, not to mention spending an entire evening with her at the Founders’ ball. No, she’s not a prospective candidate at all. It’s not hard to picture Faye opposite me instead, tonight at Salt. She’d say something outrageous, and I’d get to surprise her right back by not reacting like she’d expect at all. I finally get eye contact with a waiter. Chelsea smirks at me when I settle the bill, going out of her way to point out to the waiter that the vegan option she ordered wasn’t quite to her satisfaction. She threads her arm through mine as we walk back to our street. Clearly, dating someone I lived next to had been a mistake. I should have known, but I’d done it anyway, driven by the pressure to find someone for the ball—not to mention my little sister’s wedding in a few short weeks. “You’re very fit,” she says, running her hand up my arm. I resist the urge to draw away from her and look down at where her eyes are flirtatiously narrowing at me. “I didn’t know architects were this bu . You don’t do any of that construction work yourself, do you?” “Not generally, no. But I stay active.” I have the gym, every morning, not to mention the long hours spent sailing. Hauling ropes isn’t for the weak. “Here’s where I have to leave you, Chelsea.” Her face drops, but she quickly composes it into something that looks like a smirk. It’s clear she’s used to

using her charms and having them work. “You’re not going home?” “I have to go to the o ce.” “On a Friday night?” “Yes.” “I do love that you work so much,” she says, but the attempt is half-hearted. “Thanks for tonight, Henry.” “Thank you.” Her eyes ultimately hold nothing but calculation. I’m one of many, and we both know it’s not a genuine connection. “While I’m sure we both had a good evening, I’m not going to call you, and I don’t think you’ll call me either.” Her face drops entirely. “Wow. I… all right. That’s rude.” “No, it’s honest.” She shakes her head. “Fine. Do you know how many men want to go out with me?” “Many, I’m sure.” But I am definitely not one of them. “Good night, Chelsea. Take care.” She shoots me a look that’s more o ended than hurt and heads inside. I take a deep breath for the first time in a couple of hours and start walking toward the o ce. I know I’m not going to be able to sleep for hours, and my fingers are itching to try out some changes to the opera house. This entire evening reminded me why I hate New York’s dating scene. No doubt she’d be dating ten guys at the same time and had expected me to do the same. Everything is complicated—absolutely everything—when the only thing I want is simplicity. My mind drifts to Faye and her date again, like a dog with a bone. Is she like Chelsea too, playing the field? I can’t imagine that. But I can imagine her infatuated, her cheeks flushing beautifully again. She might still be on her date. If it’s going well, he could be kissing her right now.

I dial her number. I know I shouldn’t call. I have no legitimate reason to do so. She’s organized my calendar to perfection, and everything I need for the weekend is done. Faye answers on the second signal. “Mr. Marchand? Is everything all right?” “Yes.” “Did your reservation work out?” “Yes, it did.” A faint pause. “So, what’s the matter?” “Did you book the airport transportation for my Chicago trip?” “I did, yes.” “I didn’t receive the details.” “No, I was planning on going over it on Monday, during our meeting.” Another pause. “Do you need them earlier?” “Yes, I need the details right away,” I say, hand clenched at my side. I know I’m acting like an asshole. “I’ll forward them to your email right away.” “Good.” I force my hand to relax. I want to keep her talking. “Hopefully it won’t interrupt your evening too much.” “Oh, you’re not interrupting,” Faye says with a sigh, the disappointment in her voice loosening something in me. “I think that was the ﬁrst and last time I’ll ever attempt a blind date.” Something in me relaxes. “That bad?” “Yes, dear God. What about you? Are you already ﬁnished with yours, sir?” I can’t help but smile at the sir added at the end of a question she shouldn’t be asking. “Yes.” “Huh.” Her curiosity is palpable, even through the phone. “It wasn’t good either,” I say. “I’m at the o ce.”

“Working on your project?” “Yes.” Faye is quiet for a beat. “I’m nearby. Do you need anything? Take-out, perhaps? I’m sure I could ﬁnd a kebab shop for you.” I just ate a dinner at Salt, something she knows full well, too. The answer is clearly no. But still. “Get enough for two.”

By the time the elevator dings, I’ve sketched out the adjustments to the digital model that Faye suggested. The wood feels basic—too simple a material—but the more I look at it, the less of an eyesore it becomes. I’m still not sure if it’s right. But she was correct about one aspect, at least. The building needs more natural aspects to ground the design. I left my o ce door open and Faye walks in, a large paper bag in hand. “Hey,” she says, half-smiling. Her hair is down, falling in tumbling black waves around her face and shoulders. Her features look softer, somehow, than at work. Rosy lips and long eyelashes. And she’s in a dress. Not one of the work dresses—no, this dress hugs her chest, showing o her waist and then ﬂaring out over curved hips. Little strappy heels on her feet, too. I force my gaze toward the brown takeout bag before she sees me staring. “What did you end up getting?” “Burgers.” She puts the food down on the conference table. The smell of fries and grilled meat hits me, and damn

if it doesn’t make my mouth water. Salt has great food, but the dishes are tiny. “This one is yours.” I accept the burger she hands me. There are little scribblings on the top of the wrapper. Faye sees me looking. “Oh, I got one with bacon, which I know you like, but without sesame seeds, which you don’t.” “I don’t like sesame seeds?” She shrugs, looking apologetic. “It was in the notes I got from your last assistant.” “Well, that’s news to me.” I frown down at my burger, thinking about Sara. She’d been too attentive toward the end. I must have complained about sesame seeds getting everywhere. “I’ll unlearn that piece of information then. Here, have some fries.” Faye pushes the bag toward me. I watch in amusement as she sinks into one of the conference chairs with a pleased sigh. Her o -duty self feels relaxed… open. No assistant has ever been that way with me before. Mercenary bastard that I am, I exploit it immediately. “So the blind date was that bad?” “Terrible. He was nearly half an hour late. And then he only spoke about himself, just pausing to drink or to give me sleazy compliments.” “Unsmooth.” “Yes.” She pushes her thick hair behind an ear, bending to take a bite of her burger. “And when I mentioned I was an architect, he made a reference to Indiana Jones.” I grit my teeth at that one. “You’re joking.” “No. He legitimately thought I was an archeologist for half of the evening.” “Who set you up with him?” “My best friend. She’s great, but doesn’t have the greatest judgement in guys sometimes.”

“Clearly.” Anyone with half a brain could see that Faye wouldn’t be satisfied with a man like that. She must have been running circles around him all night. Faye narrows her eyes at me, and the fire is back in them. “You look pleased.” There’s no point in denying it. “I am.” “Why?” “I can’t have my assistant’s focus divided, can I?” Faye rolls her eyes and heads to the trash can to throw out the wrapping paper. Rolling her eyes at me seems to be her thing. No one has done that to me for years, not since my youngest sibling turned fifteen. “How about your date?” she asks. “Not good?” “No.” Faye nods encouragingly, clearly wanting me to continue. I run my fingers along the edge of the table and consider. This relaxed air between us… I like it entirely too much for my own good, not to mention hers. “I would rather have spent the evening watching paint dry.” She winces. “Ouch. Poor girl, to be described that way.” “She’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sure she has dozens of men waiting to take my place. She said so herself.” “She didn’t.” I nod grimly. “Indeed she did.” Faye heads to the model in the corner, her gaze thoughtful. “So you came back here.” “Evidently.” She leans in for a closer look of the opera house, her long hair shielding her face entirely from view. It’s unsettling to see her study it so closely. Something I’ve worked on for nearly a year, and her eyes are the first to see it. I’m still not sure if it was a mistake to involve her. But she had good ideas, and the deadline is looming.

“What else would you change?” Faye sweeps her hair back and looks up at me. “With the design?” “Yes.” She bites her lip slightly, watching the model with glazed eyes. It’s a look I recognize. She loves the design process just as much as I do. “I’ll have to think about it,” she says slowly. “Adding the wood… I stand by that.” “I tried it.” “You did?” Her eyes widen with excitement. “In AutoCAD?” “Yes.” I open the digital building program on my computer and show her the design. “But I’m not convinced.” “No, no, not like that… add wood here instead.” She leans over my shoulder, pointing at one part of the design I’d struggled with since the start. The back of the curving steel, where the two pieces join together. “It would anchor the whole thing.” “Hmm. I’ll try it,” I say. This close, her hair brushes against my cheek. She smells like woman, like warm skin and ﬂowers and heat. “And here… you could make this into greenery. It’s a small change, but it’ll give the impression that this steel wave is rising from the ground.” She’s right. Her changes are small—but they could give the whole thing more balance. This is exactly the second pair of eyes I’ve been needing for this project. “Miss Alvarez, when I hired you, I made it clear that I couldn’t o er you any architectural work.” Faye takes a step back, taking her hair and scent away. There’s a small furrow between her dark eyebrows. “I’m aware.”

“Despite that, you’ve proven to have valuable input. I’ll send you the AutoCAD blueprints tomorrow, and when you have time, I’d like your feedback on the structure.” Her eyes light up with excitement and creativity combined. “It’ll be my pleasure.” “The deadline is in less than two months.” “We can do it,” she says, nodding to herself. I’m silently amused at how fast it became a we, but I don’t comment. “And no one else at the ﬁrm is involved, or even aware, correct?” “Yes.” She nods again, a smile playing on her full lips. It’s one I recognize—the love of a challenge. “Let’s do it.”

FAYE

Jessie stretches from side to side, both of us sweaty from our spin class. “All right,” she says. “So Travis won’t work out.” I almost laugh at her summary. “No. Which I think you knew in advance.” “Nope.” “Jessie.” “Okay, so I ﬁgured he wasn’t your usual type. I knew it wouldn’t be a love connection. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun, you know.” I bend over, stretching out the back of my legs. “I can’t have fun with someone I don’t connect with.” “Of course you can. The only thing Steve and I have in common is incredible sex.” This time, I do laugh. “And that’s awesome, but I can’t do that.” “Why not?” She puts her hands on her hips, her workout shirt bunched at the waist. “When was the last time you had sex with a man?” “I don’t miss it.” “Don’t lie to me, Faye Alvarez.” She takes a seat, bending at the waist and reaching toward her toes. The class had managed to clear my head, as it always did.

“All right,” I say. “I do miss it. I haven’t had sex in over a year.” “A year.” She throws her hands up dramatically. “A year.” “You already know that,” I say. “It’s not news.” “Yes, but you need to be reminded of how rare that is— and that it’s time to do something about it. Work is great, but it’s not everything.” I lie back on the yoga mat and stare up at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. It’s so bad, I’m starting to get attracted to my boss.” “The asshole who somehow decided to give you a shot?” “Yes.” Jessie’s sitting upright now. “Who calls you on a Friday evening when he knew you were out on a date?” “Yes.” “Sorry, but he should respect your working hours.” “I’m a personal assistant to someone who probably makes millions of dollars a year. My working hours are all the time. Lord knows he’s paying me enough to be on standby.” “Still, he shouldn’t have called.” “I know.” And especially not about something so minor. For an absurd moment, I suspected he hadn’t called about that at all, but rather to interrupt my date. “See, if you had been getting regular sweet loving in between the sheets, you wouldn’t be developing a highly inappropriate crush on your boss.” I groan at Jessie’s phrasing. “I don’t know if your logic is brilliant or deranged.” “Brilliant. You’ve always been a glass-half-full kind of person.” “You’re right,” I say ﬁnally. “He shouldn’t have called.” “Exactly.” “And so what if he’s handsome, and intelligent, and passionate about the same things I am? He’s my boss. I was

damn lucky when he accepted me for this job. I know that.” Jessie nods. “No screwing that up. He’s o -limits. Too risky.” “I’m going to be professionalism personiﬁed.” “The dictionary deﬁnition herself,” Jessie agrees. “And you’re going to keep your eyes open for other handsome, intelligent men.” I grin at her. “How hard is it to be indi erent, anyway? I’ll show up on Monday and barely look his way.” “That’s my girl.”

As it turns out, indi erence is hard to practice when your boss looks like Henry Marchand. He’s cool and reserved at our Monday meeting, thick hair pushed back and a let’s-get-shit-done look on his face. I wish I was immune to it. To all of it—the way he occupies space like he owns it, like he built it—and the ambition that rolls o him like thunder. But I’m not. I sit down opposite him, dutifully forgetting that other men even exist. Henry nods at the list I’ve prepared for the meeting. He hasn’t mentioned our late night on Friday, and any intimacy between us is gone. It might as well never have existed at all. “Well then,” he says. “Get on with it.” I run through the coming week. Henry nods or disagrees at the appropriate times, ﬁngers tapping against the table. “Push the two o’clock on Wednesday,” he says. “Investors from Corporeal want to meet instead. I’m taking them out for lunch.” “Reservations?” “Yes.” “I can call Rema. It’s right across the street—you could be in and out in an hour.”

“Good. Reserve a table for one p.m.” “Will do. And regarding the Founders’ Gala on Friday? They’re going to call again today, asking who you’re bringing.” I run a finger along the edge of my laptop and think about his terrible date last Friday. Did he have a roster of women he ran through? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, who to choose tonight… Henry’s eyes narrow slightly. “There will be people there from the Opera Project board.” “An excellent time to network, then.” “Yes,” he says, his voice softening a tad. “Which is why I’d like you to accompany me.” “Ah.” Amusement flashes in his eyes, like he doesn’t think I’ll say yes. Like he’s baiting me—another test to see if I’ll rise or fall to the challenge. I push my shoulders back. “All right, then.” Henry’s lips lift in a small half-smile. “Excellent. You have all the details, I suppose. Register yourself as my plusone.” “I will.” I close my laptop, caught between wanting clarification and fear of exposing too much of myself in asking for it. “Do we meet outside the event?” “I’ll pick you up. Text me your address.” The thought of Henry Marchand, in his Town Car, waiting by my building in Brooklyn… Unbelievable. “Okay.” Henry rises from the table. He adjusts the cu s of his jacket, every inch the CEO and property developer. “It’s a work event, Miss Alvarez. You’ll be paid.” “Yes. Good.” “I’ll send you the blueprints for the opera house shortly. If you find the time, I’d like your feedback.” “Absolutely.” I grab my things and head to the door of his o ce. “Anything else?”

He pauses by his desk, looking at me with intensity. I don’t know what to make of it—I don’t know what to make of him at all. “No, that’s all. Thank you.” I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. This job was nothing like I’d expected. Henry Marchand was nothing like I’d expected. The consummate professional, who spent his nights designing large-scale projects. Who expected professionalism and perfection—most of all from himself—but who clearly had a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath the cool facade. Who thought inviting your assistant as a date to a gala was a perfectly professional thing to do. If it is, it wasn’t included in his previous assistant’s notes. I almost laugh at the thought, sinking into my o ce chair. I open the blueprints he sent over. Scaling back the opera house layer by layer, I familiarize myself with its internal structure. It’s beautiful. Giant curving staircases that wrap around the outside of the main room, leading to the di erent levels. Corridors and passageways, some hidden, meant to be used by sta and actors alike. The seating in the opera itself is designed in layers, and the ceiling echoes the curves from the building outside— patrons will be seated beneath shimmering metal waves. I delve deeper still; the foundation work, the blueprints for the piping and electrical work. It feels personal, looking at his work, knowing he’s the only one who’s worked on it. Personal in a way that it never has before. Maybe it’s because I know I’m the ﬁrst one that he’s shown it to. Or because it’s clear that he cares about architecture more than the basic numbers and ﬁgures, beyond even the prestige. And he asked for my input. I make notes on the structure and don’t hold back. The backstage layout feels o . Is there enough space for 50+ people here during showtime?

I critique the seating arrangement on level four and the sculpture he designed for the vestibule. The wall lights feel dated. No detail is too small; I try to think like a jury might. Steps approach down our corridor and I quickly minimize Henry’s blueprints. It’s Kyle Renner, head architect extraordinaire, and resident asshole. He doesn’t have an appointment. I square my shoulders and brace myself for conﬂict. If there’s one person who’s made it clear he doesn’t think I’ll last, it’s Kyle. He stops by my desk and looks down his nose at me. “Hello, Faye.” “Hi. What can I help you with?” “I’m here to see Mr. Marchand.” “I see. Is he expecting you?” Kyle smiles at me, but it’s not a kind expression. My skin crawls at the clear patronization in his gaze. “Yes, he is. He was the one who emailed me to come over.” I give him an equally bland smile back and press the intercom. “Sir?” “Yes?” “Kyle Renner is here to see you.” “Send him in.” The door opens automatically and Kyle saunters forward, an eyebrow raised at me as if to say see? Told you! The door shuts behind him and I roll my eyes at it. He’s obnoxious, but nothing I’m not used to. Elliot Ferris’s ﬁrm was bigger than this, and with even bigger personalities. Builders, developers, architects… all of them, insu erable egos. When I’d been an architect myself, it had been easy to give as good as I got. But as an assistant… people like Kyle enjoy asserting the little dominance they have.

Ten minutes later the door swings open again. Kyle’s face is red with anger—actually red—and I can see Henry by his desk. He looks the picture of calm. What the hell happened? Kyle stops beside my desk, out of view from the open door. His voice is furious. “I can see that you’re taking a di erent approach than your predecessors. I clearly underestimated you, Faye.” I blink after him, storming o down the corridor. Anger of my own makes my cheeks flush. How dare he speak to me like that? “Miss Alvarez? Please join me in here for a moment,” Henry calls. I rise and lean against the door frame, still shaken from the exchange. “Well, you certainly look calmer than he did.” His lips curve slightly again, like he can’t stop himself. “He didn’t take the news particularly well.” “Oh?” “He’s o the Priority Media project with Terri.” It’s my time to be surprised. “But the pitch is next week.” “So it is.” Henry taps his knuckles against the desk. “How well do you know the project?” “It’s the renovation of a mid-century building in downtown Manhattan. Could provide a lot of visibility for the firm. It’s a big pitch.” And one that Terri probably can’t handle alone, I think. Pitching to a board is a scary experience, and it’s nearly impossible to cover all the potential bases alone. “I want you to take Kyle’s place.” My eyebrows shoot high. “Work alongside Terri?” “Yes.” “But you didn’t hire me for architectural work,” I say lamely, echoing his prior words, even as excitement floods through me. His project, and now this…

“I’m aware. But Kyle has proven himself unable to work e ectively with Terri, and we have no one else.” “Will Rykers be all right with this?” Henry’s eyes flash momentarily. “Yes, I’ll make sure of it.” I think of all the others at the firm. This won’t go down well, not with a team of twenty architects who up until now have only thought of me as one of Henry’s many assistants, nameless and interchangeable. I don’t think any of them actually know about my background. No one has bothered to ask. But I have survived far worse, and would go through worse again, to get to work with things I love. A chance to pitch… If I do this well, maybe I could get promoted when a spot opens up on the architectural team and graduate entirely from making restaurant reservations. “Well?” Henry asks. “I had thought you would jump at this chance.” I smile at him, slow and true. “Oh, I’m jumping on the inside, sir.” His lips curve again, amusement flashing in those dark green eyes. “Set up a meeting with Terri.” “I will. And… this won’t interfere with my regular duties.” “I’m sure it won’t,” he says, the smile still lurking around the corners of his mouth.

HENRY

I run my hand along the smooth leather interior of the Town Car. We’ve been in tra c for over half an hour, trying to get to the address Faye sent me. It’s given me ample time to think, specifically about whether it was clever or terribly stupid of me to ask her to join me. A date isn’t necessary, strictly speaking. I’ve gone stag to plenty of these events. At the same time, it’s expected, not to mention it makes networking easier and more enjoyable when you can work as a team. Several of the women I’ve dated in the past go to many of these events and understand the codes, the cues. I have no idea if Faye does. It’s a complete shot in the dark. I tug at the sleeve of my dinner jacket and frown at the building site I see outside the car window. I know who’s developing them, and it’s not someone I have a lot of respect for. Elliot Ferris. He’s well-known for shady business practices, particularly in the suburbs and further afield. He regularly develops low-income housing and then profits enormously through increasing rents, often with stringent policies on his tenants regarding missing a day or two on rent. Builders like

him didn’t deserve the name. Not to mention that he had, in one way or another, hurt Faye by letting her go without a recommendation. In her initial letter, she had clearly thought it was a mark against her, when her lack of a recommendation from Elliot was practically an endorsement in itself. She’d called out the elitism of this industry perfectly. My phone rings and any mirth disappears as I read the name on the caller ID. “Hello, Dad.” “Henry,” he begins, voice businesslike. “Have you read the files I sent you about the Chicago project?” “I have, yes.” I considered it to be a spectacularly stupid deal. “And? You haven’t gotten back to me about it, son. It’s almost like you don’t want to partner with my firm.” He laughs, like the thought is outrageous. “I have some reservations,” I say carefully. “I’m flying there next week, to meet with your partners and get answers to my questions.” “Good, good. Nothing like eyes on the ground.” He pauses, and I imagine him gearing up, sitting in his study in the family house in Paradise Shores. Large bookshelves behind him filled to the brim with political biographies and Sun Tzu. “It’s a guaranteed return on investment. I’m doing you a favor by o ering you an in on this, you know.” Of course that’s the way he sees it. My father, with his capital, doesn’t need Marchand & Rykers’ financial backing. But the project is dated, it’s not in the right neighborhood, and more than that… it feels unethical. That argument won’t work on him, though. “I appreciate the o er,” I say. “I’ll get back to you after I’ve visited it next week and spoken to the team.”

“Good, good. I might even fly out and join you.” A brief pause. “It’s time for you to level up now, son. You’ve done well so far but I want to see you in the big leagues. And come home some time, all right? It’d make your mother happy.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll be home for Lily’s wedding in a few weeks.” He sighs, as if he’d forgotten all about his youngest child. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had. “Don’t remind me. I know I’m expected to make some kind of toast, and she’ll skewer me if I screw it up.” That does make me grin. My little sister is fierce, and she had gone eye to eye with my father about her decision to be with Hayden—who hadn’t exactly been what Michael Marchand would call respectable growing up. “You have a few weeks to work on it.” “Yes. Take care, son.” “You too,” I say, uselessly, because he’s already hung up. His way or the highway—nothing else mattered. If it wasn’t done according to his business practices, it was obviously wrong. Him o ering me a cut of this project was symbolic; I know it as clearly as he did. He was finally o ering me recognition. But the Chicago project is wrong. I feel it in my bones, and I suspect going up there to see won’t change my mind at all. I’m in a terrible mood when the car finally stops outside a large brick building in Brooklyn, tapping my fingers against the leather seat in irritation. The last thing I want to do is spend the evening with acquaintances and strangers, pretending to enjoy their inane small talk. I write a quick text. Car outside. I’ve just pressed send when the door opens, and Faye gets in beside me. “I was waiting downstairs,” she explains,

smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. “So we wouldn’t be late.” No woman I’ve picked up for a date in New York has ever done that. And not a single one of them looked like her. I tear my eyes away and nod to the driver. “We’re ready.” She looks like a mixture of her work-self and her dateself, and more stunning than ever. Her hair is pinned back from her face, most of it falling down her shoulders and back, waves of shimmering, silky-soft blackness. Her dress is dark gold. Even sitting down, I can see that it follows her shape, clinging to every curve in a way that’s going to test my already nonexistent patience. Part of me misses her o ce look, with the work mask on, the nondescript knee-length pencil skirts and suit jackets. It was easier to deny my pointless attraction to her then. Faye clears her throat softly. “Is everything all right?” Damn. I’m so out of sorts—from the phone call, from her —that I haven’t even greeted her yet. I make an e ort to soften my voice. “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to this tonight.” “Anything for the ﬁrm,” she says smoothly. “I’ve run through the guest list and memorized about ten di erent ice-breakers.” Some of the tension drains from my shoulders. “Tell me.” She clears her throat dramatically. “Here it goes. ‘Have you ever thought about why there’s a D in fridge, but not in refrigerator?’” “That is awful.” “Yep,” she says cheerfully. “I found a website listing thirty of these.” “Were they all this Shakespearean?” “Some were actually good,” she says, voice thoughtful. “I liked this one: ‘Let me just begin by saying that we have

something in common. You don’t know what I’m going to say next, and quite frankly, neither do I.’” I shake my head and lean forward. “Pete? Pull over here. Miss Alvarez is getting out.” “What! No!” Pete laughs—confirming my suspicion that he always listens to the conversations I have in the car—and keeps driving. Faye laughs too, and I realize how rarely I’ve heard that sound. “All right, all right. I won’t use those two, then.” “Thanks,” I say dryly, but I’m amused. Tonight might not be so bad after all. The gala is held in one of New York’s less-famous museums, overlooking Central Park. It’s a beautiful building, usually filled with schoolchildren and tourists. Tonight, there’s a red carpet rolled out and tons of people— organizers, photographers, security. The Founders’ Gala is usually quite small, and always for charity, but things like this attract people like flies, drawn to the appearance of glamour. Pete stops the car in front of the building. “Miss Alvarez…” I say, turning to face her fully. Her lashes are long, sweeping up as she meets my gaze. “There is a risk that Elliot Ferris is here tonight.” Her eyes blaze with determination. “I know. I saw him on the guest list.” The subtext is clear. I can handle it. I nod and reach for the door. “Here we go, then.” Faye climbs out after me, straightening in a flow of black hair and golden fabric. I o er her my arm, and she threads hers through mine e ortlessly—like we’ve walked this way thousands of times. Like we belong together. Two halves of a couple. I glance down at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, a faint smile on her lips. I’ve escorted dozens of women to events in this manner— why would the feeling of her body moving next to mine feel

di erent? And yet, it does. We stop for an obligatory photograph before I move us along and into the museum. Posing for the camera is something I have never enjoyed. Leave that to the people who enjoy celebrity. The museum is one of New York’s most cherished buildings, and it never fails to impress. The enormous marble foyer and the many gallery rooms make for an excellent gala venue. At the moment, though, it’s silk, ta eta and cravats, as far as the eye can see. The sound of conversation and laughter mingles with the music from a string quartet. I glance down at Faye again. She’s uncharacteristically quiet, taking in our surroundings. “Something to drink?” I gesture for a waiter. He presents a tray of ﬂutes, the small bubbles dancing inside the golden liquid. Faye accepts one, and I take another. “Thank you.” On the ﬁrst sip, I can tell it’s not particularly good champagne. It’s acidic on the tongue and far too carbonated. Faye looks amused. “You’re frowning. Not up to your standards?” It’s slightly unsettling that she can read me so easily. The honest truth is no. I spent many summers in France with my mother’s family, and that had included a trip or two to the region of Champagne. “I’m afraid to answer,” I say, “and have you accuse me of elitism again.” She shakes her head, but her eyes are alight with amusement. “It would be unwise of me to do that here, where your connections are needed.” “Indeed.” “And where I’d prefer it if you didn’t throw me to the wolves.”

I snort. “Very wise.” We make our way into the southern gallery. There are familiar faces here; the regulars at these events rarely change. They live like butterflies, flitting from one function to another, as if putting on evening gloves was a profession in and of itself. A man with a bushy mustache stops us with the e ortless smile of a seasoned mingler. “Henry? It’s been what, a year? Two?” “Jack! How have you been?” “Oh, you know. Too much wine and too many divorces,” he jokes, laughing at his own outrageousness. “I’m on my third one now.” “So I heard,” I say. “I know Henry’s father very well,” Jack says to Faye, eyes glittering conspiratorially. “One of the finest men on the Eastern seaboard.” One of the richest, I want to correct, not finest. But in these circles the words are usually synonymous. Faye unleashes her winning smile. “How lovely to meet a family friend,” she says kindly. “Did you know Henry growing up?” I shoot her a warning glance—what kind of topic is that? —but she ignores me. Jack nods, drawn in by her megawatt smile. I can’t blame the man for his weakness. I share the same one. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard lots of stories from Michael. Met you a few times too, growing up, didn’t I?” He nods at me. “Tall, lanky, always fiddling about on the ocean. A fine boy who grew up to be a fine man.” I refuse to look at Faye and the amusement undoubtedly on her features. “Sounds like me,” I say instead. “Jack, this is Faye Alvarez.”

Faye shakes Jack’s hand. His eyes are glittering as he takes her in—the man never met a pretty face he didn’t like. “You’ve done well for yourself, Henry. Women like this don’t grow on trees.” It’s meant as a compliment, and still, I feel Faye’s arm sti en where it touches mine. I remember her cover letter— how she hated being judged only for her appearance, be it her beauty or her Hispanic features, the dark hair and olive skin. Her face is still the picture of pleasantness. “You’re right,” I say. “She’s an exceptionally talented architect.” Jack’s eyebrows rise. “Is that so? How fascinating—how amazing!” I can hear what he’s not saying. How surprising. “Indeed.” “Mark my words, son, hold on to her. If I’d found women with brains, I wouldn’t have had to go through so many divorces.” He laughs at his own joke. I excuse us, moving along through the gallery and into the next. An elaborate ice sculpture rests on the middle of a table ﬁlled with hors d’oeuvres. There’s silence between us, and I’m afraid she’s o ended. That this was too much. “Come to think of it,” I say, “I was never too fond of old Uncle Jack.” Faye chuckles, the tension released. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why.” The next hour passes by with unbearable dullness. We discuss the weather—unusually warm for the season—and exchange summer plans with people I have no interest in meeting again. I ﬁnd out that Mr. Damien Glover, who is on the board for the Opera Project, loves tennis and that his favorite opera is L’Elisir d’Amore.

“Donizetti was a master of the comedic,” I say. “Lucrezia Borgia is a given favorite.” His eyes lit up. But I learn nothing more of interest, and he’s soon whisked away by equally hungry minglers. And while I wanted to make a good impression, there is no getting around the fact that the jury will be judging projects based on merit—not name. I could be their favorite person in the world and it still wouldn’t matter. Somewhere over the past hour, Faye branched out on her own, both of us working opposite areas of the room. I look for her in the crowd. It’s not hard to spot her. The gold dress hugs every part of her, the silk clinging to her shape in a way that manages to be both tasteful and alluring. The contrast with her dark hair, waves spilling down her back, makes her easy to pick out. She’s talking to a group of people—three or four of them —and all are listening to her. Her back is turned to me, but it’s not hard to imagine what her face looks like. Animated, enthusiastic, her e ortless smile in place and dark eyes alight with intelligence, her hands moving. Interacting with people seems to come easily to her in a way it never has for me. She’s smart as a whip and too good-looking by half. If she wasn’t my assistant, I would ask her out. It’s an unwelcome realization, but I don’t lie, and especially not to myself. Doesn’t matter now regardless. Her talent and work ethic are too important to me, and to the ﬁrm, not to mention to Faye herself. Whatever attraction I feel is not only unnecessary, but risky as hell. It’s mine to deal with on my own.

I take a sip of the champagne—still too acidic—and watch as she brushes her hair back. Secluded in this corner of the gallery, it’s all too easy to escape notice for a few minutes, to avoid the well-wishers and sycophants and expectations. A familiar voice breaks my peaceful solitude. “Hello, Henry. It’s been a long time.” Damn. I should’ve known she’d be here. Avery, who I’d ended things with months ago. Who had been upset with me when I told her I didn’t see a future for us—despite having been upfront about that from the start. Her hair is piled up high and she has a martini glass in hand. I don’t know how she managed to get a martini in this place ridden with poor champagne, but she’d always had a knack for getting her way. “Hello, Avery. How are you?” She sweeps kohl-rimmed eyes over me. “Excellent. I wintered in Aspen and spent most of the spring in Costa Rica.” “How thrilling.” “Yes,” she says coolly. “My family’s charity. You remember, I’m sure. Your memory was always ﬂawless.” “I do, yes.” Just like I remembered how angry she’d been after I’d corrected her—after she told me that I had strung her along—and I could remind her of all the times I’d made the casual nature of our relationship clear. “I’m here with Oscar Lang,” she says airily. “I’ve been dating him for nearly ﬁve months now.” The name rings a faint bell. A Wall Street-type, I think. “Congratulations.” “He has a place in the Hamptons. We’ll probably summer there.” “You always did enjoy it there.”

Her eyes flash, like she thinks I’m insulting her when I’m just stating a fact. I try to think back to fun conversations between us, to jokes and teasing, but I can’t remember any. Our entire relationship had been based on politeness. “So, Henry,” she drawls, “tell me. Who’s the lucky woman in your life? Or are there several? I know you’re not the type to commit.” Not to you. The thought comes unbidden. “I am not—” An arm threads through mine and I look down to see Faye smiling up at me. “There you are! I lost you, and now I’ve interrupted you. I’m sorry, Henry.” She nods a hello to Avery. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Faye.” Avery shakes her hand, animosity clear in her cold, impassive features. “Avery.” “A pleasure.” “Likewise. So this is your date? Or girlfriend, even?” She turns a patronizing smile on Faye. “Be careful with this one, honey. He’s not the committing type. You might be in for a bit of heartbreak.” Faye smiles back sweetly. “I’m not afraid. Henry has been nothing but a gentleman since we first met.” She turns those dark eyes up at me, pressing closer against my side. Playing the part e ortlessly. “Should I be?” “Afraid? No.” She giggles, a sound I’ve never heard from her before, and turns sharp eyes on Avery. “He really is something special, isn’t he?” “You could say that,” Avery says smoothly, “if you enjoy a life of schedule and routine. Oh, don’t look sullen, Henry. Surely she already knows you’re not one for spontaneity.” Faye’s fingers dig into my arm, but her voice is cool. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one. A man can

be as organized as he likes, as long as he’s as good in bed as Henry. But I don’t need to mention that to you, of course.” What? I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. It’s beyond inappropriate, and judging from Avery’s bulging eyes, she has no idea what to respond. Beaten at her own game. “Yes. Well. I think I’ll leave you to it, then.” She stops a few feet away, turning back like she wants to add something, but thinks better of it and strides away. Her high heels click against the marble as she disappears into the crowd. Faye immediately drops my arm. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are filled with apprehension. “God. Was that too much? That last part…” I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. This woman is insane, and spirited, and a fighter if I’ve ever seen one. Her face softens. “She called me honey, and I saw red. I couldn’t let her win.” “You certainly didn’t. Faye, can you accompany me to all these events? They’d never be dull again.” “So I’m entertainment now, huh? I thought I was here to work.” Her smile still in place, she nods at where Avery ran o . “An old ex?” “Yes.” “I take it it didn’t end well.” “Not particularly, no. She was more invested than I was.” Faye nods. “I didn’t mean to upset her. But then she basically called you boring…” “She’s not upset, her pride is just wounded. Don’t worry about it.” I certainly wouldn’t. Never had a woman defended me like that before. Faye sighs and turns so that we’re side to side, watching the crowd mingle. “So, are you enjoying yourself?” “Tremendously,” I say dryly. “Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

She snorts. “I don’t think I can talk to another stranger.” “Well, you make it look easy.” No one watching her work that ﬂoor would think anything else. Faye looks down, her long lashes sweeping over her cheeks. She’s wearing more makeup tonight than usual, I think. Her lips look luscious— deep red and full. It would be so easy to tip her head back and taste them. I tear my gaze away and out over the crowd. I want to make her smile again—to laugh in earnest. “What do you think? These are the type of people you dragged in your cover letter, you know.” Faye’s eyes widen. “Thanks for the reminder.” “Some of them rightly so, as well.” “You think?” “Yes,” I say, enjoying her surprise. “I wonder what other stereotypes we can ﬁnd in here… Hmm. See at that couple, over there?” I nod discreetly at a bickering couple in the opposite corner. The wife is dressed up to the nines, her face partially taut in the way that indicates too much Botox. Her husband is looking at her as she scolds away. “Yes?” “He’s sleeping with the au-pair, and she with the pool boy.” Faye’s lips curve into a wicked smile. “That’s a terrible assumption.” “I know. Maybe they’re only arguing whether it’s acceptable to name their new dog Tripp the III, or if it would upset Tripp Junior.” She laughs, amusement dancing in her eyes. “That guy over there has a house in the Hamptons, mortgaged to the brim, but considers it an investment in his brand.” “The woman in the corner? Brown hair? She devotes her life to philanthropy, but if you’d actually investigate, over half of the donations go to her beauty treatments.”

“Mmm,” Faye murmurs. “And the people at the main table have all bribed Ivy League colleges to get their children with average grades and crashed cars admission.” “Not bribed, Miss. Alvarez. Generously donated.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course. Forgive me and my rash, uncivilized tongue.” “I’ll take it under consideration.” Her smile softens again—something di erent from the megawatt one she can turn on and o at will. There’s genuine amusement in her eyes. She enjoys the battle of wits as much as I do. “You’re not what I expected,” she says. “No?” “No. Not at all.” It’s hard, then, to avoid stepping closer, to run her hair through my ﬁngers and see if it’s just as silky to the touch. To trace her teasing lips and tell her she’s nothing like I expected either. “Well,” I say instead. “I live to amaze.” Faye rolls her eyes again. The gesture has an odd e ect on me; endearing, rather than infuriating. “Exaggerator.” I o er her my arm again. “Once more unto the breach?” “You’re quoting Henry the V now?” “I knew you’d catch that,” I say, leading us through the main gallery. She’d majored in Architecture, but she’d minored in English Literature—I’d read her CV. We weave past another giant ice sculpture and stop next to the string quartet. Hands ﬂy over instruments, and I’m struck, as always, by awe in the face of sheer talent. “Imagine having to play for all of these guests,” I say quietly, “knowing none of them will really be paying attention.” Faye doesn’t respond. Her arm is sti in mine, her back straight as cardboard. I follow her gaze to the man standing

opposite us in the gallery. His gray hair, the rotund build, the hooded eyes. Elliot Ferris. For a second, I think Faye is afraid of him. But then I catch sight of the blush on her cheeks and the ﬁre in her eyes. She’s not afraid. She’s furious. And he’s coming directly our way.

FAYE

Elliot Ferris looks just like I remember him. The sly eyes and the cravat, a glass of champagne in hand. No doubt it’s his third or fourth already. And he’s coming this way. Asshole. He’d worked me ragged for years, making me compete with the other architects, all of us jockeying for position. I’d slaved over blueprints for him. Put his name on projects I’d designed. And worse than that… The Century Dome. A project he claims complete credit for when he couldn’t have designed that structure on his best damn day. Because who did? Me. Without any recognition. It takes every ounce of e ort I have to lock down my body, to make my expression impassive, to hide the pure loathing I feel for this man. He stops in front of us, lips pursed in consideration. “Henry Marchand,” he says slowly, “and Faye Alvarez. Now this I did not expect.” “Elliot Ferris,” Henry says smoothly. His voice is courteous, but I can hear the layer of ice below. “Miss Alvarez works at my ﬁrm.” Elliot’s eyebrows rise, and his eyes turn speculative. “Do you now, Miss Alvarez? How interesting.”

“It’s an excellent firm.” “Yes, I’ve heard good things about your little firm, Marchand. Located somewhere uptown, right?” Elliot says with a smile. You’re not one of the big ones. “Upper West Side, yes.” “How’s your father? I haven’t seen him around much lately, but then, he never liked the New York scene.” “He’s doing well.” “Did you know that Miss Alvarez here used to work for me?” Elliot grins at Henry before winking at me, as if we share a secret. In some ways, I suppose we do. I’ve never told anyone about the Dome Project, and how his firm ended up getting it. I may hate this man, but I’m smart enough to be afraid of him, too. “He knows,” I say shortly. Henry’s gaze flashes down to mine. “Yes.” “You showed some real promise, Faye. It’s a shame it didn’t work out for you at my company. I’m sure you could have gone far.” Elliot’s smile is patronizing, and I feel my cheeks flush with anger. That makes it not once—but twice —I’ve been spoken down to tonight, and that’s entirely two times too many. “I was the—” Henry cuts me o , and I swallow the insult I was stupidly about to throw at him. “Faye is an excellent architect, as I’m sure you know. Thank you for giving her a place to cut her teeth, Ferris, and for letting her go. I owe you one.” Elliot’s hooded eyes narrow. If there is one thing I know he doesn’t like, it’s being outwitted—or worse, outclassed. And it’s clear that Henry has both in spades. His smile turns snide. “Glad you see it that way. And you’ve clearly found her useful. Taking your sta to these events?” He winks at me again. “You would’ve protested if I’d have asked.”

I force myself to remain calm. “Well, it was never really clear at Ferris Properties what was work and what was play.” They’re his own words—he once said the same to me— and he knows it. I see how amusement drains from his gaze to reveal nothing but pure hatred. I’m dangerous to him, and I’ve just reminded him of that. Henry sees it too, because he cuts the interaction short. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ferris. I trust I’ll see you around.” He speaks with cool indi erence, the kind of dismissal it takes a lifetime to learn how to deliver, barely making eye contact. Ferris hears it too. He’s a successful brute, but he’s no blue blood, and I don’t think he likes being reminded of that. “Marchand,” he says tightly and walks away without another word to me. I slowly release the breath I was holding. That was too close. And Henry was witness to all of it, to his words and insinuations, to the disparaging comments. “Are you okay?” Henry asks, voice quiet. He’s steering me toward a stairwell. “Yes,” I say, but I feel like I’m burning up inside. “How dare he? In front of you, as well? And what he insinuated about you and me, and about me and him… I would never. You must know that.” “I do know it.” “And you having to defend me and your choice to hire me.” I put my head in my hands, anger and shame making my skin hot to the touch. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’ve made an enemy tonight, through no fault of your own.” And I know that Elliot Ferris doesn’t make for a particularly nice enemy. Long ﬁngers circle my wrists and gently, but forcefully, pull my hands away from my face. Henry’s skin is warm and dry to the touch.

“Faye, I have never once liked Elliot Ferris, and he has never liked me. That goes back to the rivalry between him and my father. You did not start that, all right?” “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know.” “Of course you didn’t. And I defended my choice to hire you because it was the right choice. You don’t have to convince me of Elliot Ferris’s malpractice.” “He really is an ass, isn’t he?” Henry’s lips curve upwards again. I realize he’s standing close, far closer than usual, and his hands are still clasped around my wrists. “Yes, he really is.” I swallow thickly. “Why are we by the stairs?” Henry drops my hands and takes a step back. “I think it’s time we call it a night. But before we do, I want to show you something, so this night hasn’t been a complete bust for you. Have you ever been to this building before?” “Many times.” He looks amused at my tone. “But have you ever been to the roof?” “No. That’s not open to the public, I think?” “It most certainly isn’t. But we’re not members of the public, not tonight.” He starts heading up the stairs and looks down his nose at me. “We’re patrons of the arts.” I can’t help but smile as I follow him up the stairs. It’s not hard to figure out what he’s doing. He wants to take my mind o of Elliot, of the past, of the whole interaction. We reach the third floor. He’s not even winded, and despite my frequent fitness classes, I am. What does this man do to be in the shape he is? “It’s up here.” He pauses at the corner of a hallway, peering around it. This high up, everything’s deserted. We walk through a gallery with Bronze Age plates. “You’ve done this before?”

“Yes. I think it’s this door… no, this one.” He stops at a wooden door. There’s a large, red sign on it. Sta only. He walks straight up to it and tries the handle. It swings open, revealing a narrow iron staircase. “Bingo.” “Umm… have you suddenly become illiterate?” Henry snorts. “No. But sometimes you have to break the rules. Come on.” Surprised, shocked, and more than a little intrigued, I follow him up the narrow staircase. This is not at all what I expected from him—straitlaced, businesslike, take-noprisoners Henry Marchand. Although, a small voice says inside me, for men like him there are no consequences to breaking the rules. He’s the same as Elliot Ferris in that way. I push the thought away. They’re both privileged, but that’s where the comparison ends. There’s an iron door at the top of the staircase. Henry pauses in front of it. “Please be unlocked,” he murmurs. And lo and behold… the door swings open when he turns the handle. We’re greeted to a gust of warm, New York air. It’s hot for late May, summer approaching faster by each day. “Et voila,” he says quietly. We’re on the roof of the museum. Around us, the city’s spires rise in dizzying heights, reaching for the dark, starless sky. Central Park stretches out to the side, a vast expanse of darkness. “This is gorgeous.” “Wait till you see this.” I follow Henry across the roof, to the cupola of glass in the middle. Through the glass, we can see the mingling guests below and the exhibitions. “If you stand right here, and you look through the glass…” He shows me where to place my feet. “Look through this speciﬁc pane of glass. Right here.” As I do, my vision changes. The world below is much closer—I can see the people below with startling clarity.

“What is this? A magnifying glass?” I lean back and look at the pane. It looks warped, the glass thicker than the rest. Henry nods. “It was the architect’s own little joke, inserting a windowpane up here that doubles as binoculars. Made for spying.” I can’t help but grin. “That’s… wicked.” “And something that could only be done a century ago. Can you imagine the lawsuit if this was done today?” “Astronomical.” I look through the glass again. I don’t recognize the people directly beneath it, but that doesn’t matter. These are the kind of oddities that make old buildings come alive. We’re using a function that was designed in secret, by someone very di erent from us, in a bygone era. The architect is gone but this lives on, brought back to life tonight. “How did you learn about this?” Henry rocks back on his heels. “One of my old architecture professors from Yale is a good friend of mine now. When I ﬁrst started out in New York, in one of those ﬁrms—similar to Ferris’s—he took me out for co ee, and then he brought me here.” “He knew about this.” “His great-grandfather was the architect.” “That’s impossible.” “That architects have children?” Henry’s eyes glitter with amusement. “No, that’s entirely too possible.” I roll my eyes at him, but inside, I’m awash with awe and envy. My college had been amazing, and I’d been lucky to get the partial ride that I did. But none of my teachers had connections or ancestry like that. I’m also intrigued. Henry has never spoken about himself, and yet, tonight I’ve learned more things about him than I ever thought I would. “Why do you think he showed you this?”

Henry leans back against a low plinth. His face turns thoughtful, gaze drifting from me to the skyline. The lights of the city glitter around us like stars. “I think he wanted to remind me of why we do this. Why we design and why we build.” I wrap my arms around myself, despite not being cold at all. I shouldn’t push him—we’re not friends—but I can’t stop myself. “Did he think you were in any danger of forgetting that?” Henry doesn’t answer for a long time. He’s still looking out over the city, a million miles away. “You worked for a firm like Ferris Properties. You know how it is.” I nod, thinking of the constant pressure to profit. To squeeze the most out of every possible project—to occasionally deliver substandard results to clients and builders alike. It was something I’d hated, and most of the other architects with me. A race against the clock and the budget and Elliot Ferris’s ambitions. “Dollars and cents.” He cocks his head. “What really happened at your last job?” I close my eyes and try to ignore the memories. Working until midnight every night without overtime. Being forced to compete for projects, sometimes with deadlines just a few hours away. The shame of Elliot tearing your project apart in front of the entire sta . He liked doing that. It wasn’t unusual for some of the junior architects to flee in tears after one of his teardowns. They were usually let go the next day. I’d survived three teardowns without shedding a tear. You want this, I had repeated in my head as he criticized everything from the floor plans to the material choice. You’re good at this. And the Century Dome…

The sound of an ambulance on the street below us rushes past, the sirens wailing. “He rules by fear,” I say. “And not the good, inspiring kind. It’s the one that makes everybody unsure if they’ll have a job tomorrow if they make an arbitrary mistake.” Henry nods, as if he didn’t expect anything else. “He doesn’t seem like a particularly adept boss.” “No, he’s not.” More memories come rushing in. I know I should stop talking, that Henry doesn’t need to know this. This is my new job and my opportunity at a renewed career. But he’d asked. And I haven’t spoken to anyone about this beside Jessie. “He’d won the Century Dome project before I started. It was just about to go into construction, but he wasn’t happy with it. So I redesigned it. I was so happy to be there—to be working with this—that I did it without his knowledge.” “I can’t imagine that went down well.” “It didn’t, at ﬁrst. Except he loved my designs. Overnight, they were incorporated into the dome. It was mediocre before my changes. And when I say changes, they were considerable. It looked completely di erent before.” His lip curves slightly, but his eyes are serious. “I have no doubt about that.” “And I was running point. Promoted. It was a dream job, despite the frequent scoldings, the last-minutes changes, his temper. All Ferris cares about is prestige and money. Being the best, even if it’s a sham.” Henry nods. “He’s not particularly well-respected amongst architects.” “In the end I was probably too much of a liability. The Century Dome was unveiled, and I knew too much. I’d been involved but gotten no credit. He couldn’t have me talking, and o ense is the best defense,” I say. “I was ﬁred without a

letter of recommendation and discredited amongst my coworkers.” Henry’s jaw is clenched tight, but he doesn’t ask for more details. He just shakes his head. “The man is a disgrace to the profession.” “Yes.” “That project was yours, and your name is nowhere near it.” He understands—of course he understands. My vanity and pride, the part of me that had wanted this since I was a kid, had been the most upset by that part. That something I’d given years of my life to could not be traced in any way back to me. “No.” “I’m surprised you could handle being that civil to him.” I shoot him a crooked smile. “Well, you helped. There was a time when all I wanted was to hit him.” Henry raises an eyebrow. “Violent, Miss Alvarez?” “When provoked.” “Then rightly so,” he says. His jaw clenches again, eyes turning hard. “Was he ever inappropriate toward you?” It’s not hard to imagine what he’s thinking of. I’d used that word in my letter—lecherous. “All the time. That was his way, you know.” I shake my head, thinking about the sly comments and the roaming eyes. “He made comments. Suggestions. Invited my attention—sure. But he never tried anything with me after my consistent nos. I think he knew that I’d quit if he did, and he’d lose the Dome.” Henry nods. Silhouetted by the city lights, the evening breeze ru ing his thick hair, he looks otherworldly. Tall and tux-clad, with eyes that are almost bruising in their intensity. “Good answer,” he says tightly. “Oh?”

“Yes. Because if you had phrased that any di erently, I’d have had to go downstairs again and find the man.” “Violent, Mr. Marchand?” “When provoked,” he echoes. The velvet in his voice is back, and I find myself trapped in his gaze. I don’t want to look away. We couldn’t come from more di erent worlds; the power imbalance between us is astronomical. And still, I have the unsettling feeling that no one has ever understood me better. Henry’s lips curve into a fully fledged smile. It softens his strong features and reveals the faintest hint of a dimple. Is that why he never smiles? Because he doesn’t want to look too human? No, I think. It’s because it makes him devastatingly handsome. The smile lights his eyes. “Another staring contest, Faye? You really are twelve.” “Am I? Look away, then.” “No,” he says softly. “I don’t think I will.” And all around us, the city looks on, shining in approval.

HENRY

On Monday, by unspoken agreement, Faye and I don’t talk about the Founders’ Gala or the intimate conversation we had on the roof. Doing that would be acknowledgement of the friendship between us, tentative as it might be, something that has no place in the o ce. Faye is as prepared for the Monday meeting as always. “You have the ten o’clock meeting with Montgomery on Wednesday. I’ll send them the briefs tomorrow when the architects are done with it.” “Good. And if they’re not, you have my permission to push them on it,” I say. A few employees in my architect team love to ask for extensions—as if everyone didn’t have to work to meet deadlines. Faye nods and taps away at her laptop. Her hair is in a high ponytail today, and while it might look severe on other women, it only enhances her features. Her skin looks ﬂawless, like smooth silk. My mind immediately wonders if it’s like that everywhere—but I can’t. She’s o -limits. And if there is one thing I won’t do, it’s become Elliot Ferris. “Your trip to Chicago on Thursday is all set and booked, as are your meetings there. I’ll prepare the travel documents

and leave them in a binder on your desk Wednesday.” I doubt I’ve ever looked forward to a trip less, but I’d promised my dad I’d at least take a look at the project. I could ask Faye to come along. She’d be by my side, taking notes, listening intently. If she saw what I feared I would, her feedback might be invaluable. “I’ll be out of the o ce most of Thursday, but you know that,” Faye continues. “I’ll set an out-of-o ce message on my phone, same as on yours. I don’t think we’ll miss too much, but it’s unavoidable.” Ah, the pitch with Terri. There’s a faint flush of excitement on Faye’s cheeks. “How’s it coming along? Working with Terri?” “Great,” she says. “I can’t see how Kyle had a problem with her. The design they worked on is sleek and fulfills the client’s brief. I think the pitch will go very well.” “I have no doubt of that. You’ll do great.” Faye is competent, brave, and professional—when she wants to be. Taking Kyle o the project had been the right thing to do. The man was talented but a damn pain in the ass sometimes. Faye’s eyes light up at my words. Dangerous, the voice whispers inside my head again, at how beautiful it makes her look. At how good it feels to see my words having that e ect on her. “Thank you. Is that all for this week?” I run my fingers along the edge of the oak table. “Is my Wednesday afternoon and evening still free?” It’s an unnecessary question. I know it is. “Yes.” “I’d appreciate your input on the opera house then. Pencil in an hour for us sometime that afternoon.” She nods and gathers her things. “Absolutely. Did the night at the museum inspire you?”

I think of her eyes, wide with amazement as I showed her the magnifying glass on the roof. The bravery and strength with which she spoke of her time at Elliot Ferris’s. The way her body looked in the golden sheath, the way she felt against my arm, and her cheekiness when she told Avery o . “Greatly,” I say. Faye shoots me a smile. “I’ll make sure to have my notes ready for Wednesday, then.” I watch her leave my o ce and the door closing behind her. Risky, I tell myself. It’s too risky. And still, I ﬁnd myself unable to stop wanting her.

That afternoon, Faye’s voice crackles through the intercom, interrupting my reading of an investment proposal. “Yes?” “Your sister is on the phone?” It’s spoken like a question —and it’s not hard to imagine why. I’ve never mentioned my family or instructed her about who’s allowed to be patched through, because no one besides Mom is insane enough to call me at work. My sister never has. I frown, my mind running through all kinds of terrible scenarios. “Put her through.” I hear the telltale beep. “Hey, Lils.” “I don’t usually call you at work, I know—I’m truly very sorry. But I need to get this ﬁnished now, and I don’t want to rush you, but it’s also a bit tight on time.” Her cheery voice is exactly like I remember, all sunshine and scrubby knees and summers by the ocean. She might be a grown woman with her own business, but she’s still my little sister. “What do you need?”

“Just some tentative information about who you’re thinking about bringing to my wedding. And before you sigh —don’t you dare, Henry Marchand—I’m not pushing like Mom is. I don’t care who you date or don’t date. You’re very welcome to go stag, or with a man if you’ve changed your preferences, or with several—no. Not several women. But you know what I mean.” I can’t help but smile. “Yes, I do.” “It’s the weekend after next, and the absolute final order for the caterers goes in today. So I’m just calling to let you know that after today you can’t bring anyone who has specific dietary restrictions.” I snort. “What if I meet the love of my life tomorrow, and she just happens to be vegan? Or lactose intolerant?” “Nope, no dice. You’ll have to move on to the next one.” “Harsh, Lily.” “That’s me,” she says, a smile in her voice. “You’re staying for the full weekend, right?” A pang of guilt flashes through me at the question. My family is so used to me coming and going, cutting family events short for business trips and meetings, that they have to double-check. “Yes, I am. Absolutely.” “Good. I was thinking we could even take the Frida out one of the days, just us kids.” “Plus Hayden?” Her soon-to-be-husband had basically grown up with us, and even if he’d been gone nearly ten years before he returned, I know my brothers consider him family. “No. Maybe. I don’t know?” Lily sighs. “This whole wedding thing is so stressful. I’m starting to appreciate Hayden’s initial idea of eloping more and more.” “Don’t you dare. I’ve taken two days o work for this.”

Her pealing laughter rings out through the phone. “Don’t worry, I won’t call it o . And I can ﬁx a last-minute name card for whoever you’re bringing, so don’t let Mom stress you out about it if she calls you.” “Thanks.” “Of course. Do you have to get back to plotting world domination now?” “Yes. Somehow, I have to work for it. You’d think the world would want to be dominated, with the mess it’s in.” Lily laughs again. “All right, I’ll let you go, then.” “Take care, Lily. Try not to stress too much.” “I won’t.” There’s a faint pause. “You sound happy, Henry. Keep it up.” I blink in surprise at the phone in my hand. She’s hung up, so there’s no need to respond, but still… Lily is outspoken, but I can’t remember her ever commenting on my mood like that. At least she didn’t press me on who I was bringing. Before she called, I’d decided to go without a date—I had introduced very few women to my family, and my mom’s badgering wouldn’t change that—but the call had sparked an idea. The opera house is due the week after the wedding. I’d be short on time as it was, without taking four days o . I’d have to work on it while I was there. And Faye had already proven herself to be a great date. How e cient would it be to combine the two? Dangerous, my mind warns. It wouldn’t be wise considering my attraction to her. It would be risky. Potentially stupid. At the same time… the more I think about it, the more fun the idea sounds. Faye knocks on my door late on Wednesday to work on the opera project. She’s tucked her laptop under her arm, holding both drafting and tracing paper. Everything about

her screams professionalism; the tailored pants, the blazer, the set look on her features. She starts laying her things out on the conference table. “Now, I was thinking we could go straight in with—” She pauses when she sees my expression. “Is everything all right?” “Is it too late to cancel Chicago?” “No. We might not get refunds, but that shouldn’t be a problem.” She shrugs. “You definitely won’t be popular with the company you’re meeting with, though.” “Hmm.” “You don’t want to go? I thought the project could be big for the firm.” I tap my fingers along the arm of my chair. “Massive.” “I don’t know much about it. There aren’t any files in the system. I checked,” she adds sheepishly. “Who are you really meeting with?” It’s nice, talking with her like this. Sharing these things. I haven’t done this with assistants before, but then again, none of them were quite like Faye. “I’m meeting with investors attempting to buy up a large swath of property on the East Side of Chicago.” Dark eyes meet mine. “Ah.” “Yes.” “They’re going to force out tenants and demolish the properties after the acquisition, I’m guessing.” Her voice has turned hard—harder than I’ve heard it before. She knows this process better than I expected, and she’s reached the same conclusion I have. “I expect so, yes. Forced gentrification.” “What are they planning to build there instead?” “Apartment buildings, a mall, and a small park.” “Hmm.” Faye is looking at the tracing paper, but there’s tension in her shoulders. “It doesn’t seem like a project that

Marchand & Rykers usually takes on.” “No, it’s not. I’m taking the meeting with the investor as a favor to a friend.” She nods, and her eyes find mine again. “And what do you think? Do you think it’s a good opportunity?” “It’s clear that you don’t.” “Well, financially I’m sure it would be a great opportunity. But I think this firm should focus on… other projects. Like the ones we’re already doing.” Prestige projects, she means. The ones where we design skyscrapers and o ce buildings, parks and sculptures. Choosing our projects wisely had been the only rule Rykers and I had set when we joined our names and capital for the firm. I sigh. “I don’t disagree with you. The project feels… unsavory at best, and amoral at worst.” Her eyes lighten. I’ve said something that she approves of again. I hate how alluring that is, how it makes me want to test it, to see what she wants to hear. “Do you think you’ll go through with it?” “No. I can’t see myself signing on to this project, for exactly the reasons you’ve outlined. But walking away will make a few people upset with the firm.” And with me. “So you’re going there to make it look like you’ve at least properly considered it. Very smart.” She shoots me a smile. “You’re turning them down gently. I wouldn’t have expected it from you.” “No?” Faye looks a bit sheepish again, like she’s said too much. “It’s just, in business, you have a certain… reputation.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “I have a reputation?” “Yes, and you know you do.”

It takes e ort to stop myself from smiling at the consternation in her voice. She crosses her legs, the light in the o ce reflecting o her dark hair. It’s pulled into a low bun today, but I know what it looks like falling down her shoulders. How would it look spread out on my pillow? I decide to play along. “Let’s say I don’t. Enlighten me.” Faye hu s a sigh. “All right. I’m requesting permission to speak o the record here, though.” “Permission granted.” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “You can be bullish. You don’t say thank you or please. Whenever someone is o deadline, you scold them, like you would a child. When you walk through the o ce everyone sits up a bit straighter. You don’t come to any social events with the company.” “Of course not. They wouldn’t want me there.” She rolls her eyes. “That might be true, but it’s beside the point. It’s just… you’re known for being hard on people. On my first day here, I was basically told that the odds weren’t in my favor—I wasn’t going to last.” I frown. “Who told you that?” “It doesn’t matter,” she says with a small, triumphant smile. “And have I now destroyed my shot at a career by answering honestly?” “No. Part of what I’m paying you for is your honesty.” She taps the design in front of her. “Even if it’s hard to hear? I know you hated my suggestion of adding wood.” “Especially if it’s hard to hear.” I rise from my desk and head to the model in the corner. Sweeping the cover o , I’m struck again by the feeling that something’s missing. It’s something we’re fixing now in the blueprints, with Faye’s additions, but we have to be finished quickly enough that I can commission another model before it’s due for submission.

“Why did your previous assistants end up quitting? Or were they let go?” Faye’s tone is teasing, and curious, sounding just like she did at the gala. It had been intoxicating to have her by my side the whole evening. When I’d dropped her o at her apartment much later, I hadn’t wanted to let her go, to relinquish the intimacy between us. “Are you asking so you can avoid making their mistakes?” Faye’s gaze turns amused. “Maybe. Do I need pointers?” “No. You’re doing better than all of them,” I say. It’s true —and it’s not. Rina had been professional and highly e cient. Never spoke a word to me outside of talking shop, and I hadn’t been surprised when she was head-hunted to a larger ﬁrm. Felicity had been good at her job, too. But none of them had been Faye—and none of them had understood architecture. She smiles again. It’s not her practiced, megawatt smile, the one that shows o her perfect teeth. This is a small curve of her lips. It sets her features alight. God, but she’s beautiful. “How did you get into this?” I ask. “Architecture?” She shrugs, the smile faltering slightly. “I don’t know, exactly. I always enjoyed building and creating as a kid. I had a great teacher at school. She saw my interest in history, particularly in old buildings, and suggested architecture. It stuck.” My mind paints the images for me. A younger version of Faye with her dark hair unbound, bent over architecture books in a large library, studying angles and structuralism and urban planning. “And you were good at it.” “Yes.” Another elegant shrug. There’s no false modesty in her gaze, but no bragging, either. “Like I’m sure you were.

Now, should we get started? The deadline is only a few weeks away.” I tear my gaze away from hers toward the model. The opera house. Deadlines. It feels harder than ever to lock myself away, to become professional with her again. I don’t know how she does it so easily—switches between friendly banter and work. With her around I feel like I’m constantly slipping. “Yes. You said you had some notes?” She nods. We dive straight into the restructuring of the opera house. Most of her suggestions are good—some I’ll have to think about. It’s cute, too, how she tries to be encouraging. “This backstage area is too small, I think. If you make the outer staircases two feet narrower, you’d be able to expand the area without sacrificing any structural features.” She looks up at me, as if worried she’s o ended me. “But it’s really smart. Very well-executed.” I smile wryly. “I can handle criticism, Miss Alvarez.” “All right.” Faye really works down the list, then. She comments on nearly every part of the structure. I make a few notes of the things that stand out to me. She has a good eye, and she hasn’t commented on things that are clearly stylistic —a good editor, too. It’s nearly nine in the evening when I notice that she’s discreetly covering a yawn. I close my laptop. “I think we’ve gotten far enough today. The project will keep.” Faye stands and stretches fluidly from side to side, her body sinuous. “Will you order a new model when we’re done?” “Yes.” She comes to my side and we gaze down at the model in silence. It’s a requirement for the submission—juries of these kinds of things like big, flashy showmanship. Of the

eight members of the jury, four have no architectural knowledge at all. To win them you have to impress them on first sight. “Who did you use?” she asks, bending closer to see the details. This close, the scent of her strikes me again, just as strong as it had at the gala. Clean soap and shampoo, and something faint and floral. My eyes find the back of her neck. Left bare beneath the low bun, it looks vulnerable, the skin soft. How easy it would be to pull her close and trace the area with my lips. She looks back at me. There’s a question in her eyes— what did she ask me again?—but it dies as she sees the expression in mine. There’s not a professional thought in my head. Faye’s mouth opens slightly. I should speak and put an end to this unexpected intimacy between us, but I find myself unable to. A smile ghosts across her lips. “Another staring contest, sir?” The sir is teasing, and I can’t help the twitch of my own lips. “No. I was just wondering how you get home when you work late at the o ce.” I hadn’t been wondering that at all, but now that I’ve said it, it rings true. “The subway,” she breathes. “We can’t all be old, rich stooges.” “Taxis are on the firm after eight p.m.” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a new rule?” “No, we’ve had it forever.” “Liar.” I step away from the model, putting my hands in my pockets. The space feels good—my head already clearer. “Whenever you work late for me, taxis are on the firm. Doesn’t matter when the rule was made.”

“I can handle myself.” I frown. Does everything have to be an argument? “It’s a perk. Take it.” She rolls her eyes at me—again!—and starts packing up her things. “We’ll have to work on this a lot next week, after you get back from Chicago. The deadline is in July?” “Yes.” She frowns. “Your time o is next week, right? Thursday and Friday?” “Yes,” I say again. She’s speaking to me like we’re a team. Like we’re friends, like she enjoys the battle of wits. It’s been a long time since I had that kind of connection with someone. “We’ll have to work a few nights next week too, don’t you think?” I clear my throat. “Yes. Regarding that, though…” “Yes?” “Do you feel up to the challenge of playing my date again?” Faye’s eyebrows rise. Her eyes gleam with light again, the same competitive ﬂare we share. She’ll never say no to a challenge I give her. “I take it you were pleased with my performance at the gala, then.” I nod, remembering her dry commentary. “Yes. I’m going to a wedding next weekend and I’m expected to bring a date. We’d be gone three nights, and we’d be able to use most of the time during the days to work on the project.” “A wedding,” she repeats slowly. “Yes. You’d be paid for the overtime, of course. Handsomely.” She clears her throat, a ﬂush rising on her cheeks. “Would we have our own quarters?” “Yes. Separate bedrooms.”

“This is…” “Unorthodox? Yes. Take some time to think about it. We can discuss it when I get back from Chicago.” Faye swings her bag over her shoulder. “All right, I will.” “And take a taxi home.” She nods and heads out, but pauses by the door to my o ce. Her eyes ﬂit back to mine. “One ﬁnal question. Whose wedding is it?” “My sister’s,” I reply. Her eyebrows shoot high, and I have to work to keep my face impassive. She’ll have more questions for me before the week is out, that’s for sure. “Good night, Miss Alvarez, and good luck on your pitch tomorrow.” “Thank you,” she murmurs, the door closing behind her with a soft snick. I release a breath, unsure if what I’ve just set in motion is unbelievably stupid, outrageously reckless, or the best thing I’ve done in years.

FAYE

I reach for my phone and deactivate my useless alarm. The time is barely six a.m., but I’m wide awake, and I know I won’t be getting any more sleep. Might as well get up. I swing my legs out of bed and walk the few steps to my kitchen. Make co ee. Say hello to my palm tree. God, the night had been such an exercise in patience. Tossing and turning, my mind racing from one thought to the other. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than a few hours of sleep. I’m pitching today. It’s my ﬁrst chance in months to be a genuine architect, to represent the ﬁrm next to Terri. For Elliot Ferris, I pitched regularly, but that doesn’t stop the nerves in my stomach. Terri had been professional about the whole thing after Kyle was taken o the project, and I’d been nothing but e cient back. It didn’t exactly surprise me that the bad apple in that collaboration had been Kyle. There were plenty of people like him in this industry, who were quietly competitive in every interaction, every discussion. It was draining. But that wasn’t the only reason I had trouble sleeping. Be my date.

Oh, to what, Henry? My sister’s wedding. The man had lost his damn mind. I try to blink the tiredness out of my eyes in the shower, letting the warm water wash away my qualms and fears. He was asking it as a favor, as my boss, as a someone with a crucial deadline only a few weeks after the wedding. We’d handled the Founders’ Gala admirably. Why wouldn’t we be able to handle a weekend away? The woman I see in my bathroom mirror is determined— and very obviously tired—but deﬁnitely determined. Somehow, I managed to get this job. I’m not going to risk un-getting it just because my boss happens to be handsome as sin and can command a room like some ancient, conquering hero. If there’s one thing I’ve always been good at it, it’s planning. Strategy. It’s how I got through years of college with extra jobs, how I’m managing to pay o my student debt aggressively each month. It’s the hours I spent in the library studying elevation and structure. If Henry Marchand wants a date for his family wedding, I’d be the epitome of a perfect date. And whenever I could, I’d work on his opera house, helping him improve the beautiful structure. I’d just have to make sure I got something in return for it—something that would help me career-wise. And keep my pointless attraction to him hidden. Easy, peasy. My mom calls as I’m on my way to work. As always, my chest warms when I hear her familiar voice. Neither she nor my dad understands the business I’m in all that well, but they’ve never been anything but supportive. “Good luck today, sweetie,” she tells me. “We have complete conﬁdence in you.”

My dad pops on the phone. “Knock them dead, mija.” My heart is full when we hang up. It’s been too long since I went back home to visit, and talking to them again has reminded me of that. New York is a beat under my feet. In the summer sun, the city is on fire, music drifting from open windows and the smell of sun lotion on hot skin. On days like this, it’s easy to remember why I came here. Why I was drawn to the pace, the people, the power of this city. It’s a place that has seen things, and when I was twenty-two, I’d seen nothing at all. Around me, skyscrapers rise like giants, reaching for the sky. Immovable, innumerable, they’re testaments to the vision of architects and builders. If they’re well-constructed, they’ll be here after I’m gone. The brick-stone buildings that are intermingled with them definitely will be. Terri is waiting for me when I arrive at work. Her blonde bob is perfectly straight, a severe cut that makes her look even more professional. She’s printed out our material, and our slideshow is ready on not one but two separate USBs. “You can never be too careful.” “Definitely not.” I skim through the printed material, counting the copies once, then twice. “Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s enough for every board member we’re pitching to, with five extra copies just in case.” A woman of my own heart. Terri doesn’t seem like someone who takes any crap, and it’s not hard to imagine why Kyle had a problem with her. She’s not someone you intimidate. She gestures for me to take a seat next to her desk. “Now, we’ve gone through this pitch backwards and forwards. Do you feel like you know what you’re going to say?” I nod. She’s being heavy-handed, but I don’t mind. The woman was handed a personal assistant, told she had an

architecture degree, and one week to complete a monthslong project. “I do. When you’re done with the main pitch, I’ll break down the financials. We have all the numbers and slides for that.” I put a hand on the booklets she’s prepared. “And don’t worry, I’ll highlight the final cost for them. And re-highlight it.” “Good.” She sinks into the chair opposite me, her fingers fiddling with one of the USBs. “That’s the one thing we have going for us. It’s going to come in significantly under budget compared to our competitors. At least, I think it will.” “It’s a good project. You and Kyle came up with something truly beautiful.” Terri half-smiles. “In the end we did, yes. We’d better get this project, Faye.” “I know,” I say, because I do. We’ll have to answer to both Rykers and Henry if we don’t—that’s the way firms of this caliber operate. Take no prisoners and make no mistakes. Perfection isn’t applauded, it’s expected. She rolls her neck. “Let’s get going. I want to get a co ee on the way, and I’d rather be early than late. Rykers will meet us there.” “She’s joining?” “Yes, she just texted me to let me know she’s sitting in.” Her voice is tight. If one of the partners wants to supervise our pitch… this must be an even bigger deal than I’d realized. We head out of the o ce in silence, our heels clicking in unison on the marble floor. A few of the other architects watch us go. Dean pops up from his cubicle to wish us good luck, but he’s one of the few. In the back of the o ce, I see Kyle by his desk, staunchly ignoring us. I check my phone in the elevator, double-checking arrivals at Chicago O’Hare airport. Henry’s flight landed on time, forty minutes ago. Excellent.

I prepped everything in his calendar—the names of the people he’s meeting, the location, the damn lunch order— but I still have my phone on vibrate in my pocket. The assistant’s creed has become my own, trying to anticipate his every need. Terri clears her throat. “You know, you surprised me, Faye.” “Oh?” “A degree in architecture, and you’re working as an assistant. I didn’t know that when you started here.” She doesn’t say it with any malice, but there’s an edge to her voice. It’s the same quiet competitiveness that permeates the entire o ce. I shrug. “I wanted a change of scenery, and I’d been looking for a way into Marchand & Rykers for a while. You learn a lot from working with the best.” “Hmm. Yes, it’s a great firm.” I resist the urge to smile. Of course she liked an explanation that made her job seem even harder to get. “Definitely.” “Has Marchand mentioned anything about shifting you permanently to the architecture team?” Her eyes are intelligent, narrowed, giving nothing away. I’ve heard the ruthless o ce politics played out over co ee in the break room, and I have no intention of becoming one of the topics. “No, he hasn’t,” I say carefully. “I’ve only been working for the firm for a month, after all. I’m still in the trial period.” “I’m sure you’ll pass it with flying colors.” Terri nods to the receptionist. “Call us a taxi?” “Yes, ma’am.” The car ride is silent. I imagine Terri’s working through her words the same way I am. I know I’m the weak link in this whole situation; the only person who vouched for me is

Henry. He might have cracked the door for me, but I’m the one who needs to shoulder it open. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Henry Marchand. He usually emails or calls; texts are reserved for quick communication. Henry Marchand: Good luck with your pitch. Kill it. It’s a small text, but I read it twice. I can’t imagine that he texted any of his other assistants—or employees—with encouragement. Can you be friends with your boss? You can, I decide, but only a friend. I’ve been ignoring the butterﬂies that go wild in my stomach around him sometimes. And I’ve deﬁnitely not thought about the night on the roof at the museum—when it felt like we were the same person. My response is quick. Faye Alvarez: Thanks. Enjoy Chicago, the city that invented spray paint. Three dots appear; he’s typing. What did I just send? Henry Marchand: I can’t possibly imagine why you’d remember something like that. Do you spend your evenings memorizing facts? My smile is half amusement, half relief at his response. I’d sent something stupid, but he’d played right along with it. Faye Alvarez: I’m deadly at trivia games and pub quizzes. Henry Marchand: Tell me another one. I try to think of something that might amuse him. It’s not hard, given our mutual interest, although it’s not Chicagorelated. Faye Alvarez: Architecture was once an Olympic sport. It’s something I read in school, and it always stuck with me, for some reason. There’s a faint pause before his response, though I see him typing. Is he walking to a meeting? Sitting in a car, like I am?

Henry Marchand: I knew that. The Empire State Building makes more money from the observation deck than from all the floors of o ce space. Combined. Damn. I didn’t know that. A slow smile spreads on my face, staring down at his words. Are we competing with facts now? This is silly, and childish, and amazing. How can I top that? I rack my brain for information. Things he might not know, facts regarding building, structures… architectural history. Faye Alvarez: The Inca civilization considered bridges to be so sacred that anyone who tried to sabotage them was immediately put to death. There. Not a lot of people knew that—fingers crossed he wasn’t one of them. A voice breaks me out of my texting. “You’re never o the clock, are you, even when he’s out of town?” Terri glances at me and my thumbs moving across the screen. “Does Marchand run you ragged?” I put my phone down. “He’s a good boss.” “He’s direct, yes.” Her gaze turns curious. “A lot of us were surprised when he decided to put you on this project.” I could only imagine, having seen the glances the other architects shot me well enough. “He knows about my background.” Terri nods again and turns to face the window. I can tell there’s more on her tongue, but she mercifully doesn’t press. Henry’s responded, this time with a fact of his own. Henry Marchand: Cincinnati has an entire subway system underground, complete with tunnels and stations, that’s never been used. That’s news to me. I’ll have to Google that later and find out more. Our cab comes to a stop, and Terri leads the way, shaking hands, introducing me as her associate. Together, we make pleasant small talk with the other architects in the lobby.

“Rykers just arrived,” she whispers under her breath to me. “Our turn to pitch is next.” I straighten my shoulders and run through the numbers I’m to present in my head again. I got this. “We’re ready,” I whisper back. “Let’s kick some ass.” Her eyes widen in amusement, but she nods. “Let’s.” We walk side by side into the boardroom, following Marlena Rykers, ready to put it all on the line.

HENRY

Chicago is miserable. It’s miserable the ﬁrst day, when I see the project my father wants me to invest in. It’s miserable the day after, when I tell his partners that I’m not going to invest or accept the project. And it’s miserable now, having to explain the reason to a man who can’t fathom why I’d turn my back on what he considers generosity. “Henry, you can’t be serious.” The look my father shoots me is scathing. It’s one I recognize well; he reserves it for people he doesn’t respect. I’ve seen it turned on waitsta , on my aunt, on my little sister when she was a teenager watching reality TV. “I am. I came here, as you asked, and I’ve seen the project with my own eyes. It’s not something I’m interested in.” He braces his hands on the table. The plate in front of him remains untouched, has been since we started this conversation. “I did you a favor here, son. Piers and Rolfe took my word when I vouched for you.” “I understand that. But I never once said that this was a done deal for me. I told you that I wanted to see it myself before making a decision.”

His scowl deepens. “You could at least have been civil about it. I raised you better than that.” I put my own fork and knife down, the flavors in my mouth turning to ash. “I was civil. I listened to their presentations. I looked at the development. I went over the financials. I did my due diligence before I told them— politely, out of respect for you—that the project wasn’t for me or my firm.” “The New York scene has twisted your head. You’re a small firm. These prestige projects of yours—they’re excellent when you have a base to stand on.” He shakes his head. “But it’s projects like these that make you money. Enough money to fund a thousand of your parks. You think you’re above things like this?” This conversation is going nowhere. “My firm, my decisions,” I say, knowing it will annoy him. He was the one who had told me once that I would have to work my way up before he would even consider partnering with me on a project. He brings his hand down hard on the table. Our wineglasses shake, drawing curious looks from the other tables. “Damn it, Henry. You’re not a child anymore, playing with architectural models. It’s time to step into the big leagues. We build for profit.” I think of Elliot Ross and his conqueror’s grin. I think of Faye and her beautiful eyes, lit up with excitement over a new design element. “I’ll reach the big leagues in my own way. If you think I act like projects like this are beneath me, let me make something perfectly clear to you. It’s because they are.” I take a breath, watching as his eyes grow steely and distant, ignoring my own response to his disapproval. “We both know Piers and Rolfe’s business practices are distasteful, even if you won’t admit it. Pushing out people who have

lived there for decades—it’s disgusting. The city zoning laws are set to be reformed in a few months, and if it’s not in their favor, the project is dead in the water anyway. I think you should walk away too, Dad.” “Then how come my own people found no fault in this, huh? Why are you the only one?” I highly doubt that—the people he surrounds himself with have a talent for making money, not making good decisions—but I can’t say that. “Why did Piers and Rolfe only ask you?” I counter. “They’re not looking for other investors, are they?” He crosses his arms over his chest and says nothing, just stares at me, gray eyes narrowed. The anger rolls o him in waves, thunderous and black. We might not be ﬁnished with our meals but it’s very clear that dinner is over. “You’re coming to Lily’s wedding next weekend.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I give a nod regardless. “Of course I am.” “She’d be heartbroken if you weren’t there.” “I’m going.” The absolute last thing I need is to be lectured about how to handle my younger siblings, especially Lily, whose wedding I wouldn’t miss for the world. His frown is still in place. “Rhys hasn’t been in touch for a while.” “He’s good. He’s coming as well, of course.” Dad gives a curt nod. His relationship with his middle son has never been good, and I often serve as a mediator. One of the many perks of being the eldest. “Fine.” He motions for the waitress and gives her the universal signal for the check. “You should head to the airport.” Ah, and the send-o . He’s still pissed all right. “I will.”

The silence is tense as we wait for the check. My father signs it with a flurry—I know better than to o er my own credit card and be called ungrateful again—and we stand. I’m a head taller than him, having grown past him when I was sixteen. It’s ever stopped bothering him. “You’re bringing a girl to the wedding?” “Yes.” “Good. Your mom is worried. It’s not natural when your youngest child is the one to get married first.” “I’ve always told her not to get her hopes up regarding me,” I caution. Dad waves a hand. “That’s what she does. Now, I have more business to attend to tonight.” It’s hard to keep my face impassive at that, but I manage. “Fine. Until next weekend.” We shake hands. The emotions flowing out of him are clear, from the hard set of his shoulders to the disapproving look in his eyes. Ungrateful, it says. Not good enough. I ignore it on the ride to the airport. I ignore it in the lounge, focusing on the glass of whiskey in my hand instead. The decision is sound. I have no qualms about that. The stubborn, impossible, insu erable man just needs to get that through his head. But despite my conviction, the flight back to New York is as miserable as the trip had been. In the car back to the o ce, I read through emails on my phone. A new one is resting right at the top from Marlena Rykers. She’s forwarded a much longer email from Priority Media, adding only two lines of her own to the top. The pitch was successful. The Priority Media build is ours! I grin at the two short lines, and before I think it through, I call Faye’s work phone.

FAYE

My computer dings with a notification. There’s an email from Terri, and there’s only one thing in the subject line. WE GOT THE PROJECT! KEEP IT UNDER WRAPS. SEE YOU MONDAY. My smile feels massive. We got it. Not my design, and I was a last-minute stand-in, but still. We got the project. As I’m reading her email, my phone starts to ring. It’s Henry. I answer it with a smile still etched on my face. “Hello, sir.” “I just heard the good news,” he says. “Well done, Miss Alvarez. The project was awarded Marchand & Rykers.” “The project was practically finished when I joined.” His voice darkens. “You were given one week to prepare, and then you performed. Accept the compliment.” I feel flushed, both with joy at the project and his words. “Thanks for putting me on the assignment.” “It wasn’t a favor. I knew you were capable.” His words are kind, but there is something else hiding in his tone. It’s too sharp. “Did you just land at JFK?” “Yes.” “How was Chicago?” The pause is infinitesimal, but it’s there. “Over with.”

Ah. So he turned the development o er down, then. I shouldn’t push, but I think about what he told me the other day, about the weight that obviously rested on his shoulders. Not knowing everything wasn’t an excuse for not caring. “How did your friend take it?” There’s another pause. “Not particularly well.” The silence between us stretches on. I know what I would say to a friend—easy. But not to my boss, who is sometimes so professional it borders on rude, and sometimes so familiar I think we’re friends. “You had to follow your intuition,” I finally say. “That’s all anyone can do. And for the record, I think the decision was sound.” He harrumphs, a masculine sound, low in his throat. It’s easy to imagine that his lips are right by my ear, the deep voice like coarse silk. “I’ll be at the o ce soon.” “All right.” And then he hangs up, and I slump back at my chair, glancing at the time. I’ll have to work late today as well, it seems. Only this time it’s by choice. I focus on expense reports. On the agenda for a meeting with the in-house architects next week. On Henry’s calendar. But when the elevator finally dings, and he walks down the corridor to me, my heart is a beating drum in my chest. To anyone else I’m sure he’d look his perfect self. Not a hair out of place, his suit immaculate even after the flight. Broad shoulders speak of strength—capable of carrying the world. But when his eyes meet mine, the communication is instantaneous between us. Something is wrong. “Sir?” He closes his eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of his nose. I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to tell me to

leave, to enjoy my Friday night, and then he’s going to shut himself into his o ce like he so often does. Away from life, from food and laughter and conversation. Does he have friends? If so, I haven’t seen any of them. He nods to his o ce door. “Join me.” “Sure.” I stand on shaky legs and follow him in. He goes straight to his bookcases, opens one of the smaller cabinets and pulls out a bottle half-ﬁlled with amber-colored liquor. “The trip was that bad?” Henry looks over his shoulder at me. The crease on his brow looks etched into his skin. “You were right.” “I was?” “About the project. It was immoral.” I sink into one of the chairs around his conference table. I’ve never seen it full before—he mostly has one-on-one visitors. “I don’t remember expressing that strong of an opinion.” “Hmm,” he hums, “but you did. It was clear in your eyes when we spoke about it.” “You already knew it was.” Henry pours himself a knuckle’s worth of whiskey. I can’t quite place the emotion coming o him. “Do you want one too?” “I’m on the clock.” The glance he shoots me is disbelieving. “It’s a Friday evening. You should have gone home already.” I wet my lips. This is a side of him I’ve never seen. It’s slightly unhinged, the cracks in the armor hinting at depths of emotion and passion. “Maybe. But I had work to do.” “Hmm,” he says again, the sound low in his throat. I watch as he pours another glass of whiskey. “You’re one of

the most e cient assistants I’ve had. Somehow I doubt that.” I lean back in the chair and watch as he casually, carefully, starts rolling up his sleeves. Inch by inch of tan, muscled forearm is revealed. I ignore the implication in his words, slightly embarrassed that he guessed I stayed late for him. “But e ciency isn’t good enough, if you keep ﬁring them.” He looks at me, but says nothing, just puts the glass in front of me. There’s challenge in his eyes again. I meet them head-on as I take a sip. It burns, but I don’t let any of that show on my face. His eyes darken. Poker face, meet Henry Marchand. “You didn’t think I was a pink drink kind of girl, did you?” He leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. It’s impossible to forget his physique—he’s so much taller, bigger than I am. “I think you are, but you’re much too competitive to admit it.” “Takes one to know one.” “You’re good at facts,” he says. “Give me another one.” I wet my lips and let my eyes wander from his intimidating form to the books on his shelves, across the room, to the model in the corner that he so lovingly labors over. “You could bring any girl at all to your sister’s wedding next weekend,” I say. “That’s a fact.” “Debatable.” “My question is: why me?” “I told you. The deadline for the opera house is in less than three weeks. We need uninterrupted time to work on it.” I tut and look at the drink in my hand instead of his face. On the inside, my heart is beating fast. “And you want me to

play your date.” His voice is a slow drawl. “Yes.” “And what do I get out of it?” A pause. “Miss Alvarez?” “I agreed to work as your personal assistant. Accompanying you to the Founders’ Gala was already a favor on my part. Why should I work so hard to help ﬁnish your project that I give up my weekend for it? I’m going to have to deceive your friends and family, you know.” I raise my glass at him, my voice picking up steam even as his eyes narrow. Good. I want him on the defensive. It makes it easier to ignore my attraction to him. “As far as I see it, this is beyond the usual rules of my position.” There’s complete silence from him. His arms are still crossed, and as I watch, his eyes narrow even further. I should look away from the intensity in his gaze, but I can’t. I’m like a deer in the headlights. “Good,” he says ﬁnally. “Good?” “You’re standing up for yourself, as well you should. Very well. Tell me what you want.” A negotiation. I get up from my chair and head toward his copier. I’m buying for time, but I need it, my thoughts racing. He watches in silence as I grab a single sheet of paper. And then I do the unthinkable. I take a seat at his desk, in his chair. I don’t even look to see if he objects, reaching for one of his pens and beginning to write. I hear him walk around the desk. He leans over my shoulder, watching as I scribble. The smell of him— aftershave, man, and leather—nearly throws me o . Head in the game, Faye. “Very o cial,” he comments.

“Why not?” I draw a line under the title. A full-drawn contract, that’s what I’m setting up, one where I’m not going to be taken advantage of again. “Excellent penmanship.” I hide my smile and keep going. Under parties involved, I list my full name. Faye Lucinda Alvarez. I hesitate after writing Henry. I should know if he has a middle name, shouldn’t I? Henry knows what I’m pausing for. “Skip it.” “You don’t have one, or you don’t want me to know it?” “That’s beside the point.” I nod to myself and keep writing. “So you don’t want me to know it. I’m picturing the worst now, you know.” His voice is dry. “I can imagine.” I lean back in the chair and look up to meet his gaze. It’s steely, staring down into mine, his hand knuckled around the back of the chair. “My terms, then. I want my name on the opera house.” There’s immediate refusal in his eyes. I raise my hand. “Before you say no, I’m not trying to usurp anything. It’s your project. But I have made a few changes, and I want that reﬂected. You can list me as a junior architect. Assistant architect. But my name is going into the submission.” The ﬁre in his eyes softens and shutters. “I’m not Elliot Ferris.” “I know you’re not.” There was nothing remotely similar about the two men. “But I want to make it clear. No ambiguity.” “Your name will be in the proposal, including your middle name,” he says. “Junior architect, assisting function. Is that acceptable?” “It is.” I tap my pen against the desk. He had been willing to give that up far too easily.

“If you need incentive to finish the project, is that enough?” “Yes.” I frown, thinking of the future, of my unstable position here. I can’t be a personal assistant forever. “No. If you do win the project, I want you to consider hiring me as one of the junior architects managing the build.” He nods slowly, the light catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. There’s just a faint hint of a five o’clock shadow. “I’ll consider you.” “A fair consideration.” Whatever flashes in his eyes, it isn’t pleasant. Have I impugned his honor somehow? But I need to cover all my bases, and knowing how this industry works… “Yes, a fair consideration. I’m not Elliot Ferris,” he repeats. “And as for being your date to the wedding…” “So that we don’t lose several days of work on the project.” “…yes, that.” I let my hand hover above the contract, looking up at him. He’s so close. The hand on the back of my chair is just inches from my face. Broad and tan, big and strong. Focus. “What do you want, exactly? For me to act like we’re a couple?” “You want ground rules?” “Yes.” He hu s. “We’re seeing each other, my sister’s wedding came around, and I invited you.” He says it like it’s simple. Like he would bring anyone he was seeing to meet his entire family on a whim. Am I crazy for feeling like that’s such a big thing? I know it doesn’t mean anything, but the idea of it still makes me nervous. “So I’m playing a part.”

“If you want to see it like that, yes.” “We can’t mention that we work together.” “No.” “And you’re really okay with that? Deceiving your family just so we get more hours to work on the model?” There’s no censure in my tone, just surprise. I think of my own mom and dad, working so hard to send me to college, to their happy smiles. They’ve never met a single one of my boyfriends. What kind of relationship does Henry have with his parents? His eyes stare into mine. I can tell that my words have hit home—his face is almost aggressive in its professionalism. “Do you think me immoral again?” I want to shrink under that gaze, to twist or turn, to hide. I don’t. “No, but I think I’m missing the full story.” He nods once, a dip of his chin that sends thick hair cascading over his forehead. My hand aches to push it back, to see if it’s as soft as I imagine. “You’re perceptive.” “That’s the third compliment you’ve given me tonight. Are you sure you’re all right?” His eyes lighten, and some of the tension eases between us. He looks from me to the contract on the desk. “Finish the contract, Miss Alvarez.” I write down the terms and conditions we’ve discussed. It’s hard to focus on the paper with his presence, larger than life, looming behind me. “And compensation,” he points out. “You’ll be paid for the weekend, in overtime.” I note it down. “We’ll bring our work laptops?” “Yes. Do you need something to wear?” The question makes me pause. “For the wedding?” “Yes.”

“I don’t know the dress code, or the location. Or anything at all, for that matter. Will we be staying within the continental US?” His lips twitch with a smile. “Yes. The ceremony is inside, reception outside. Black tie. You’re doing me a favor here, so if you need a dress for the occasion, you charge it to my account.” I swallow. This is spinning out of control faster than I’d imagined, and this whole contract thing had been my idea to begin with. Beneath my name, my hand hovers, not quite ready to sign. “One last thing.” “Name it.” “Whatever happens that weekend, I don’t want it included in your evaluation of my job performance, when you consider hiring me after my ﬁrst six trial weeks.” There’s complete silence. My words have gone o like a nuclear bomb, and it isn’t until I see the heated surprise in his eyes that I realize exactly what could be implied. “What I mean is—” “I understand. Granted.” He nods to the paper. “Time to sign, Miss Alvarez.” I lick my lips. There are a million things I could throw in, just to see if he would give them to me. It’s a good opportunity for me. It’s also reckless and unprofessional and wild. And somehow, I have a niggling suspicion that even if he said no to my demands, I would still want to go to his sister’s wedding, just to catch a glimpse of Henry without his facade. “Having second thoughts?” I sign in a ﬂourish and push the paper his way. “Never.” His lips are curled as he bends over to sign, putting his face so close to mine that I can feel the heat from his skin. His hand moves in quick strokes as he initials the contract.

“There,” he murmurs. “We have a deal.” “Mmm.” “Wasn’t so hard to negotiate, now was it?” This close, his eyes are startlingly green, lightly flecked with hazel. He glances down at my lips, and my face moves of its own accord, turning up to his like a sunflower to sunlight. He bends closer still, the heat of his breath ghosting against my lips. Adrenaline, present in my veins from our negotiation, makes my blood boil in anticipation. We’re too close. We’re not close enough. And then our lips meet. It’s like water breaking through a dam, a force stronger than both of us, my self-control melting and dissolving like mist. There is no hesitation at all from Henry’s side. His lips press against mine insistently, demanding, and my mouth obliges. I raise the stakes and run my tongue lightly over his lower lip. He groans against my mouth, and as the kiss deepens, I unravel, slipping into a place where nothing matters but him and me and this connection. He tastes faintly like whiskey and heat, kissing me as fiercely as I’m kissing him. Callused fingers tip my head back further before sliding softly over my cheek. It’s unexpectedly gentle, a cool touch against my burning skin. Henry ends the kiss, straightening with a sudden movement. I stare up at him and he stares down at me. “Damn,” he says softly. The hand on the desk curls into a fist. His jaw is working, the professional armor cracking at the seams. “This is… inconvenient.” My throat feels dry. The skin of my cheek is hot where he touched it. Inconvenient is a mild word for the attraction I feel, pounding through my body. “It certainly is.”

His eyes snap back to mine. There’s no way I can look away, not when they blaze like that. “This wasn’t planned. I didn’t hire you for this.” “I know,” I say, although I didn’t, not until he said it. Something in me relaxes. “Faye,” he says, and I shiver at the pleasure of hearing him say my name, “I crossed the line. I’m sorry for that. Whatever course of action you want, I’ll support. But I want you to know that it will never happen again.” Disappointment wells up inside, unbidden but unstoppable. To not be touched by him again isn’t what I want, not at all, despite how inappropriate it would be given our professional relationship. Henry’s eyes widen as he reads the emotion on my face. “That’s not what you wanted to hear,” he murmurs. It’s foolish. So, so reckless. But I shrug. “Maybe not. Are you sure you can stay away?” His gaze turns molten and I can’t look away. I never could, with him. The tension between us heightens until it’s a current, electricity dancing over my skin and setting my nerves aﬂame. Alive, my body is whispering, as it so often does when Henry’s near. This is what it feels like to be alive. “You’re taunting me. Are you sure that’s wise, Faye?” I wet my lips and swallow at the sudden dryness in my throat. Somehow, our story has already begun—beating hearts and the scent of his cologne and forbidden kisses in o ces—and I didn’t realize it until I’m here, right in the middle of it. “Wisdom comes with age, so I’m relying on you here.” Henry arches a dark eyebrow, a smile hovering around the corners of full lips. The man is indecently handsome on the best of days, and now, with the feel of his mouth still lingering on mine…

“Dangerous, that. I think I’ve proven that I’m not exactly in control of this particular situation.” He glances down to where his hand rests next to mine on the desk. Our bodies aren’t touching, but the air between us is charged with possibility. “And neither are you, it seems.” It’s a question—even if he’s phrased it as a statement. And I know I could walk away right here, make the right decision, close the door to his o ce and come back on Monday morning like nothing changed between us. That’s what he’s o ering me. We can pretend we never crossed this line. “It is inconvenient,” I echo. “I guess it’s a bit like a staring contest, after all. We’ll just have to see which one of us breaks ﬁrst.” “But of course,” he murmurs. “You’re as competitive as me.” “You keep forgetting.” “At my own risk, clearly.” Something sparks in his eyes, something I can’t place. Dark satisfaction makes my stomach curl with pleasure. He leans in, close enough that I think he might kiss me again. My eyes drift closed on reﬂex. Whatever he wants, I’m game—there’s no common sense or resistance left. There’s a hu of deep laughter. “I’ve already told you I don’t lose. Go home, Miss Alvarez. On Monday we start anew.” Damn man. I open my eyes, only to see his half-smile. He thinks he has me on the ropes. I stand slowly, my hip brushing his, and let my hand slide down the skin of his forearm. His eyes narrow at me—the smile is gone entirely now, replaced by heat. “Good night, Mr. Marchand,” I say. “Enjoy your weekend.” His eyes are on me the entire way out.

HENRY

The gym used to be my calm place. There was no thinking when I was lifting weights, or running on the treadmill, or bench pressing. Just me and achievement; lifting more, running longer. But that peacefulness is lost. Ever since Friday—since earlier, if I’m being honest with myself—my mind drifts back to Faye every chance it gets. It doesn’t matter that it’s seven a.m. or that my breath is coming in painful hu s. I shouldn’t have kissed her, I think for the hundredth time. What had come over me? I wasn’t a horny teenager, and I wasn’t Elliot Ferris, and still… I’d kissed her right there, right in my o ce, sitting at my own damn desk. I turn up the incline on the treadmill another few levels. It’s the part of my gym routine I hate the most, but I never skip it. Doing things I don’t want to do is my specialty. Getting things done. Playing by the rules, pushing the limits, sacriﬁcing things like pleasure for the plan. In my family, my self-discipline was practically legendary. But it had crumbled with one look from Faye. Damn woman. She was just as infuriatingly stubborn as me, not afraid to speak her mind, and she knew just how to push limits. No woman I’d dated would have acted like she

did on Friday—drawn up a contract. Taken a seat at my desk. Negotiated for her future. I run until my legs nearly give out, lungs about to burst in my chest. It’s a small testament to the self-discipline Faye has tried to ruin. Brick by brick, I’ll have to rebuild the layers of control. She’d challenged me to stay away from her. I’ll win, and there’s no denying I’ll have a hell of a lot of fun doing it, walking the thin line with her. When I arrive at work, it’s mostly empty, as usual. I spend the ﬁrst two hours working on the opera house and answering emails. The clock hand moves slowly on my desk toward ten a.m.—the time I know Faye will be at my door, laptop under her arm, ready for our Monday meeting. My self-control does nothing to dampen anticipation, it seems. She knocks on my door at exactly ten a.m. A vision in red today—a dress that follows her body, coupled with a blazer. Hair up in a ponytail. The look she gives me in indecipherable. I look right back at her, our gaze locked until there’s a smile on her lips. It eases something in my chest—the part of me that had been unsure of how she’d behave around me, given Friday. “Well,” she says, “shall we begin?” We run through her list of things to check for the coming week. It’s not much, given we’ll both be out of o ce on both Thursday and Friday. The urge to tease her about it is nearly overwhelming. Faye gently closes her laptop, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of silky hair behind her ear. “So,” she says, “on to my ﬁnal item.” “Oh?” “I want more information about this weekend. If I’m to be your date, I want to know what I’m walking into. Is this wedding really going to last four days?”

I lean back in my chair. “Yes, and no. People are coming in from out of town and there are things scheduled from Friday to Sunday. Dinner, games, brunch, that sort of thing.” “And on Thursday?” “Dinner with my family.” Something like surprise ﬂashes in her eyes. Interesting. “Okay,” she says, but there’s a faint frown on her lips. “You still want more information.” She runs a hand over her hair, but stops halfway, as if remembering that she has it pinned tight. “Yes. I’m a planner. An organizer. What if we get asked questions about how we met? What do I work with, if we don’t work together? I need details.” I stiﬂe a smile at her rambling. “You want all your bases covered.” “Yes.” A glance from her to the o ce door proves it’s shut, but it still feels too exposing to talk about this, here, in the place where we both need to be professional. “Come over tonight,” I say instead. “We’ll make a game plan. You can ask all the questions you want.” Her eyes widen. “To yours?” “Yes.” It’s risky, but I need to prove to the both of us that we can do the right thing—that we can stay away from each other. That I still have self-control. Her eyes narrow with determination. “I can tell what you’re doing.” “Really? And what am I doing?” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there. Seven?” “Yes. I trust you already have the address?” Faye stands, her eyes meeting mine for one long, breathless moment. “Yes,” she says, “I do. Think we can

handle it?” “Being alone together?” She nods, tucking her laptop under her arm. I run a hand along the edge of my desk and meet her bold gaze straighton. “You challenged us to stay away from one another. If I remember correctly, you also predicted you’d win.” There’s a grin on her lips, hovering right around the corners of her mouth. It makes me want to smile in response. “So I did,” she says. “I guess we’ll just have to see who does.”

It’s seven p.m., and Faye’s right on time, standing outside my apartment door. She’s let her hair down, and it tumbles loose and long down her back. Black strands frame her face. For such a small woman, she has a huge presence. There’s nowhere else I want to look when she’s around. She gives me a businesslike nod and steps past me. “So this is your apartment.” “Yes.” “It’s very close to work.” “Convenient.” She hangs her thin jacket up on one of the pegs in the hallway and walks into the living room unescorted. I hang back, watching in silence as she looks around. Her ﬁerce beauty makes my neutral apartment look dull in comparison. “Huh,” she ﬁnally says. “It’s nothing like I expected.” “How so?” She stops at the co ee table, eyes roaming over a large book on ancient Roman architecture. “It has… personality.” Hah. Bemused, I put my hands in my pockets and just look at her. She glances up and seems to realize her words.

“Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.” “Not the first time I’ve heard it,” I say. My apparent “lack of personality” has become a common refrain from friends and family at this point. Lighten up. Smile. Why so serious? “Have you been?” I ask, nodding at the book. “To Italy? No.” “You’d love it.” A faint, dreamy smile softens her lips. It changes her features, the alertness momentarily gone. “Of that I have no doubt,” she murmurs. She’s so beautiful with her guard down, and the fierce desire I feel is not something I’m used to; I want to bring out that softness again, over and over, in quiet moments when there’s no one around but us. I clear my throat. “A glass of wine, and then we’ll start with your questions. White?” “Yes. Please.” She leans against the kitchen island as I open the wine cooler and find a bottle of Sancerre. It’s light, easy, the complete opposite of the conversation I’m sure we’re about to have. “So…” she begins. “So,” I echo, uncorking the bottle. “Let’s get our story straight. That’s what you wanted, right?” She slides into one of the tall chairs by the kitchen island and runs a hand over the marble. “Do you cook?” “Sometimes,” I answer calmly. “This kitchen is meticulously clean. Did you scrub it down with bleach before I came?” “Cleaners come twice a week.” She nods, like she expected nothing else, and lets her eyes wander. They slide around the open kitchen space, the large windows, the sofas that beckon. I wonder what she thinks of

my place—what it says about me. We’re architects, after all. Forms and shapes are never just functional. “Where’s the wedding?” “In Paradise Shores,” I say. “It’s a seaside town in New England.” “Ah,” she says, a whole world conveyed through that one word. It’s not hard to imagine what she’s thinking. She accepts the wineglass I hand her, twirling it thoughtfully by the stem. “Think I’ll fit in?” The thought that she wouldn’t hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Absolutely.” “Is that where you grew up?” “Yes.” She slides out of the chair and walks, wineglass in hand, to the large sofas in the adjoining living room. They’re all gray; there’s barely any color in sight. I watch in silence as she runs a hand over the high back. “If we’re going to do this, we need to know more about each other.” I gesture for her to sit down, and she does, as far away from me as the couch allows. Smart. Despite the distance, my body is painfully aware that she’s here, with me, in my home. Alone. Control, I remind myself. Boundaries. “You’re right,” I say. “Tell me about where you’re from.” She sighs, her gaze slipping from mine again to land on the sleek fireplace. Not for the first time, it strikes me just how beautiful she really is. It was something she’d mentioned in her cover letter—that she wasn’t taken seriously because of it. The notion that people only see her face, and not the fierce intellect beneath it, makes me just as angry on her behalf. “I’m from a small town out in the Midwest,” she says. “You wouldn’t know it.” “Ohio, right?”

“Yes. My parents are amazing. They had me when they were really young, and money was always tight, but they gave me the best they could.” Her eyes are proud—like she’s waiting for judgement. Has she received it in the past? “I’m sure they did.” “My father came here as an immigrant when he was a teenager. He worked every job he could.” A small, indulgent smile spreads on her face. “He’s the one I call whenever I have a problem, of any kind. He knows how to repair a dishwasher, how to ﬁx chipped paint on a car… absolutely anything.” “He sounds great.” She nods. “He is. My mom is Midwestern, born and bred. She got her teaching degree when I was still a kid, and she’s worked as a third-grade teacher ever since. Her students call her Mrs. C, because Alvarez is too hard for some of them to pronounce.” “What did they think of you moving out here?” “They were supportive. I mean… they don’t really understand what I do, but they’d never be anything but positive about the whole thing.” The picture she is painting is lovely. “Any siblings?” “Nope, only child.” She pulls her knees up under her silk skirt, heels left abandoned on the carpet. “But this is going the wrong way around. I have questions for you.” I steel myself. “All right.” “Tell me about your parents.” “Well, my father is a developer and builder, just like me. My mom doesn’t work. She… she came here from France to marry my dad. She was a stay-at-home mom for many years.” Faye sits up straighter. “You’re half-French?” “Technically, yes.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her wine, eyes averted. It’s not hard to imagine what she’s thinking about. Both of us have one foot in another culture, another language, but the lived experiences of our parents couldn’t be more di erent. It’s a similarity that still serves to highlight the di erence between us—the same di erence she’d outlined in her cover letter. “Do you speak French?” “Yes. Had to, to be able to speak to my cousins.” “I’m very much hoping that’s not a requirement for this wedding, though.” I snort. “No. Everything will be in English, don’t worry.” Most of the French side of the family had not been invited. Lily had wanted it small, after all. Faye nods, letting her fingers trail over the couch. Her hand is slender, free from rings, slightly tan. I wonder what it would feel like on my skin. I wonder how she feels about my firm, my apartment, after what she just told me about her upbringing. In her eyes, I suppose it might seem… gaudy. Does it make her think less of me? But then she cocks her head, smooths her hair back, and sends me a look filled with such challenge that all thought evaporates. “So, Henry Marchand… how exactly did we meet?” I clear my throat. “Through mutual acquaintances.” “Mmm, that’s good. At a dinner party.” “Sure.” “We were seated next to each other and found mutual ground over how small the portions were. You o ered me a ride home. We stopped at a kebab shop in Brooklyn.” I raise an eyebrow. “Detailed, are you?” “It’s what makes me a great assistant.” “Then by all means, continue.”

A beautiful, fierce flush rises on her cheeks, but she doesn’t break away from my gaze. “You got a massive kebab, I got a smaller one, and we shared a plate of fries. We spoke about our mutual love of architecture.” “Sounds like something we’d do.” A smile ghosts across her lips, the memory of our lunch clear in her eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?” “What did we do after the kebab shop?” “We didn’t call another car. We walked instead, late at night, nearly all the way to my apartment. We spoke about how hard you work, that you’ve always been driven. I chimed in with my own stories of all-nighters spent in the library, of feeling like a failure if I didn’t get an A on my report cards. Our hands brushed as we walked, by accident at first, but later on with purpose.” She pauses, taking another sip of her wine. “…and then we reached my apartment building.” “Hmm. It would be late by then,” I say. “Oh, it was.” Her eyes glitter, challenging and heated. “Well? What did you do next?” I drape my arm along the edge of the sofa, my hand nearly at her shoulder. “I brushed your hair back—you were wearing it down, like you are now—and asked for your number. You gave it to me, of course.” “Of course,” she says with a smile. “Then I told you that I wanted to take you out the following weekend. Properly, on a date, just the two of us.” She wets her lips. “You wouldn’t kiss me? Or come inside?” Heat and need clenches inside of me at her words. Such a simple question, but such a powerful response. I try to force my mind away from the memory of her soft lips on mine and the way her body had melted against me. I fail.

“I wouldn’t have pushed it. We’d just met, after all. But I can tell you, just between us, that I wanted to, very much.” She picks at the hem of her skirt. “Oh?” “Absolutely.” There’s something about her normally competent self being thrown o that is beyond intoxicating. I have to stop myself from smiling at the look on her face, her lips slightly open, eyes glazed… I shift closer. “Is that a good enough story for our ﬁrst meeting, Faye?” “Yes. Yes, I think that’ll work…” Her voice trails o , her ﬁngers dancing along the back of the sofa. “We met each other recently, so this is still new. We don’t need to know everything about each other to convincingly play this o .” “Smart.” “Thanks,” I say, with half a smile. “You’re clearly nervous about this. There’s no need to be.” Faye wants to protest—I can see it in her eyes—but doesn’t. Instead, she drains the last of her wine. “Maybe I am, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” “Here.” I reach for her glass, now empty, and stand. “I’ll be right back, and then you can ask me anything you want to put your nerves at ease. All right?” “All right,” she echoes, curling up further on the corner of the couch, and I ignore the feeling that she belongs here. In my life, in my apartment, and on my couch. It’s getting harder to do by the minute.

FAYE

I watch in silence as Henry opens the fridge, pouring us more wine. There’s something so relaxed about him here— in his own apartment, his own territory—that I never see at work. It’s disarming, and it’s not doing wonders for my selfrestraint. The kiss in his o ce has been on repeat in my mind since Friday. He returns to the couch with sure strides, dressed in a sweater and slacks. The usually stern features of his face have softened, something resembling a smile playing at his lips. To think I once thought him practically incapable of it. “Henry Marchand,” I say softly, “the waiter. No one would believe me if I told them you could be this domestic.” “Would you?” “Tell anyone? Of course not. It does make me wonder, though…” “About?” “If who you are at work, in your meetings, is a bit of a charade.” I wave a hand. “You know you intimidate the associates and architects. I think you thrive on it. But I’m not sure it’s who you really are.” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s bold of you to say. If it’s not a charade, I might ﬁre you on the spot.”

I’m nervous all right, but not from fear. Nothing I’ve seen from him suggests anything other than a genuinely decent man, one who hides behind layers of protection. “You wouldn’t,” I taunt. “No?” “You need me, inconvenient or not.” There’s a sudden spark in his eyes, and the heat dances from me to him and back again. “You’re right about that. How are you both inconvenient and completely irreplaceable?” “It’s a skill.” I wet my lips again and shiver as his gaze slips from my eyes to my cheek, my ear, my hair. Our conversation is about nothing at all, but it still strikes me as momentous. He lifts his hand up and smooths my hair back behind my ear. The movement is painstakingly soft, like he’s giving me enough time to back out of the whole thing. I don’t. I slide closer on the couch instead, the warmth of his body echoing the warmth spreading through my own limbs. I’m doing what I shouldn’t, and for the first time in forever, the potential consequences aren’t on my mind. His mouth twists into a wry smile. “We’re not very good at being good, are we?” “No,” I say, leaning into the hand on my cheek. My skin feels hot under his touch, like I’ve gotten too much sun, but I’m still coming back for more. “But we’re very good at being bad.” His dry laugh is a sweet sound, washing over my senses, and he closes the distance between us. “As long as we’re the best at something.” My second kiss with Henry is nothing like the first. It’s slow and deep from the get-go, his lips slanting over mine, a hand sliding into my hair and another flattening against my back.

I give as good as I get, fingers finally threading through his hair. It’s just as soft as I’d imagined, sliding through my hands like brown silk. His lips leave mine for a moment, and I take the chance to sidle closer to him, my body nearly on top of his. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, despite my body blatantly disobeying. “Absolutely not,” he agrees, sliding his lips along my cheek, my jaw, finding the spot below my ear. The couch gives beneath me as my leg circles the other side of him, straddling him. He’s large beneath me, wide chest and strong neck and muscle. “You’re in such good shape,” I say, voice breaking. “How are you in such good shape?” His laughter is warm against my neck. “You want my workout routine?” I roll my hips against him and shiver as his large hands slide up my hips, my sides, my ribs. The curve of my waist and the heavy undersides of my breasts. “Yes,” I breathe. “Preferably in video format. And without a shirt.” Henry’s hands don’t stop, not even when he leans back and looks at me with eyes that are nearly black with desire. “There were at least two HR violations in that sentence.” I glance down at his hands, now gripping my waist so tight I think I might bruise, and the hardness of his arousal beneath me. “Not sure if you’re the one to speak.” His eyes shutter, and he starts to withdraw his hands, but I don’t let him. I press our bodies closer together and capture his lips with mine. I grip handfuls of his clothes and tug him closer, his mouth turning as hot and eager as mine again. I’m in control now; he’s letting me set the pace. I don’t know how long I kiss him for, but when I stop, it’s to gasp for air. Henry grins at me—and it’s a full and

unrestrained smile. He’s so handsome it makes it even harder to breathe. He runs strong hands down my sides, over my thighs, down to my calves and back up to circle my arms. I might be on top, but it’s only because he’s letting me, and I shiver at the reminder of just how strong he is. How it might feel if we flipped around—if he was in complete control. “Faye, you’re so…” He shakes his head, trying to find his words. “You feel just as good as I’ve imagined.” He tips my head back and trails his lips down to the neckline of my dress, and I don’t care if this is the worst decision of my life—not when his touch feels like this. I grip his shoulders and try to hang on. It’s easy to picture what this would feel like without clothes on. The two of us, doing this, over and over again. Making out like teenagers on the couch at first, before shifting to the bedroom, where it be heavy and slow and quick, all at the same time. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. He’s in a soft, gray sweater, nothing at all like the harsh suits he wears to work. “You look good in your suits,” I murmur. “The gray one is my favorite.” His mouth starts its upward journey again, finally finding my lips. He kisses me in a way that makes it perfectly clear where this will end. “You look unreal in the o ce,” he says. “Every morning, I think there’s no way she can look as good today. Everybody has bad days. But damn it, every day you find a way to top yourself.” I smile against his lips, his praise sweeping through me like a tidal wave. “You’re biased.” “Yes, clearly.” “So I like you in your suits and your big o ce…” I slide my finger across his jaw, meeting his dark green eyes. The heat in them makes my stomach tighten. “And you like me

in my pencil skirts and blouses. I think we’re somewhat of a cliché, sir.” Henry’s eyes warm with amusement. “It’s a common kink.” “You’re calling us common?” His hands grip my thighs, and I’m lifted up and around, spread on the couch with him above me. His body is everywhere—tall and strong and resting lightly against me. He’s still hard; I can feel him against my thigh, through the thin layers of fabric. Everything in me distills to that narrow point of contact. Excitement and fear chase one another. “Absolutely nothing about you is common, Faye Alvarez. You’ve been unexpected, ever since that damn letter arrived in my inbox.” Henry kisses me with the single-minded determination I’ve come to expect from him. Strong arms cradle my head, biceps taut under the pressure, and I run a hand over his back. Pulling him closer, my legs opening instinctively for him, I want him everywhere—the two of us one. He breaks o the kiss. “Slow. We’re not in a rush.” “Aren’t we?” I tease, reaching up to nip at his lips. “We shouldn’t be doing this at all. How long can we outrun common sense?” He runs a ﬁnger down the side of my cheek. It’s a sweet gesture, even if the hunger in his eyes is anything but sweet. “Common sense, huh.” It’s like I’ve dumped a bucket of cold water over him. He pulls back, looking at me for so long that I almost wonder if he’s decided to instigate another staring contest. “Henry?” “You’re right,” he says. “We shouldn’t.” He moves o me entirely, retreating to the other side of the couch. We watch each other, both of our eyes dark with desire, with want.

I want him to ask me to stay. I want us to forget about our positions, our jobs, our reputations. I want to pretend like I’m not just his conveniently hot personal assistant. But I am. And he’s my boss. And I need this job. Henry puts his head in his hands. In the silence, both of us are breathing hard. “Fuck,” he breathes, “but I’m so turned on.” “I know,” I say miserably, because I am too. Because being with Henry feels like being alive for the first time in a very long while, where achievement and status doesn’t matter. Where we just are, the two of us, understanding one another perfectly. “Well,” he says. “One-zero to you, I suppose.” He must see the confusion on my face, because he clarifies. “You asked if I would be able to stay away from you. I said I would, but clearly…” “I participated. If anything, we both lost a point.” “It’s clear that we’re not as strong as I assumed, by any means.” “Mmm.” I bite my lip, staring at him, his thick hair mussed from my hands. “Why do you really want me to come to the wedding as your date?” His eyes darken. “You keep asking that. Are you hoping to get a di erent answer?” “Maybe.” It can’t just be for work. This man does nothing that’s not deliberate, and he’s far too smart to not understand the implications and the consequences. So am I, for that matter. We’re both playing with fire. “Why do you think?” I shake my head. “No, you don’t get to turn the question back on me.”

He smiles, showing a row of white teeth. “Well,” he says. “Maybe it’s because you’re so very inconvenient.” The implied praise makes me smile. “Glad I can be of service.” “Hmm. Yes. I think it’s time to call it a night, before our self-control shatters completely.” I stand on shaky legs, following him through his apartment. His hands are in his pockets—safely tucked away —and shoulders stretched taut underneath his sweater. “Sure we’ll be able to handle a whole weekend away together?” “We have to,” he replies, “because the opera house deadline is looming, and I have a contract to adhere to.” Oh. Mine, the one I made him sign. I grab my purse from the peg in his hallway, turning to face him. He stares back at me—eyes warm, nothing impassive left on his features. “Thanks for signing it,” I say. “Thanks for drawing it up,” he says. “If we win the competition, you’ll get all the credit you deserve, Faye. You have my word on that.” I glance down at my shoes, trying and failing to hide the emotion that’s in my eyes. Recognition. Acceptance. Partnership. It’s everything I never got in my last job. Or in my last relationship. “I’m very glad I applied to be your assistant,” I say ﬁnally. “I can’t believe I got so lucky on a drunken application.” Henry reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I hold still, my whole body taut at the faint brush of his ﬁngers. “I’m very glad of that too,” he says faintly. “Now go home, Faye, before I lose control completely.” I smile. “All right, I will.” “And take a cab home.”

“Okay,” I whisper, stepping out into the hallway. Henry closes the door softly behind him, and I’m left with the feeling of his hand on my cheek, his lips on mine, the entire ride home.

FAYE

Weekend bag, packed. Nails, painted. Hair, blow-dried. My battle armor is on—I couldn’t be more prepared—and I’m still nervous, waiting outside my building for Henry to pick me up. May has turned into a beautiful June, and New York is in that sweet spot temperature-wise, not yet sweltering hot and unbearable. Still, I feel too warm, my summer dress clinging to my skin. What have I gotten into with this weekend trip? Meeting his family? It’s madness. A large gray car indicates and pulls up to the curb, stopping right in front of me. I square my shoulders and try to channel my nerves into excitement. Henry steps out of the driver’s door. He’s in dark blue slacks and a soft linen shirt instead of his usual suits, but his hair remains meticulously in place. It’s impossible to look at him now and not remember how his body feels against mine. “Hi,” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling at him. He smiles back, bending to grab my weekend bag. “You didn’t have to wait outside. I would’ve called when I got here.” “I like being curbside,” I ramble. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the city.”

He closes the trunk. “You’re impossible.” “Impossible, inconvenient, irreplaceable… I’m racking up quite a reputation these days.” “A well-deserved one, I’d say.” He turns the key in the ignition, and we make our way out of the city. New York disappears behind us in a blurry skyline, replaced by intersections and four-lane highways. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other casually by his side. I lean back in the passenger seat, studying his profile. “Are you excited?” “Not particularly, no.” “Not even for your sister’s wedding?” His eyes slide to mine briefly. “We talk a lot about me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” I blink at him. “No, we don’t. I know practically nothing about you! You’re the definition of a closed book.” His eyebrows rise. “Nothing? You know a lot, Faye.” “I know that you have a sister and you went to Yale. Oh, and that you prefer your bagels without sesame seeds.” “Well, those are the most important things about me,” he says seriously. “But the sesame thing is deeply personal. Don’t tell anyone.” I smile. “A joke, Mr. Marchand?” “Delivered while completely sober, as well.” He glances over at me, amusement clear in his eyes. “Have I shocked you?” “You are definitely more human than usual.” He wraps his fingers along the steering wheel, thoughtfully tapping his thumb along the leather interior. “You’re going to have to call me Henry this weekend.” “Right, let’s set some ground rules.” “I thought we already had rules,” he says. “You wrote a contract.”

“Yes, but I was thinking…well.” I frown, unsure of how to continue. He smiles at my awkward silence—a genuine smile. “You’re not usually afraid to speak your mind, Faye. I’m curious now.” I clear my throat. “What are the boundaries? Do you think we need to touch at the wedding reception, or in front of your family, to sell the illusion?” “The illusion? You wound me, Faye.” I roll my eyes at him. “You know what I mean.” “Yes, I do. And look, they’re not going to be trying to discover some ruse. They’ll be busy with the wedding, with preparations, with guests from out of town. We’ll breeze through the whole thing easily, with plenty of time to work on the opera house design.” “Mmm.” “But if you do feel like touching me, you have my permission,” he says, voice wicked, “but you’d be losing a point.” I want to roll my eyes at him again. “Right, we turned this thing between us into a game. I almost forgot.” “Much safer than confronting it with adult conversation,” Henry agrees, voice lighter than I’ve heard it in a long while. Warmth spreads through my chest at his words, at the implication, at the way we talk. Outside the o ce, with open road in front of us, he seems much more himself. “Of course,” I agree. “The miracle of mutual attraction isn’t something to handle maturely.” “Especially not when it involves several HR violations, a potential lawsuit, and a career-changing design project.” “Not to mention a di erence in age, class, and race,” I point out. “Honestly, we’re a walking cliché, Henry. Doomed to fail.”

His smile turns wry but doesn’t disappear. “How tragic. We should be cast in a romantic movie, one of the tearjerker ones.” I chuckle. “Somehow I don’t think we’re the kind of leads that people would cry for.” “I’m definitely not,” he says darkly, and I have to bite my tongue to stop from asking what he means. That I’m pitiable? Or that he’s not worthy of sympathy? I don’t know which option I dislike the most. I slip o my shoes and tuck my legs underneath me on the seat, the way I’ve done for years, and contemplate the sudden change of conversation. Henry glances over at me. “Sit properly.” “Sorry?” His voice is glacial—the commanding tone he takes with people at work who don’t meet deadlines. “Don’t sit like that.” I straighten reluctantly. Everything inside me wants to rebel at his tone of voice. “All right,” I say. “So I’m your assistant, not your date. Thanks for making that clear.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry’s hands tighten on the wheel until his knuckles whiten. I turn and focus on the scenery, on rolling hills, trees, houses, and try to ignore my irrational hurt. I keep my legs straight, my hands in my lap, sitting like a goddamn crash test dummy. He’s not a realistic love interest—he’s not my friend, even—and I would do well to remember that. I have a job to do and a design project to finish. If the jury chooses our opera house, I have a shot at being employed as a junior architect and a future in this industry. The possibility hangs like the most delicious carrot in front of me, spurring me on. Henry finally breaks the silence, his voice resigned. “Look, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s clearly not.” His proﬁle is strong, the jaw working. “Look, I should probably tell you anyway. My sister was in a car accident when she was younger.” My hands, folded in my lap, fall limp. “Oh, I’m sorry.” “It’s just… It’s important to sit straight, you know. To wear your seat belt properly. It’s designed for an adult sitting straight. It seems trivial, but if something happens, that can be the di erence.” I can hear the words he chose not to add, the di erence between life and death, and I’m afraid to ask, but I have to. “Is she okay?” “Yes. Lily’s strong, and she nearly made a full recovery. But it was way too close.” He glances at me brieﬂy, before steeling himself. “She has a limp now. It’s nothing major, but you’ll notice it.” “Thanks for telling me,” I say softly. “Is that why you reacted so strongly?” His hands relax around the wheel. “I suppose so, yes.” “That’s understandable,” I say. “How old was she when it happened?” “Eighteen. I wasn’t home, at the time. Drove from New York while she was still in surgery.” Part of me wants to reach out, to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he’s still closed o . I try for levity instead. “I was raised in the countryside, you know. Many of my friends didn’t wear seat belts throughout their teenage years.” A theatrical shiver passes through him. “Stop, please.” “Will you tell me more about her?” I lean back in the seat. “Who is she marrying?” A small, indulgent smile plays on his lips. “She’s the youngest. Has always loved art, much to our father’s displeasure, but she was the strong one. She never cared

what our parents thought. She opened her new art gallery just a few months back.” “Really?” “Yes. It’s a small place in Paradise Shores, but it’s a good start. She’s doing what she loves, which is what I want for her.” I smile at the a ection warming his voice. Nothing about Henry is truly cold or aloof, not like I’d once thought. “She has three older brothers, which I know wasn’t easy on her growing up. But she’s never complained.” “You have two brothers, too?” “Yes.” “And you’re the oldest?” His face turns wry. “It’s that obvious, is it?” “Sort of, yes. You have the vibe.” It’s not hard to imagine him taking the lead, being the organizer, the responsible one. I bet his siblings look up to him. “So I’ve been told,” he says. “Will they also be at the wedding?” “Yes. And I should tell you that I’m one of the groomsmen. During the ceremony itself, you’ll be seated with my parents and cousins, but I’ll be by your side for the rest of the evening. I hope that’s not a problem?” The warmth in my chest expands even further, until I’m feeling far too many things, all of them silly. Siblings. Cousins. Growing up, it had just been my parents and me, and while I love them dearly, his words paint an irresistible picture. “Of course not. Do you know the groom well, then?” He snorts. “You could say that. We grew up with him, in a way. Lily and Hayden were close in age and got along well.” “That’s beautiful.” He’s quiet for a beat, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong, but then he gives a slow nod. “Yes, I suppose it is, in

a way.” “You don’t think so?” “He… well, he was in that car accident as well. He was the one driving, actually. Let’s just say my parents didn’t handle it well. And then he was gone for a long time, serving in the Navy, and my sister was unhappy.” He shakes a hand, dismissing years of family history. “But that’s a story for some other day.” I’m curious, but I just nod. “And we’re meeting them tonight?” “Yes, for dinner. It’ll be a short a air, and we’ll arrive with plenty of time to spare to work beforehand.” “Perfect.” We drive in comfortable silence the rest of the way, the time peppered by casual conversation that isn’t stilted or forced at all. Somehow, the further away from the city we get, the less I feel like we’re our o ce selves. We’ve shed the suit and the pencil skirt, and we’re just Henry and Faye, equals. It’s scary how much I enjoy it. My nerves return as we drive into Paradise Shores, two hours later. We drive past beautiful old houses with green lawns and wrap-around porches. Old oak trees rise up like guardians, their twisted branches reaching for the sky. Colonial. Georgian. Victorian. Style after style, we pass houses with turrets, shutters, porches. “Well,” I say, “I get why you’re into architecture if you grew up here.” Henry chuckles. “I have yet to build anything that looks like this, but maybe one day.” We pass a beautiful little square with a playground, two parents swinging a laughing child between them. Its idyllic old money, it’s the Hamptons on steroids, pretty like a postcard and just as unattainable.

And then the ocean appears. Hidden behind trees and a boardwalk, but shimmering blue nonetheless, endless and ageless. Henry lets out a slow breath. “This place never changes,” he murmurs. We drive along the shoreline, through a little town center, and I want to turn down my window and breathe in the air here. Somehow, I think it might smell like candied apples, like sea salt and money. Henry pulls up on the driveway to a seaside cottage, complete with blue shutters and blooming hydrangeas. “We’re staying here?” “Yeah.” “This isn’t a hotel,” I protest. He chuckles again and turns o the engine. Parked, apparently. “Nope.” “I thought we were staying in a hotel.” He opens the trunk and grabs both of our bags. “No, this is my sister’s house.” My nerves come out in full force. “We’re meeting them now?” “No, this house is just for us.” He unlocks the front door, and I follow him inside. It’s beautifully decorated. Homely, but with rustic, seaside details—and not in a kitschy way either. A large kitchen and a cozy living room. Two bedrooms, both with double beds, freshly made. I’m ﬂoored. “They gave you a whole house? Don’t they have a lot of guests coming in?” Henry shoots me a crooked smile. “Yes, but I am the oldest son, you know.” The dramatic superiority in his voice makes me smile too. “She doesn’t live here?” “No, she lives in the house next door with her ﬁancé.”

“Ah,” I say softly, running my hand over the rough linen texture of the couch. The kind of money needed to purchase these seaside houses feels staggering, somehow so much more real than the millions the skyscrapers I regularly work on cost to build. Corporations pay for those—not people. Henry sees my expression and pauses, his weekend bag in hand. With his thick hair and the casual linen shirt, here in this beige oceanside cottage, he looks like he belongs in an ad. “Is everything all right?” “Yes. Yes, absolutely.” “You have nothing to worry about, you know. If you decide you don’t want to attend a dinner or event this weekend, it’s your call. I won’t hold you to anything.” He’s giving me an out from the contract we’d both signed. I release a shaky breath and shake my head. “No, I’m ready. It’ll be fun. I’ve just never really been introduced to a boyfriend’s family like this, you know. And deﬁnitely not at a wedding. Not that you’re my boyfriend, obviously. You’re my boss.” Henry’s mouth curves into a smile. “You ramble when you’re nervous.” “I do not.” “Yes, you do. It’s adorable. The great Faye Alvarez, ambitious and cutthroat architect, gets nervous. It’s headline worthy.” I shake my head at him and grab my bag. “Asshole.” “Since long before I met you. I’ll take the guest room,” he says, a hand on the doorframe. “The master is yours.” “Thank you.” He glances down at the heavy watch on his wrist. Judging from this place—this town—no doubt it’s some family heirloom, probably bequeathed from George Washington himself for favors rendered during the Revolutionary War. “We have a few hours, still. How about we unpack and start

working? I’d like us to have a ﬁnal draft of the structure on Sunday, with all the changes implemented.” The idea brightens me. The structure is beautiful, and I’ve been wanting to get back to perfecting it for days. “Sounds good. And then we can—" A knock sounds on the front door, a cheery little pat-patpat. “Heeenry! I saw your car come in!” Henry sighs. “Well, you might have to meet my sister a little bit sooner than expected.” “That’s her?” “Oh, yes.” I smooth a hand over my dress and follow him to the door. A woman is standing on the porch, about my own age, with ﬂaming auburn hair and a giant smile on her face. She throws her arms around Henry. “You made it!” “Of course,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. “Were you standing in your window watching, or what?” She gives a pealing laugh. “Yes. It’s funny, I’ve been so busy with wedding preparations, and now that the weekend is here I have nothing at all to do. Mom and Ingrid have all taken over now.” She turns to me, her smile burning impossibly brighter. Is this woman really related to Henry? She feels like his complete opposite. “I’m Lily,” she says. “Henry’s sister. I’m so happy to meet you.” I extend a hand. “I’m Faye. It’s really nice to meet you.” She ignores my hand and pulls me into a hug instead. “That’s a beautiful name,” she says into my hair. “Faye. Very unique. Makes me think of mystical fairy creatures.” I blink at her. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I can’t really live up to that. I’m awfully short for an fairy.” “But you’re just as beautiful as one,” she says.

Laughter slips out of me, embarrassed and surprised. “Thank you, I think.” “Oh, it’s most definitely a compliment.” “Lily, let’s stay on track here.” Henry’s voice is exasperated, and I hide my smile. He sounds just like a fond older brother. “Is everything going as planned with the preparations? Any fires to put out?” “No,” she beams. “I’m sure the other shoe will drop, but for now, everything’s perfect. But trust me on that, not Mom. You know she’ll give you a di erent story. My reception shoes are eggshell white, not cream, or something equally banal.” “I won’t even ask,” Henry snorts. “Is Hayden doing all right?” “Absolutely.” Lily turns to me with a conspiratorial smile. “Henry keeps thinking that my fiancé is going to run o . Leave me at the altar or get cold feet.” “I do not,” Henry protests. “Not in the least.” “Sure you don’t. But I don’t mind. It’s part of your gru charm, not that I have to tell Faye that, of course.” And then I watch the most miraculous thing, as Henry— Henry Marchand himself—blushes. It might be the best thing I’ve seen in years. “His gru charm is what I fell for in the first place,” I tell her. She winks at me. “I’m not surprised.” “All right, all right,” Henry interjects. “Faye and I are going to get settled before we head over to Mom and Dad’s.” “Right. Dinner is served at seven, but we’re having drinks earlier. I’ll see you guys soon.” I reach out to her before she leaves, a hand lightly on her elbow. “Thank you for letting us stay in your house, by the way. It’s absolutely gorgeous here.”

Her eyes sparkle again. “Flattery. We’re o to a great start, Faye. I’m going to like you.” I have a sneaky suspicion that I’m going to like her, too. “Keep making Henry blush,” I say, “and we’ll get along famously.” She laughs, and then laughs even harder as Henry reaches out to close the door. “All right. Goodbye, Lily. See you soon!” “Can’t wait!” With the front door closed again, I can’t help but grin at him. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Of course you two will be thick as thieves before this is over. I should have seen it coming.” I put a hand on his arm. “I’m on your side in this.” “Thank you,” he says dryly. “Let’s see if we can channel that spirit into the opera house.” Right. We’re here to work, and the way we’re blurring the lines at the moment is as dangerous as it’s fun. “Lead the way,” I say.

HENRY

Faye walks by my side in silence, keen eyes taking in the beach and the boardwalk. It’s not a long walk from the cottage to my parents’ house on the other end of Ocean Drive, and I know it’s not what she’s there for, but I want to show her Paradise Shores. “So,” I say ﬁnally. “What’s the verdict?” She glances up at me with intelligent eyes, tucking long hair behind an ear. “On what?” “This place,” I suggest, “or my sister. Take your pick.” “You know that’s an impossible question.” “Is it?” “Yes. You’re ﬁshing for compliments, I can tell. And if I refuse, I’m rude, but if I give in, you won’t know if they’re genuine.” I snort. “Maybe I’m just making conversation.” “Mhm. In that case, we can talk about all kinds of things.” She turns and walks backward, ahead of me, her shoes in one hand. I’ve slipped o my own as well, and the sand is warm under my feet. The summer air has gone to my head, because here with her, it’s easy to imagine a di erent reality. One where she’s actually mine—where we walk on the beach most days.

“What things?” I ask. “You want me to pick a conversation topic? That can be dangerous.” I snort again. “I’m well aware. Maybe we could have a mature discussion about our mutual attraction.” She pretends to consider that for a bit. “Maybe not. Maybe we can talk about you.” “Again? You’re turning me into a narcissist.” “You own a ﬁrm with your last name in the title. I’d say that ship has pretty much sailed.” “That’s an excellent topic,” I say. “Ships.” She shakes her head, but her eyes are amused. “That’s not what I meant.” “No, but it’s what we should talk about. My family sails a lot, and we have a sailing boat here.” “Of course you do,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What’s next? You’re related to the Kennedys?” I wave a hand. “Second cousins, but that’s not important. Let’s go sailing this weekend. I’ll take you out. Have you ever been?” Her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.” “I am. Let me take you sailing.” “No, Henry, about the Kennedy thing.” “That was a joke, although I think my parents have bumped into members of the extended family at a few events.” She returns to my side, taking two strides for every one of mine. “You want to go sailing?” “It’s summer. Why not?” And, I think, because it gives me more time with you. Time with her away from the strict conﬁnes of the o ce, where the title of assistant and boss don’t hang around our necks like blaring neon signs. “I’ve never been sailing.”

“I’ll teach you,” I say. I’ll never tire of it—the wind against my skin, the feeling of rope running painfully through my hands. It’s been too long. Faye bites her full lip, reminding me of how sweet she tastes, and I have to look away before I lose yet another point in our imaginary game. “It’ll take us away from the project,” she says. “For a few hours, yes. But I think both of us work hard enough to deserve a weekend with a bit of fun mixed in.” She shakes her head, her glossy mass of hair shimmering in the sun. “Who are you, and what have you done with Henry Marchand?” I smile at that and don’t reply, mostly because there’s nothing to say. With her, I feel more like myself than I have for a long while, and I don’t want to let that slip out of my fingers. When we’re nearly at my parents’ house, we stop to put our shoes back on, and Faye leans against me to steady herself. The small touch makes me irrationally happy. Her wit, her intelligence, her beauty—everything is intoxicating. She’s a woman who gives as good as she gets in every interaction. She looks up at me with an apologetic smile. “I’m going to get all the names mixed up. I always do. It’s my one flaw.” “Your one flaw, huh?” “Yes, and it would be very ungentlemanlike of you to point out any others.” “I would never,” I say. “Lily is the only girl, and you’ve already met her, so I’m sure you’ll remember her name. When in doubt, just remember that it’s a flower.” “Idiot.” “And I’m Henry,” I say solemnly. “H-e-n-r-y.” “No, you’re a complete asshole,” she says, her grin widening. “Why haven’t I realized it before?”

“I try very hard to keep it hidden.” “Try harder,” she says. Something inside me aches happily at her teasing and the clear ease in her voice. I take her hand in mine, leading her across the lawn toward my parents’ house. It’s large, Victorian, three stories and blue shutters. The picture of imposing Paradise Shores. “This is where you grew up?” “Yes,” I say. “So, Rhys is the brooding brother, Parker is the laughing, nice one. It’s impossible for you to mix them up.” She nods. “Right. So Parker is the adopted one?” I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s the kind of joke my brothers would love, and she hasn’t even met them yet. “Yeah, you could say that, though not to my parents’ face.” “I would never.” Another voice calls in the distance. “Henry? Is that you, laughing?” “Yes!” There’s a faint whoop and then my brother’s voice rings out again. “I haven’t heard that since 2007!” “Very funny. They’re exaggerating,” I tell Faye. She nods, eyes teasing. “I know. You’re a clown in the o ce.” I want to tease her back, but we’re already at the porch, and there’s no more time. A ﬂurry of introductions and hugs and handshakes ensue. “This is Faye,” I say, and she shoots them all a big smile. “It’s really nice to meet you all.” My youngest brother shakes her hand immediately, and something in me eases. He can talk to a wall, and there’s no one who’ll be kinder to her. Faye’s hand slips out of mine as my mom hugs me for a long few seconds. “You look good,” she tells me.

“Thank you.” “Rhys.” My oldest brother shoots me a wry grin and pulls me into a half-hug. He’s tan, far more than he should be, and his hair is a mess of dark curls. Spending months of the year traveling as a photographer apparently does that to you. “Get a haircut,” I tell him. “Think of the wedding pictures, man.” He gives me a level look. “It’s artfully disheveled. It’s a look.” I keep a hand on his shoulder and nod hello to my youngest brother. “Parker.” “Good to see you, man.” “Likewise.” “Where have you been hiding this one?” He smiles at Faye, his hair bleached a dirty blond from the sun, and she laughs. “Is Lily already here?” “Yes, she’s making cocktails with Hayden. Would you each like one?” “Yes, please.” Faye shoots her winning smile at my mother—the megawatt one, the one that could melt ice— and the e ect it has on my mother is immediate. She smiles back. “I’m so happy you’re here, dear,” she says. “Come on up, let’s show you around. And Henry, your father is by the grill.” Something in me tightens at her words, at the look in her eyes. No doubt she’s heard about our argument. Dad hasn’t called or emailed me since I turned down the project in Chicago. I knew he’d be angry, but I hope he has the wherewithal to not take it out on Lily’s wedding weekend. Dad barely says hi to us, his back turned, focusing on the lobster tails on the grill like he has to make sure they stay

put. The rest of us drink Aperols in the sun, out on the porch, the soft sound of waves crashing below. Faye takes the seat next to me around the table. “This house is beautiful, Mrs. Marchand. Absolutely stunning.” “Oh, it’s nothing,” Mom says, but she’s loving it. She’s always been a sucker for flattery. “I’ll give you a tour after dinner.” My family is the picture of politeness, but it’s clear that they’re curious. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve introduced them to anyone, and Parker and Rhys are both currently single. My sister’s fiancé is sitting opposite Faye, occasionally shooting her bemused looks. “Don’t worry,” he tells her once, as the table devolves into a debate about the new construction project next to the marina. “They’re always like this. You’ll get used to it after a while.” Faye smiles. “I don’t mind at all. I’m an architect too, actually. We could talk about developments all day.” My father has barely spoken all dinner, but he immediately perks up. “You’re an architect?” The table quiets, as it so often does when he deigns to speak. “Yes,” Faye says, her broad smile still intact. “It’s what Henry and I first had in common. And I understand building runs in the family?” She’s being charming and kind. If my father throws this back in her face somehow… “Why did you choose architecture?” It’s a simple enough question, but there’s nothing simple about him. He’ll inevitably find some way to spin her answer back around to critique, if not about Faye, then about me. “I love it. Building structures that last, the shape and the forms. It’s art that we inhabit, functionality and beauty combined. It’s been with us since we constructed the first

huts.” Faye’s voice is earnest. “It’s man’s attempt to tame the world into shapes, into recognizable forms, to make structures that last. There was never anything else I wanted to study.” There’s no mistaking the clear passion in her voice. Under the table, I reach for her hand, and it slides into mine without hesitation. She means every word she says, but she’s also set up a situation where it can’t be turned against her without making my father sound like a philistine. “That’s beautifully put,” Lily says. Dad looks unmoved. “So you’re the new influence, huh?” “Pardon?” “Did you know about his trip to Chicago last week?” I shake my head. “Dad, stop. We’re not discussing this.” But he doesn’t stop, and neither does Faye. I can see the exact moment it clicks in her eyes—that my friend who o ered the firm the contract is my dad. Something flares in them, the same kind of competitive anger I’ve seen so many times before, and I know it’s not Faye I need to protect. It’s my father. She gives a slow nod. “I knew about his trip, yes.” Dad slides his eyes from her to me, narrowing them into slits. “So your decision wasn’t even your own?” “Yes, it was, and I still stand by it. But we can talk shop after dinner.” “So you can insult me again?” He puts his wineglass down hard, the glass rattling, and the temperature around the table drops noticeably. Fuck. This was exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen. My mother’s gaze flicks from me to my father, and my brothers are both gearing up for a fight. This needs to be di used. “I gave you my honest opinion on the project, Dad. It wasn’t meant to be an insult, and it’s unfortunate that you chose to take it as one.”

His gaze zeroes in on Faye. “Did you think it was immoral too? That was the word he used. Immoral.” If looks could kill, my dad would be dead from the one my mother shoots him. “Michael! Behave!” I put my hand flat down on the table. “Dad, let this be the last we talk of it. Stop embarrassing yourself.” “It’s a simple question,” he says, clearly unbothered by our demands. Faye leans back in her chair and slips her hand out of mine, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t know the specifics, but I didn’t think it seemed like a good project, no. Your son is an expert at these things. I’ve seen the way his employees idolize him, even if they’re scared out of their minds of him, too. I trust his opinion. If he said it was immoral, then I’m sure it was.” Dad’s eyes widen, and then he breaks into a surprised chuckle. “I understand why you brought this one home, Henry. Damn. Do you know he doesn’t own his firm? He has a co-partner.” His voice is challenging, like he wants to provoke Faye again, but it still cuts. I know he thinks I should be further in my career by now—he runs me harder than any of my siblings. Always has. “Come on, Dad, you’re being wildly unfair,” Lily protests. “Henry is the most successful of all of us!” “Yes, and don’t I know it.” He shoots her a pointed look that makes Hayden bristle, before returning to Faye. “So? What do you think?” “Well, sir, as you’ve pulled no punches here tonight, I’ll do the same.” She puts down her napkin and smooths her hand over it, like she’s preparing for battle. “I think it was an exceptionally smart move. Together with Rykers, Henry can attribute double the number of prestige projects to his name. They can pull in more funding as a firm, not to

mention Rykers focuses on di erent kinds of projects. They strengthen one another. I’ve been told you’re a very successful developer, but so far, I haven’t seen any of that business savvy in your comments tonight. If you’d like to really learn more about your son’s business, you should come to New York. That is if he’ll have you, after your rudeness. And that, sir, is what I really think.” I’m in shock. There was not an ounce of pretension in her voice; it was ringing with sincerity. Is that how she sees me? The table is quiet, including my dad, who is just staring at her. Faye smiles sweetly and picks up her wineglass. “The meal is excellent, Mrs. Marchand. Thank you for inviting me.” My mom swallows. “There’s sherry in the sauce. That’s the secret.” “I’ll have to try that.” Dad is drumming his fingers along the edge of the table, for all the world the picture of ease again. His linen shirt is open at the top, his thick hair the same as his sons’, but gray now. I meet his gaze with my own and dare him to say anything insulting back. He’s been rude enough already to Faye, but if he decides to really lay into it… He doesn’t. “Well,” he says finally. “Welcome to Paradise Shores, Faye.” The table releases a collective sigh of relief—that the tension is over, that I’m not about to storm o , that Dad isn’t going to retreat to his study, that this won’t become another battle. Under the table, I find her hand again, this time just for a light squeeze. Thank you. Faye smiles down at her plate and squeezes right back.

After dinner, my sister insists on showing Faye around the house, and I follow dutifully, watching as all kinds of things are pointed out. “Here is our dog, we used to have one… Atlas. And this is Henry, winning the Paradise Shores Junior Sailing Regatta.” They stop at a picture of me, gawky and gangly, lifting a much-too-heavy trophy in the air. Faye grins. “Why am I not surprised you won?” “Because I win everything.” Lily rolls our eyes at me and keeps going, walking through the hallway between the dining and living rooms. “Not everything, Henry. I can beat you in Monopoly.” I nod, but when she turns around, I shake my head at Faye. “I let her win,” I mouth. We stop at the bookshelves with our diplomas. Three identical ones from Yale. Henry Marchand, School of Architecture. Parker Marchand, School of Management. Lily Marchand, School of Art. There is none for Rhys, but Faye doesn’t comment. She just leans in closer and reads the fine print on mine. “You weren’t valedictorian? I’m disappointed.” I shake my head at her and follow them through my childhood home, through the nooks and crannies, listening to them talk. Despite the outburst at dinner, there’s something at peace inside me, watching Faye with my sister. I want them to like each other. I want Faye to like this place. I want her to like me. “Come on,” I say finally. “Let’s grab a last drink. I think Parker was talking about cards.” Lily threads her arm through Faye’s. “Henry’s just feeling left out. Has he filled you in about tomorrow night already?” “No, he has not.” Faye wiggles her eyebrows at me. “What’s happening?”

“Well, it’s not really a traditional bachelor and bachelorette party, but Hayden and I are splitting up. The boys will go do something—I don’t want to know what—and us girls will be at mine in the evening. Do you want to come?” “I’d be happy to. Thanks for inviting me.” My parents have already called it a night, but the rest of us gather around for a few rounds of rummy for old times’ sake. Hayden pulls Lily onto his lap and ignores Parker’s and Rhys’s grumbles. “Come on, I’m marrying her on Saturday. Cut us some slack.” My sister puts a hand on his cheek, laughing. “They’re overjoyed that you’re joining the family, don’t you worry.” It’s such a public display of a ection—not one they usually indulge in—but I can’t fault them. Lily and Hayden have been in love for years and years, and it’s only recently that they’ve gotten the happy ending they deserve. But as Faye sits down opposite me, my hands twitch to do the same: to have her next to me, near me. It’s a dangerous impulse. She’s as deliciously competitive with my family as she is with me. I watch as she beats Parker soundly. “A very low bar to clear,” Rhys says dryly, and we all laugh. When it’s like this, all of us together… I wonder why I’m not home more often. We play until our drinks run low, until the summer sun slowly sinks into the horizon, setting the ocean ablaze. Faye is a natural. She ﬁts right in, laughing and joking, and I’m the one who has to call it a night. “All right, all right,” I say. “We’re heading out. Lily—get some sleep.” “Some beauty sleep,” Parker interjects. “Think about your upcoming nuptials.”

Hayden slaps a hand on Parker’s shoulders. “Don’t encourage her. I don’t think I could stand it if she got more beautiful.” We all groan at the cheesy compliment, and Rhys frowns at him. “Low-hanging fruit. You already got your ring on her finger.” Lily slips her arm through Hayden’s. “Flattery is always welcome, so shush. Thanks for coming, Faye. I’m sorry that they’re behaving so badly.” Faye doesn’t seem to agree at all, though. She is a living flame next to me, our fingers interlaced, her smile broad and true. “Not at all. I’ve had a fantastic time. Would have been better if I’d have won that last round, though.” Rhys shoots her a smile. “I couldn’t let that happen, not even for my big brother’s girlfriend. I’m sorry.” “Apology accepted. I’ll win next time, though.” “Looking forward to seeing you try.” I shake my head at their trash talk. “We’ll see you all tomorrow.” The door shuts behind us and we’re alone in the warm evening air. Faye is still holding on to my hand, her skin warm and soft against mine, her fingers slender. I don’t want to let her go. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s walk along the beach back.” “You sure? There are no lights.” Her smile is still wide, and a little wild. “Scared, Marchand?” It’s such a juvenile thing to say that I laugh. “No. I have the home field advantage here, in case you’d forgotten.” “Oh, I definitely haven’t. God, your family is huge.” “Yeah, we’re a lot of people. Careful there.” I steady her as we walk across the edge of our property, around the little driftwood fence Rhys and I built many years ago, and onto the public boardwalk.

“And you’re so beloved,” she says with a sigh, our hands swinging lightly between us. The word strikes me like a shot. “What do you mean?” “Henry, everyone hangs on to your every word. Your younger brothers look up to you, your little sister adores you, and your mom dotes on you.” It’s good it’s dark, or the blush she’d joked about earlier would be blooming on my cheeks. Damn it, how did she manage to disarm me like this? “I’m sorry about dinner,” I say. “I didn’t know my dad would ambush you like that.” “You never told me he was the silent partner in the Chicago project.” I sigh. “It didn’t seem important at the time. The project was still bad.” “Is it okay, what I said? I wasn’t too harsh?” “Too harsh? Faye, you were fucking excellent in there. I’m sorry, but… no, you weren’t too harsh.” Not at all. Nobody had ever stood up for me the way she did. “Is he always like that? Such a hard-ass?” “Pretty much, yeah.” She shakes her head, dark silk flying. “That feels like such a crime. I mean, look at you! What parent wouldn’t be proud? If that’s the metric being used, then no parent could ever be proud of their child unless they were the first man on the moon or something.” I’m smiling, listening to her go on. Her tongue is definitely looser with drink, but then again, so is mine. With the starlit sky above us and the soft waves against the shore, I feel more at home in Paradise Shores than I ever have before. “You’re defending me. Again.” She looks up at me in surprise. “I suppose so, yes. Not that you need defending. But… I just don’t get it!”

“It was sweet of you,” I say. “Back then, and now, right here.” “Well, that’s why you brought me, right? Moral support, arm candy, and business partner, all rolled into one.” Her voice is amused, but at her words, I feel none. She’s right, and maybe her words were only part of an act, but somehow… it had felt real. “You’re awfully free-spoken tonight.” “Should I not be?” She looks up at me, eyes luminous in the moonlight. “Are we being serious now, or playful? I never can tell when we decide to switch, you know.” “You can’t? I’m trying to keep up with you, most of the time.” She laughs, and the sound sends delicious shivers across my skin. I want to make her do it again. “You obviously don’t see yourself very clearly.” “I think the same could be said for you sometimes,” I say, thinking about her o hand comments about just being an assistant. “Let’s play a game,” she says, voice dropping a few octaves. It’s the same voice she used when she challenged me to the contract. “You already know I’ll win.” She shakes her head. “If played right, we both win.” “I’m listening.” “Get-to-know-Henry.” I groan, and I’m rewarded with another one of her laughs. “It’s all we’ve been playing, Faye. I’m all played out.” “Tell me about your last relationship.” “I think you’re a little bit drunk.” Faye rolls her eyes at me. “Are you avoiding the question?” “My last relationship was with Avery, who you’ve already met, in spectacular fashion.”

Faye wrinkles her nose. “Hmm. Walking perfection, that’s what she was.” “As much as she’d like to think that, she’s definitely not perfect. Are you okay?” She’s started to tilt, slightly, and I reach out to steady her. Her skin is warm under my hands. “Yes.” It’s wrong to exploit this opportunity—and I’m sure I’ll pay for it later—but I can’t stop myself from asking her the same thing. “Now tell me about your last relationship.” She tuts. “That’s a di erent game.” “We can’t play get-to-know-Faye? That strikes me as cruelly unfair.” “There’s not much to know.” She still has her hand in mine, and I can’t stop myself from gripping it tighter. “That’s untrue. You don’t even believe that yourself.” “Fine.” She takes a few steps forward, her hand slipping out of mine again, and walks backwards in front of me. The moonlight illuminates her hair, a dark halo around her, and it strikes me—not for the first time—how much person she fits into her short stature. “I dated a guy called Aiden for a few years. He was a classic Wall Street guy.” I groan. “No.” “Yes, and I don’t want to get any grief about that. It’s in the past.” She holds up a finger, as if disciplining a dog, and I nod obediently. If there’s one thing more amusing than Faye herself, it’s Faye intoxicated. “Go on.” “He was so dreamy. I thought so, and my friends thought so too. We were going to get married in a big villa in Martha’s Vineyard, you know.”

That sounds serious. “You were engaged?” “No, God no. But these were discussions, you see. Discussions we had about our future. But eventually, those discussions turned to arguments, and our relationship into a nothing-ship.” “When was this?” “Our breakup? Nearly two years ago. I don’t miss him anymore. Do you miss Avery?” “Not at all,” I say, “but let’s stay on topic. Why did your ideas about the future diverge?” She throws her hands up, her face still split in a smile. “See? This is why I don’t like playing get-to-know-Faye with you. You’re too… observant. Too much Henry. You’ll see straight through the cracks, and get all the details, try as I might to hide them.” She’s speaking lightly, but it’s revealing far more of her than I think she would have wanted sober. “Faye, you can tell me anything.” “Right,” she nods. “Anything, because we’re such good friends, right?” She’s being facetious, but I answer her straight-faced. “Yeah, we are.” In the distance, the lighthouse revolves, a flash of light momentarily illuminating the shoreline before disappearing out to sea again. She reaches for my hand again, despite the lack of an audience. I take it firmly in mine and wonder if my skin burns her like hers does mine. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” she says. “He didn’t like my ambition. He did in the beginning, of course. It was a turnon then. But as time went by, it became more and more of an issue. I was supposed to sacrifice for him—and I did, skipping afterwork socials to be with him—but he never once cut down on his hours. He worked straight through my

twenty-fifth birthday party, because he wanted to trade on the Japanese stock market.” “Wow.” “And when he admitted that he didn’t like my goals, or that he wanted a more traditional lifestyle like he grew up with, with a wife who stayed at home… well, my ambition wasn’t so sexy then. So I broke up with him.” Her tone is flippant, but her words are not. The experience must have hurt her deep. Having someone reject such an essential part of you… I would have reacted just like she did. “He was a coward, and an asshole.” She gives me a wry smile, and I decide that I like these ones the best, not her winning, megawatt ones. “Yes, you could definitely say that.” She leads me up through the shrubbery, onto the boardwalk, as if she knows this town by heart already. We’re nearly at my sister’s cottage, so her sense of direction is spectacular. I open my mouth to tell her that when she derails me entirely. “Your mother was a stay-at-home mom.” I close my mouth in surprise. “Yes. Yes, she was.” “Do you expect your wife to make the same choice?” Ah. I get it, and something in me grows both warm and cold from the question. “No, I don’t. Any wife of mine could decide for herself what she wanted to be. But if you’re asking what I like, I like women with career ambitions.” “Do you find it sexy, too?” She’s half-joking, but I pull her closer regardless, wrapping my arm around her waist. “Very, very sexy. But I also find it inspiring, and I’d be supportive.” “Mmm.” Her body is warm against mine, the skin at her waist soft beneath her thin summer dress, and I know that

lines are going to be crossed this weekend. How could they not be? I unlock the front door and we walk into the cottage, still hand in hand. I’ve never been a handholding kind of guy, but with Faye, I don’t want to let go. She pulls me to the little hallway in between the two bedrooms and we lean against the wall. She blinks slowly, long eyelashes lowering over beautiful eyes, before she looks up at me bashfully. I can’t help the impulse—I reach out and run a strand of her dark, silken hair through my ﬁngers. “Are you trying to seduce me, Faye?” “Maybe,” she says. “Is it working?” I run my hand down her cheek, down her neck, to where her pulse is beating fast. “You seduce me daily, simply by being you.” Her breath catches as my ﬁngers trail across her collarbone. I sweep her hair out of the way, her skin a map I can’t wait to explore. “Who taught you to speak like that?” she asks, her voice a bit unsteady. “Is it working?” She sways closer. “Yes.” I should walk away, but self-discipline has never been my strong suit with Faye. I tip her head back, her breath ghosting across my lips, and my entire body tightens in response. Need, sharp and clear, is like a stab in my lower stomach. Our kiss isn’t careful. It’s like things have always been between us—a little fast, a little hard. I deepen it, tasting her, and Faye moans. The sound makes my mind go blank. It feels like I’m unraveling, layer by layer, undone by this beautiful woman with sharp words and kind eyes. She pulls away, her eyes shining. “I’m feeling a bit reckless.”

“Clearly,” I murmur, my lips against her jaw. Her hands trail up my shoulders, tugging at my hair, and I have to fight against the fierce need inside me. “Let’s do something we’ll both regret, Henry.” I close my eyes against her temple and force myself to take a few deep, calming breaths. God, but I want to. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to take what she’s o ering, to follow her into the master bedroom and see just how well we fit together. But her words make that impossible. When I take her to bed, I never want her to regret it. Her lips are soft when I kiss her. “Not tonight.” “You’re too moral for your own good.” “That’s definitely the first time I’ve heard that.” I smooth her hair back behind her ear, her eyes dazed and beautiful. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want her in this moment. “Good night, Faye. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She kisses my cheek. “Sleep well.” “I doubt that,” I say, glancing downwards, and she laughs a little. “But I’ll try.” The bedroom door shuts behind her, and I put my head in my hands, trying to still the roaring desire still pounding through me. Her words ring in my head. Regret. I don’t want her to regret anything from this weekend. And despite how tricky it will be, I want us to figure out a solution to our boss-assistant predicament. Because despite what we’d both agreed to, tonight hadn’t felt like we were acting. Not in the slightest.

FAYE

I wake up to birds chirping and sunlight streaming in through the window, to a faint headache and the scent of co ee. Where am I? I roll over in the massive bed as full consciousness hits me, and with it the memory of last night. Of Henry’s family, me confronting his father, his amazing sisters and brothers. Holding hands as we walked along the beach. Me and my loose tongue, feeling more comfortable around Henry than I ever had before. We spoke about past relationships and I told him about Aiden. We kissed right outside this bedroom door. I asked him to be reckless with me. And he said no. I turn over in bed again and stare up at the ceiling. He was being rational. Nothing good would come out of sleeping together, regardless of how good it would feel. And while yesterday had felt natural, it wasn’t; it was me fulﬁlling my end of the bargain. From the sounds outside my bedroom door, he’s already up, doubtlessly already hard at work. I allow ﬁve more seconds of feeling sorry for myself before I jump into the shower and get dressed.

There’s a steaming cup of co ee waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get out, and an opened bag of bagels. Henry is already typing away at his laptop, hair wet from his own shower. “Morning,” he tells me. “Sleep well?” “I did, yes.” “Help yourself.” He nods at the food. “You’ll need your energy today.” “I will?” “Yes. We’re working for a few hours, and after that we’re going sailing.” I sit down opposite him and reach for the co ee cup. “You were serious about that?” “Dead serious, Faye.” His green eyes look solemn, but there’s humor there, too. “I hope you packed a swimsuit.” I did, but the idea of stripping down around him… I take another pull of co ee and wince at the strength. He brewed it dark. Henry cocks his head. “Are you game?” “Yes, of course I am. Show me the ropes.” “Oh, I will. You’ll be a sailor when we’re done.” I walk around him to see what he’s working on. It’s the opera house, and he rotates the models, letting me see the changes. “I added the beams here that you suggested.” “Wow.” It’s a completely di erent entryway now. I sit down next to him, absently tearing o a piece of bagel. “That looks great.” “It does, doesn’t it. Here, why don’t you open yours…” I log on to the same project on my computer, and we spend the rest of the morning side by side, designing an opera house for the ages.

It’s early afternoon when we ﬁnally pack up our things and head out to sail. The drive to the marina is calm, the radio playing an old Fleetwood Mac song. Henry’s tapping along to the beat of the song and I steal a sideways glance at him. I’d been intrigued and attracted to the man he was in the o ce—an e cient hardass. Now, seeing him relaxed in his element, I’m dangerously close to another feeling entirely. He shoots me a sideways look. “You’ve been quiet this morning. You’re not thinking about last night, are you?” “No.” His lips twitch, like he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t comment. He pulls into a small parking lot and guides me through a set of trees in silence. The ocean glitters through the leaves and then we’re there, at a beautiful natural harbor with boats bobbing on soft waves. It looks heavenly. “Come on,” he says. “Our boat is over here.” At the end of the dock, I stop in my tracks. “This thing?” “Yes.” He tosses our bag with snacks and water onboard and begins untying ropes with quick, steady hands. He pauses when he realizes I’ve stopped. “Something wrong?” “This boat is massive.” His eyes light up. “No, it’s not. It’s mid-sized. Don’t worry, we’ll mostly use the motor, not the sails. We can handle it with two people.” “But I don’t know how to. I’ll be in your way.” “No chance. I have faith in you.” I want to say that I don’t—I don’t know how to tie a single knot—but I don’t want to sound weak. “Don’t worry,” he says, eying my expression. “You’re sailing with the winner of the Paradise Shores Junior Sailing Regatta. You’re in good hands.” I laugh, the tension broken, and climb onto the boat. It’s solid under my feet, rocking rhythmically with the waves.

“All right,” I say. “Tell me what to do.” He’s a good teacher. I’m given instructions, clearly explained, to turn the key in the ignition. To turn the handle toward the starboard side—“your left, Faye, your left”—and then we’re moving. He ties up the last of the dock lines and comes to stand next to me at the helm. “Go to the bow,” he tells me. “Help guide me out of the harbor.” “Okay. What do I look out for?” “We need to stay between the red buoys. They’re clearly marked.” The bow of the boat quickly becomes my favorite spot. I watch as we cleave the glittering blanket of water in two and feel the spray of seawater. Henry barely needs my instructions—he steers us out of the harbor on memory—but I give them regardless. And then we’re cruising along the coast, with little coves and rocks and windswept trees. I close my eyes and lean back. The sun is warm on my skin and the smell of ocean is all around me. Why have I never done this before? “Enjoying yourself?” I look up to see Henry at the helm, a hand on the steering. With his thick hair swept back by the wind and a pair of sunglasses on, he looks like he belongs on the water. “Yes!” I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling for a bit, of not doing anything. No work, no expectations. I don’t know how long we sail for, in silence, the only sound that of waves and seagulls and the motor. He steers into a small cove and cuts the engine. We cruise softly to a stop, in the middle of a dark-blue lagoon, the shoreline rocky and tree-covered.

It’s gorgeous. Henry’s undoing his shirt, button after button revealing skin and taut muscles. “Come on.” “What?” “We’re swimming.” “We can’t swim here.” “Why not?” He’s tosses his shirt aside. His skin is faintly tan, a smattering of hair on his chest, leading down to a taut stomach with the outline of a six-pack. Somehow, with all his desk-sitting, he finds the time to look like this? He radiates vitality with every limb. Henry meets my gaze. “Ready?” I square my shoulders and reach for the hem of my summer dress. I pull it over my head, and while I like my black bikini, nerves still dance in my stomach. “So,” I repeat, and kick o my shoes. “You go in first.” Henry’s eyes sweep over my form in one smooth motion. His face is completely impassive, almost pained in its tautness, and then he dives o the edge of the boat and clears the surface in one strong, beautiful line. I take a deep breath and jump in after him. The water is shockingly cold, far more than I’d imagined, and I push up to the surface as fast as I can. “Shit! It’s freezing!” Henry laughs at me, water droplets flying as he shakes hair out of his eyes. “Yes.” “Is it always this cold?” “Yes,” he says, completely unapologetic, and swims toward me with strong arms. “We’re right on the Atlantic coast, battered by ocean currents.” “You knew.” “Of course I did.” He flips over and floats past me on his back, the picture of serenity, as if the coldness doesn’t bother him. “Are you saying this is too cold for you?”

I splash him. He straightens and sputters, something flashing in his eyes. “Juvenile again?” “I guess you bring it out in me. No, don’t you dare—” I’m splashed back, a wave that plasters my hair to my face and brings me sputtering to the surface. “You’re impossible.” “You started it.” He’s closer now, long legs kicking beneath the surface. My mouth is salty from the seawater and I flick a tendril of wet hair back. “It’s not that cold when you get used to it.” He smiles, wide and true, and nods. “Profound.” “You seem so relaxed out here, on the water. When did you learn to sail?” “As soon as I could walk. It’s sort of the o cial Marchand family pastime.” “Like building?” He grimaces and dives. I kick to stay afloat and watch as he glides underneath the surface, only to appear many feet away, finding a rock to stand on. With his hair slicked to his face and his wide shoulders rising up from the water, he looks like he belongs here. I swim after him. “Yes,” he says, “although I’m the only one who pursued that.” “But that was because you liked it. Architecture, I mean. No one could build an opera house like that if they didn’t truly love it.” He looks at me for a long moment. “I did love it. Still do.” “We’re similar that way.” “We’re similar in many ways. More than I thought in the beginning.” I dive below the surface too, icy water closing above my head, and take a few long strokes. When I surface, I’m much

closer to him than I thought. Green eyes gaze back at me. “There’s more space on this rock,” he says. “If you can reach it with your toes, that is.” I can’t, and he laughs, arms closing around my waist as I nearly dip below the surface in my attempt to reach the rock. “Just one of the ways in which we’re di erent. You’re a dwarf.” “I’m not. And there’s nothing wrong with dwarfs.” His smile doesn’t falter. “Never said there was, shorty. I have to say, I’m partial to your height.” My hands find his forearms under the surface, holding on, and they tense like steel bands under my grip. There are little water droplets in his eyelashes. “I’m on to you, you know.” “You are?” “Yes. I’m your date to ensure we get more work done on the project, and I accept that reasoning. But it’s not the only reason.” I tilt my head, regarding him under my lashes. “Am I moral support? Was that the reason yesterday, with your dad?” “No. I didn’t bring you as my bodyguard, but you did an extraordinary job at it nonetheless. If I ever need one, you’ll be my first call.” “Really?” “Yes,” he says, his voice growing patient. “I’ve been disagreeing with my dad since the day I was born. I came early, and he didn’t make it to the hospital in time. We didn’t exactly get o on the right foot.” “He’s an idiot, then.” Henry’s smile widens. “He’s di cult,” he qualifies. “Sometimes a complete asshole. But he taught me how to sail, how to work hard. How to build stu . And if you ask any of my siblings, they’ll be the first to tell you I’m the favorite.”

“I imagine that wasn’t always easy.” “Mhm,” he says. “No, I suppose it wasn’t.” The mood has turned serious, and I smile again, wanting to see his own in response. It’s become addicting, drawing out those rare smiles of his. “So if I’m not here for moral reasons… why?” He chuckles, and the hands on my waist tighten. “You won’t take my answer at face value, will you?” “No. It’s clearly not because I’m inconvenient, since you didn’t want to sleep with me yesterday. I was determined not to mention it, but here I am, bringing it up.” He smiles crookedly, and my heart does a pathetic little dance in my chest. “That’s what you thought? Faye, I wanted to. I’ve never wanted anything more.” “Hmm. Really?” “Oh yes.” He ducks his head, pressing a salty kiss to my lips. I cling to him fiercely, and he pulls me closer, our bodies molded together under the surface. “I could kiss you forever,” he murmurs, pushing my mess of wet hair back, “but I know that I shouldn’t.” “Hmm. You’re good at not doing things you want to do.” He laughs. “Yes. You asked me for my workout routine, Faye, but it’s this. It’s me doing things I don’t want to do, day after day.” I slide my hands up his shoulder, coming to rest around his neck. “That’s not a very fun way to live.” “No, but it gets things done.” He releases me and flips on his back, starting a slow paddle toward the boat. “It also helps keep me from making a mistake.” Because sleeping together would be a mistake. It’s something I already know, but I’ve desperately been trying to forget. When we finally climb on board the Frida, I stretch out on deck. The sun is hot and my bikini small—it shouldn’t take

long to dry. Next to me, Henry is wringing out his hair with a towel, but he stops and looks me over. With my sunglasses down, it’s easy to pretend I don’t see his heated perusal. “I should never have hired you,” he mutters, and something dark ﬂips in my stomach. Yes, I think, even though that would mean my career was over. You shouldn’t have. On our way back, Henry shows me how to hoist the main sail. He teaches me how to tie a clove hitch knot with strong, assured hands. And then he cuts the engine, and we’re cleaving the water silently, just us and the waves and the sun. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything better. Henry sits next to me on the helm. “You like it?” “Sailing?” “Yes.” I can tell my answer is important to him, that he’s sharing something he loves with me. “Yes. It’s peaceful. I feel like it’s just us and the ocean, the coves, nature… and there are no rules.” “Not many,” Henry says. “We do have to follow the laws of the sea.” “Why do you like it?” “Sailing?” “Yeah.” He reaches over to ﬂick a strand of hair back from my shoulder. Its drying in large waves, the salt bringing out a few curls. His eyes, normally reserved, are green pools of emotion. “My mind goes quiet when I’m at sea,” he says. “There are no goals or plans. Everything about shore life fades away, and there’s just stillness. We’ve been doing this for millennia, you know.” “Sailing?”

“Yes. A sailor from two thousand years ago could command this vessel just ﬁne.” “I’ve never thought about it that way.” His small smile is back, a curve of his lips. My heart, already in danger of falling entirely for him, does a little ﬂip. “I’m glad I could share it with you.” “I’m glad you did, too. Even if you didn’t warn me about the water temperature.” “And miss out on your reaction? Never.” We sail back in comfortable silence, the sun beating down on us, the waves lulling me into a state of bliss. Under his guidance, I help steer, and he laughingly calls me captain. The marina eventually comes back into view and we have to roll down the main sail. I feel a pang of sadness when he turns on the motor again and the beautiful silence is replaced by the dull sound of it churning. He sees it in my eyes and smiles. “You get it,” he says. “I knew you would, you know.” We anchor along the dock and he shows me yet another knot, this time to secure the boat against the constant rocking of the waves. “Let’s stay here for a bit,” I say on impulse. “At the dock. We don’t have to go back yet, do we?” Henry doesn’t protest, sitting down on the weathered dock. “Not yet.” We bask in the late afternoon sunshine and the sound of waves. It’s almost like being at sea, without the constant todo-lists and things to accomplish. Henry has closed his eyes, leaning back on the dock, and I take the opportunity to study him. He’s a hardass, an impossible man, an enigma in expensive suits. And he’s a man, sitting next me in an old sailor’s sweater and a faint smile on his face. His skin has already begun to tan from the day outside, with the ease of

skin that’s long been exposed to the sun. I can imagine his younger self clearly, a carefree smile against tan skin and thick brown hair. Green eyes alight with laughter. He’s so handsome, so beautifully out of reach, that I can’t tear my eyes away. Henry doesn’t open his eyes. “You’re staring at me.” “No, I’m not.” He opens one eye. “Yes, you are. See? I always win.” “This isn’t a competition.” He leans back on his hands, eyes closed again. “Everything is a competition.” Is it? For so long I’ve been of the same mindset. I’ve met him step by step and game for game. I’ve loved our witty battles, to stretch my mental legs with him. It’s felt like foreplay, layered with deeper meaning. I always win. He had told me that himself, once. When had I forgotten that that included me? He admitted to wanting to sleep with me, but not to losing any points in our imaginary game. Is that really why he stopped it last night? Henry sighs and stretches, starting to get up. “Unfortunately, we have plans tonight.” “Ah, yes. Our mini bachelor and bachelorette parties.” “Yes. I’m sorry I have to surrender you to my sister like that.” “I’m not. I like Lily. Besides, I’ll see you at the house later.” His eyes glitter, and something in my stomach clenches tight. It might be a game to him, but my attraction feels real —more real than it has in a long, long time. “You sure will.”

FAYE

It’s a short walk from the little seaside cottage to Lily’s house next door. It’s larger, but not by much, with a beautiful wrought-iron fence and overﬂowing ﬂowerpots. Tied to the porch is a glittery foil balloon with gold lettering. Bride to be. Lily smiles when she sees me. “Faye, come on in! Did you get here okay?” I laugh. “Yes, although I had to stop to ask for directions.” “You look tan. Did you sail today?” “Yes,” I say, smoothing a hand over my hair. I’d showered, and didn’t think I’d gotten a lot of sun. She sees my confusion and shoots me an apologetic smile. “Henry mentioned it yesterday. What did you think?” “I loved it,” I say. “Henry told me it’s practically the family pastime.” “Yeah, you could say that. We were taught to tie knots before we could walk. Was he a good teacher?” “Yeah, he was.” “Good. He taught most of us, when Dad was away.” She smiles at me again, and I’m hit with a small pang of guilt. She’s being so nice to me—his whole family is!—and I’m

here under false pretenses. Here to work. “Come in, come in. I want you to meet some of my friends.” I’m ushered through a beautiful hallway and into a living room that belongs in a catalogue. The interior design is homey, with linen furnishings and a sheepskin rug. There’s a giant ﬁreplace. “This place is gorgeous, Lily. Stunning.” “Thank you. Would you mind saying that again tomorrow when my ﬁancé can hear you? We’ve spent so long renovating this place, and I think he got a bit sick with all my decorating toward the end.” “No, he didn’t!” a girl calls. “He’d never deny you anything, the sucker.” A group of women are sitting around a dining-room table, glasses in hands. Lily makes the introductions, calling me Henry’s girl. “We’re playing He Said, She Said,” says a girl with a pixie cut. “Come, join. Do you want a glass of champagne?” “Yes, please.” “I’m Jamie,” she says. “We’re not allowed to say the word bride or wedding, by the way,” she whispers in an aside. “If you do, you have to do a shot.” “If you want to,” Lily points out. “We’re not here to get drunk tonight.” “You’re right. Let’s keep it tame,” Jamie says, but she shakes her head at me in disapproval. “God forbid we go a bit wild. Anyway, you’re Henry’s date?” “Yes.” She leans closer, eyes glittering with curiosity. “How is it, dating him?” “How do you mean?” She hands me a glass of champagne. “He was always so reserved growing up. Would tell you o for eating too much sugar, you know.”

I laugh at that. “I can actually imagine him doing that. You spent a lot of time with Lily growing up?” “Best friends.” She nods. “But back to Henry in a relationship. I can see that you’re uncomfortable, and I’m sorry about that, but I just have so many questions. I’ve also had to do two shots already. When in doubt, blame it on alcohol. Very adult of me, I know.” “Not uncomfortable, per se. It’s just that we’re not really in an o cial relationship. We’re seeing each other, it’s early days, and he asked me here as his date.” There’s a smile in her eyes. “Trust me on this—Henry Marchand doesn’t do anything casually.” “Faye,” Lily calls out. “Is Jamie pestering you?” Jamie blinks. “Me? I’d never.” We all laugh, even though her words feel branded in my mind, spinning around and around. Henry Marchand doesn’t do anything casually. The evening is ﬁlled with games and drinks and laughs. The other girls had prepared questions for Lily to answer, embarrassing ones about her relationship with Hayden. When she answers a few, her cheeks ﬂushed, I’m happy that her brothers aren’t here to hear it. We have to recount our favorite memory with the bride to be, going around the table, and she shoots me an apologetic smile when it’s my turn. “I’m sorry, Faye. We just met.” “Don’t be. I have a favorite memory—when you embarrassed Henry into blushing. I’ve never seen that before. To you, Lily.” I raise my glass in a toast. She grins at me. “To making more memories.” By the end, I’m a little bit tipsy, my cheeks heated with excitement and laughter. Just like the dinner last night, this hasn’t been di cult at all. It’s almost surprising how naturally this is unfolding.

I should tell Henry that, that I’m having fun. He’s probably wondering how his sister is doing. I excuse myself and get my phone out of my bag. There’s a message waiting for me, sent over an hour ago. Henry Marchand: Hope you’re enjoying tonight. Don’t feel any pressure to stay on mine or Lily’s account. She’d understand. Of course he’d texted me first. It was completely in character. Faye Alvarez: So you’re the only one allowed to paint the town tonight? I’m enjoying myself very much, thank you. Lily is lovely. I wait with bated breath, and just a few seconds later, the dots appear that indicate he’s typing. Henry Marchand: I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be happy or confused by your sudden friendship with my sister. Do you have a new favorite Marchand? Faye Alvarez: Intimidated. You’re supposed to feel intimidated. Henry Marchand: I’ll just have to raise my game then. This won’t stand. Faye Alvarez: Competitive much? Henry Marchand: To my very core, Faye. Planning on staying there late? Faye Alvarez: When does your thing end? What are you doing, by the way? Strip club? Henry Marchand: I asked first. And no, there are no strip clubs in Paradise Shores, last time I checked. Do you know a good one? Faye Alvarez: I’ll be home around midnight, I think. Lily wants to try to get some sleep before tomorrow. Henry Marchand: Good. We’ll get Hayden in bed around then too. I smile at the phone. I have no clue what we are, what’s happening, why I’m really here. And for the first time in my

life, maybe I should just let myself roll with that instead of ﬁghting it. Be more like Henry was at sea. Still and calm. It’s a quarter to midnight when I ﬁnally walk from Lily’s house to the little cottage next door, which is also her house. These people are lovely, despite having some serious privilege. I unlock the front door. “Hello?” The cottage is empty, but Henry said he’d be home soon. I put on the kettle to make tea and change into my camisole and silk shorts—thank God Jessie had convinced me to get the set months ago. I brush my hair out, leaving it long and loose down my back. I’ve noticed how his eyes, even when they’re professional and reserved, stray to my hair like he can’t help himself. Henry arrives not ten minutes later. A taxi stops outside, and then I hear his key in the lock. He stops in the door. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his thick hair unusually messy. “Faye?” “That’s me.” I take a sip of my tea and tuck my legs underneath me on the couch. “I just got home.” He tosses the keys on the hallway table. “Did you have a nice time?” “Yes. Your sister’s friends were really sweet. And a bit crazy, actually. But mostly sweet.” “Good. I was worried.” “Worried?” “Well, letting you o on your own like that. Who knows what they might have told you, or worse, you them.” I grin at him. “Afraid of me spilling all your New York secrets?” “Deadly afraid,” he says. “There’s hot water in the kitchen if you’d like tea.”

“Thank you,” he says, but he doesn’t go there. He sinks into the armchair opposite me instead. “How was your evening?” “Wild,” he says. “We took Hayden around Paradise Shores and made him relive all kinds of memories. Beer was involved. A fair bit of whiskey. He doesn’t drink, but he’s still damn good at getting the rest of us to do so.” “And not a stripper in sight.” “Not a single one,” he agrees, running a hand through his hair. “A few of his old buddies from the Navy were there, and after hearing them speak, I think Parker is reevaluating his life choices.” I chuckle. “But not you?” “Not tonight, anyway. I’m happy with mine at the moment.” He leans back and looks at me through hooded eyes. His long legs are stretched out before him, arms curled over the armrests. “Except hiring me, of course,” I point out. “You mentioned earlier today that was a mistake.” He tips his head toward me. “You heard that?” “Yeah.” “It was a mistake,” he says, voice heated. “But I’m not ﬁnding myself regretting it.” Our gazes catch and hold, and something in me tightens at the look in his. He might have turned me down yesterday, but he deﬁnitely meant what he said earlier. It wasn’t for lack of want—because that’s clear in his darkened eyes. I wet my lips. “We should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.” “Mmm,” he says. “Showtime.” Neither of us moves. “Did you sleep well last night?” “As well as could be expected, yes. You?”

“All right. The bed is very big. A lot bigger than I have at home, actually.” “Oh?” I nod. What are we even talking about? “Did you have a lot to drink tonight?” “A bit. Why? Did you?” His eyes look glazed, but I don’t think it’s with alcohol. “Yes. But I’m not drunk.” He stands, his form towering over me. “Come on. Let’s go to sleep.” I take his extended hand, the skin warm against mine. Shivers travel up my arm. “Together?” His ﬁngers grip mine tightly as he leads me through the living room. “God, Faye, you’re really testing the limits of my self-discipline.” “It seems limitless.” “I thought so too, before you.” He pauses by my bedroom door, hand still in mine, exactly like we’d been the day before. Only this time, he’s the one who tips my head back. “Only to sleep.” “I promise.” His gaze travels down across my lips, my chest, my body, until I feel like I might burst from the scrutiny. “Come on, then,” I say softly, and pull him into my bedroom. He follows, watching me in silence as I fold back the covers and light the bedside lamp. “Are you going to sleep fully clothed?” He smiles at that and starts to undo the cu s of his shirt. “No.” I walk into the en suite and brush my teeth, ignoring the thunderous beat of my heart. Judging from my reaction to him, you’d think I’d never slept in a bed with a man before— not to mention slept with one. In the mirror, my cheeks are ﬂushed, my eyes excited.

Henry’s kicked o his trousers and is standing by the bed in just his boxers. His shirt hangs unbuttoned, revealing the same powerful chest I’d marveled at earlier today. I slide into bed and pull the covers up. “You’re just going to stand there?” He hu s out a breathless laughter. “Ruthless, Faye. As always.” “You wouldn’t want it any other way.” He shrugs out of his button-up. “I’ll be right back.” When he returns from the bathroom, I’ve already turned the light o and snuggled deeper under the covers. Henry lifts the covers and the mattress dips as he lies down. For a few seconds, we lie side by side, completely quiet. “Well,” he says ﬁnally, “you’re right. The bed is very big.” “Thanks for conﬁrming it.” He hu s. “You never stop taking me to task, do you?” “No,” I say softly, trying and failing to ignore how close he is in the darkness. With his head on the pillow next to mine, our bodies separated by nothing but willpower. “All right,” he murmurs. “Sleep well then, Faye.” “You too, Henry.” Maybe it’s the hours we spent at sea, or all the socializing at Lily’s, but my eyes drift closed of their own accord. The bed is too comfortable for me to resist. I’m cuddled against something warm when I blink them open again. Henry is settled behind me, the warmth of his body curving around mine. He’s taller than me, but it’s never been as noticeable as now. He’s everywhere. He’s also tense, angling away from me. I peer over my shoulder and try to catch his eyes in the darkness. “Henry? Did I roll over to your side?”

He’s fully awake, judging by the faint sigh. His strong hand on my hip turns me back. “Go back to sleep, Faye,” he whispers. I catch his hand and thread our fingers together. His skin is warm and dry against mine. I like the feeling of our hands together—I have ever since he first linked them together, days ago. “But you’re awake.” “Yes.” I turn my body toward him and feel exactly what he’s been trying to hide. Heat flushes through me, my skin burning everywhere we touch, from his bare leg beside mine to his chest against my back. The thick hardness of him against my hip. “Yes,” he says. “Another point to you.” I crane my head to meet his gaze. In the darkness, his eyes look black. “It’s a bit hard to hide this one, isn’t it?” He turns his face into the pillow. “Yes,” he mumbles. “It’ll go away. Ignore it.” But there’s no way I can ignore this. Heart beating hard in my chest, I turn over on my back and look at him. Our hands are still interlinked, and I rest them on my stomach, directly beneath my heart. “Won’t that be uncomfortable for you?” His head turns back to mine. I can’t read his face when he responds, voice gru . “Yes.” “Hmm.” “Say what you want to say, Faye.” I smooth my thumb over the back of his hand and stare up at the ceiling. His hardness is still a heavy pressure against my hip. “No, it’s just, I’ve always wondered. Not having one myself, you know. I’ve heard that it can be painful sometimes. To not get… release.” God, my mouth is just running. I can’t look at his face for fear of seeing teasing

amusement there. It sounds like I’ve never seen one before, when in truth, I’m just nervous because it’s him. Henry’s exhale is warm against my shoulder. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Damn. “A bit, sure.” His hand tightens around mine. “You want me to answer your questions.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod nonetheless. In all honesty, I have no idea what I want. I want him, and I don’t want him to move away, and I know we can’t go further than this. Even if the throbbing hardness of him is making that fact very di cult to remember at the moment. “What does it actually feel like to be hard?” I ask, and wince inwardly at the silly question. At any moment, he’ll pull the plug on this, angle himself away and cut the intimacy between us. “Uncomfortable, at the moment,” he says darkly. “Like an itch you need to scratch. But they’re not always the same.” “Not all erections?” “No.” I frown. I’d always thought they were the same. “How do they di er?” Henry sighs. “Not once have I had this conversation with a girl. Of course you had to be di erent.” I can still feel him against me—despite his own words, it doesn’t seem to be subsiding anytime soon. “I think the word you’re looking for is unique. Tell me how they di er?” “Hmm. All right. Sometimes it’s just semi-hard, and it’s a nuisance, but you know it’ll go away. It happens. It’s not painful or annoying.” “Yes.”

“Sometimes it’s…” He breaks o . “God, Faye. Fine. Sometimes it’s just plain hard, ready to be used.” “Mhm.” Heat pools in my stomach at his words, at his body against mine. “And that’s what it is now?” “No, right now it’s hard as a goddamn rock. But like I said, it’ll go away.” I have to swallow before I can answer. Every part of me feels alive, nerve endings on alert. “That’s very interesting,” I murmur. He gives a dark chuckle. “I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this.” “To what?” “Lying next to a beautiful woman in the dark, answering platonic questions about my cock.” My own laughter sounds startled. “I can’t believe it either. I’m a grown woman, and I’m asking you this?” “Hmm.” He closes his hand around my waist, ﬁngers softly digging into my skin. “You’re nervous.” My instinct is to say no. To argue with him, to spar a bit. But maybe we’ve done that too much—the competitions and the games. “Maybe,” I say. “But maybe I don’t want to ignore it until it goes away.” His hand closes around my waist. I feel him throbbing, sudden and hot, against my hip. “Hell, Faye…” “I know,” I whisper hurriedly. “We can’t. You don’t have to tell me. But maybe talking about it is the closest we’ll get. Maybe it’ll help.” “Mmm,” he says quietly. “I don’t think that’s the way desire works, sweetheart. Or erections.” Something in me warms at the endearment. It sounds natural in his deep voice, husky now with arousal. I pull our interlinked hands higher, until they brush against the

underside of my breast. “You haven’t thought about it? What it would be like?” “Sleeping together?” “Yes.” Henry’s quiet for a long moment. “Yes, of course I have.” The heat in my body spreads, until I feel like I’m too warm for this, for the cover and the camisole I’m sleeping in. “Tell me,” I murmur. Henry shakes his head, the silkiness of his hair tickling my forehead. “I’ve told you too much already. Your turn, Faye. Have you thought about it?” Only all the time. “Yes.” His thumb brushes across the heavy weight of my breast. “Tell me.” I’m glad it’s dark and he can’t see my ﬂushed face. We haven’t slept together—haven’t even seen each other naked! —and this still feels the most exposed I’ve ever been. “I’ve thought about how it would feel… having your arms around me.” “Like I do now?” “Yes. But skin against skin. I’d be able to run my hand through your hair. You’d kiss me, and you would…” My voice trails o , my cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Courage failing you, Alvarez? Tell me. What would I do in your fantasy?” “You’d unzip my dress,” I whisper. “All cool and professional, but your eyes would be… well. You’d just look at me for a long while.” He gives a low grunt, a command to continue. “And then you’d kiss me again. But your hands would be everywhere, on my skin, on my... well. You’d tease me for a long time without undoing a single of your own buttons.”

Henry’s hand has moved imperceptibly higher. “I think you overestimate my restraint where you’re concerned.” “Well, it is a fantasy,” I defend myself. “What would you do instead? Take me quickly?” I wanted to throw him o balance with my words, but Henry’s exhale is a dark chuckle. “Oh no, Faye. You’re right in assuming I’d take my time. I’d want you to shatter in my arms several times over before I let you help me”—a press of his hips and hardness against me—“find release.” It’s hard to focus on being good. On keeping my hands to myself, on ignoring the pull of his body and words. Heat pools in my stomach. Remember our positions, I tell myself. Boss. Assistant. Contract. “That sounds... good.” Henry laughs, pulling me in tighter so that his body is entirely curved around mine. “Good? Faye, you have to admit it sounds fantastic.” I wet my lips. “Will I lose a point to you if I do?” “No,” he says softly. “I think I’ve already lost several tonight when I admitted just how much I want you.” I roll my hips lightly against his hardness, and he groans. “Yes, you have an obvious disadvantage there. It’s hard for you to hide it.” “Oh?” His tone is heated. “You’re hiding yours?” “Women do have that ability.” His hand trails down my stomach, rough fingertips lightly touching my skin, leaving fire in their wake. “Not very sportsmanlike,” he murmurs. I suck in a breath as his hand toys with the hem of my shirt. He plays with it long enough that I can’t help but taunt him. “Checking the thread count, Marchand? I thought you were going to check me.”

A warm breath washes over my neck. His lips must be close to my skin, a mere inch away. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Fair is fair.” The back of his knuckles brush against my lower stomach and I close my eyes at the sudden flare of heated surprise His hand slips in under the hem and flattens against my stomach entirely. It’s inching closer to where I want him, and I don’t dare breathe for fear he’ll change his mind. He’ll go north again, he’ll say something about professionalism, or the points game. But he doesn’t. Instead, he presses a hot kiss to my neck and slides his hand clean under the waistband of my shorts and panties. He gives me plenty of time to stop him, to grab his wrist and say no. I don’t. His hand slides further in between my legs. I spread them slightly, still hardly breathing, and then his fingers make contact. A shuddering breath escapes me as he discovers what I already knew. “Fuck, Faye. This conversation really got you this wet?” “Yes. Feeling you against my leg hasn’t helped, you know.” He responds by pushing his erection more firmly against me, his hand softly stroking me, spreading and teasing. “There is nothing wrong with this,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?” Maybe I should be ashamed of what I do then—the mewling that escapes me, the faint rotation of my hips to get his fingers where I need them—but there’s no room for shame in my mind anymore. “Yes,” I murmur. “I do.” He slides his other arm under my neck, and it forms a steel band over my chest. I’m stuck, unable to do anything

but lean against him and close my eyes at the sensations. His fingers circle my core and I shudder. It’s been so long, and his skilled hands seem to know just what to do. They’re the hands of a builder, an architect—a sailor. And when he slips a finger inside me… I grip his arm and try to calm my erratic breathing. He mutters a curse against my temple. “Fucking hell, Faye… Spread your legs for me a little more.” I do what he says, the command sending fresh need pounding through me. He makes use of his better access immediately. Long strokes and short circles, alternating movements, relentlessly. He touches me until I’m hovering right at the edge, more turned on than I’ve been with a man before. His lips press against my cheek. “You’re safe with me,” he murmurs. “Come for me.” I couldn’t protest even if I wanted to. His movements speed up, and he adds another finger to the first. It’s game over—my release barrels through me. Henry holds me tight as my legs straighten, my mind blank, breathing hard. He slowly withdraws his hand. “You feel so good, sweetheart. Unreal.” It takes several moments before I can form thoughts again, but when I do, it’s to notice that he’s still painfully hard against my thigh. I roll my hips, and he groans obligingly, dark and husky. I reach back to touch him, wanting to hear him groan with release because of my touch, to give him what he gave me. An iron grip locks around my hand. “Not tonight, Faye.” “But you’re still hard. Won’t sleeping be di cult?” “It’ll go away,” he says, tucking me firmly into the curve of his body. “Trust me.” “I do. I… thank you?”

He snorts, but it’s good-natured, his hand once again splayed innocently across my stomach. “Go to sleep, Faye.” “All right. You too, though.” There’s a touch of something against my hair—his lips? “I will.” My body is loose and heavy, and it’s far too easy to relax in the comfort of his arms. We drift o like that, intertwined in the large master bed, and I sleep better than I have in a long while.

HENRY

I blink my eyes open to sunlight through the window blinds and an empty bed. Reaching over, her side of the bed is cold. Damn. I roll onto my back and try to think about the last time I slept this long. I genuinely can’t think of a time. Faye didn’t stay in bed and she didn’t wake me up. A delicious smell is wafting from the door to the living room— co ee, bacon, something baking… How long has she been awake? I toss back the covers and look down at my depressing morning erection. It had been di cult to fall asleep, with her in my arms and my body hellbent on sex, but I’d managed. No wonder it was rearing its head again now. I get in the shower, my mind replaying the wondrous moments of last night. The softness of her neck against my lips. The slick warmth of her around my ﬁngers. Her breathless moans. Yeah, the cold water of the shower is doing nothing at all for my painfully hard cock. Last night had been unreal, yes, but I couldn’t a ord to fuck this up. One wrong move and I might destroy Faye’s regard for me entirely. It would kill me if she ever regretted us.

So I take care of it myself, wrapping my hand around my hard, throbbing flesh. It doesn’t take long, given how aroused I am. I remember Faye against me, her body shaking through an orgasm, her sweet warmth squeezing around my fingers… and I break apart in the shower, release barreling through me. I lean against the shower wall and close my eyes through the faint aftershocks. In my hand, my cock is finally under control again, but I know I’ll be hard again before long with Faye around. I dry my hair and pull on clothes. The wedding doesn’t start for a few hours yet, so we have time to work before I have to get into the tuxedo. But when I open the bedroom door and see Faye in my sister’s kitchen… “What are you doing?” “Making brunch,” she says, pouring orange juice into a glass pitcher. “You’ve made eggs and bacon and pancakes and… what’s in the oven?” “Mu ns.” “Why on earth would you do all that?” I ask, despite the grumbling in my stomach. “We have things to do.” She closes the fridge with a bang. “Because your brothers are coming over for brunch.” “They’re what?” “Parker called the house this morning. He said you guys had something to work out.” She waves a hand as if this is all normal, and she makes me breakfast every day and talks with my brother. “Something about a wedding surprise for Lily? I’m not sure, but they’ll be here by ten. We’ll head to the reception together after that.” It’s nine o’clock now. “You didn’t wake me?” She gives an elegant shrug. There’s something about her hair, plaited down her back, and her face without makeup

that makes me feel o -kilter. Last night had been explosive, but this feels intimate. It’s too easy to imagine that this is our life, our habits, our damn bed to share. “You needed the sleep,” she says. “We’re not behind on schedule. I updated your laptop while I was at it and wrapped your sister’s wedding gift.” There’s brisk professionalism in her tone. Not a trace of what happened last night. So that’s how she wants to play it. She wants distance. I grab a cup and head to the co eemaker. “Nice armor,” I say. She bristles, just like I expected her to. “What do you mean?” I nod to where her laptop is propped open. “Work. Tasks. Mu ns. It’s a straightforward tactic, but it’s working. How early did you wake up this morning?” “Early enough.” “Tell me,” I say. It’s a small thing, but some part of me needs to know if she slept as well as I did—if my presence beside her helped or harmed. Maybe it’s my pride or my ego, I don’t know. Faye sighs and turns o the heat on the stove. Bacon crackles in the pan. “Fine. I woke up about an hour and a half ago. Is that precise enough or do you want an exact time stamp?” I smile into my co ee cup. “That’ll do.” “It took me forever to ﬁnd a whisk, you know.” “I’m sure. It’s a new kitchen for you.” She pushes a tendril of hair back. “We should still be able to get an hour of work in. Honestly, Henry, I think we’re very close to being ﬁnished. You should be able to commission a new model next week with time to spare.” I knew that already. “Excellent.” “Would you pass me the spatula? The one in the sink?”

I hand it to her and watch in silence as she handles the stove like a pro. This blanket of domesticity wasn’t part of my masterplan, coming here together this weekend… but I’m finding that I like it. “We should talk about this,” I say. “About what?” “Last night.” “There’s nothing to say.” “You wound me, Faye.” She looks up at me, and as she finally meets my eye, a beautiful flush creeps over her cheeks. “All right,” she says softly. “Let’s talk about it, then.” And all of a sudden, I have no idea what to say. I want to hear her say that she doesn’t regret it—that we’re still us—that embarrassment has never belonged in the space between us. I want to tell her other things too, things that are buried deep, about how much I like her. That I’ve been avoiding relationships for so long, but with her, the hassle doesn’t seem like a hassle at all. But that’s not what comes out. “Guess I won the point, huh.” Faye rolls her eyes and adds yet another pancake to the stack. She’s making enough food to feed an army, not that my brothers will object. “Yes, I guess you did.” And after that, there’s really nothing more to say. We work in near silence for the next hour. I glance over at her, but she’s bent over her laptop. Our only conversation topic is the opera house. As I rotate the opera house in the digital system, I’m struck again by its beautiful simplicity. It’s the best thing I’ve ever designed. The jury might not choose it—an outcome I haven’t let myself consider much—but I’ll still be proud of it. It’s been a way to connect with the reason I chose architecture in the first place.

I glance over at Faye. She’s biting her lip, a look of deep concentration on her beautiful features. She’s taught me that too, I think. Her unbridled passion for architecture shamed my own lack of it, when we ﬁrst met. It’s not the structure that’s rekindled it—it’s her. She showed me the way back to my love of work. Rhys and Parker arrive just after eleven. Faye smiles and tells them to help themselves to the food in the kitchen before she graciously slips away to get ready for the wedding. The door to her bedroom closes, and then I hear the faint sound of the shower running. Damn. I’ve fucked up somehow, lost the closeness we had last night. I think of the way Avery described me. Emotionally uninvolved. That’s not the way I feel with Faye. “Man, this looks amazing. Faye did all this?” Parker grabs a stack of pancakes, bacon and eggs, dousing it all in maple syrup. “Henry, if you don’t marry her, I will.” Rhys smiles wryly at the look on my face and pours himself a cup of co ee. “You look shell-shocked. You two had an argument?” I shake my head. “A misunderstanding. I think.” “You were in the wrong. When in doubt, you’re in the wrong. If I’ve learned anything with women, it’s that you apologize often and sincerely.” Parker grins at me. “I know it might be hard for you to do, though.” “That advice is terrible,” Rhys drawls. “You completely lack a backbone.” Parker smiles, but doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have to. We both know that Rhys is the one who’s been running from his problems for over a decade, but nothing good would come of us pointing out that lack of a backbone. My middle brother has been an enigma since he was born.

I grab a plate and fill up on food. “I didn’t know she could cook.” “How long have you known Faye? You haven’t told us a word, man.” “About a month.” “Seems a lot longer,” Rhys says. “The way she stood up to good old Dad? Henry, Parker might marry her for her cooking, but I’d marry her for that.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. They’re right, both of them, and it just makes me feel worse. I didn’t handle things right this morning, not at all. What happened last night wasn’t something to joke about. “Fuck. I know. I’ll fix it.” I glance over at her bedroom door. There’s a faint sound of a blow-dryer whizzing, but I don’t want to take any chances. “Now come on. What did you want to talk about?” “Well, I’m Hayden’s best man. We’re all serving as his groomsmen. I know that it means a lot to him, not that he’d tell us.” “You’re not giving me any new information here.” “Man, you are testy today. Could you turn down the Henry-ness just a notch? I was thinking that we could do something at the reception. I know you have a speech planned.” “I do.” “Rhys and I considered that too, but then we thought… how about we combine it and give one speech together? We’ll make it funny, with anecdotes of their childhood. Dad’s giving her away at the wedding, but we can sort of give her away a second time. Joke about how we’re finally giving Hayden our blessing. She’ll expect us to do something like that, you know.” I run a hand along my jaw. “And you come up with this the morning of our sister’s wedding?”

Rhys throws me a wry look. “It’s shit planning, but it’s a good idea. You know it is. It’ll make her cry.” “Everything will make her cry today.” “Yes, but this one will be because of us.” Something softens in his gaze. “She deserves the best day we can give her.” “They do,” Parker corrects. He glances at his watch. “So we have… an hour to sort this out before we need to head to the venue. Rhys and I brought our tuxes, so we’ll change here. Is that cool?” Of course. Even as grown men, they rely on me to ﬁx things, to be the host, to crash a morning I’d planned to spend with Faye. “Yes. We’ll write a combined speech, and we’ll give Lily the best moment of her life.” I drop my voice a few octaves. “And when Faye comes out of that bedroom, you’ll both tell her she looks beautiful, and you’ll thank her on your damn knees for cooking all this for you with only an hour’s notice.” “Of course,” Parker says. “Thanks, man.” Rhys cocks an eyebrow. “For us? Henry, she clearly did this for you.” I have no idea what to say to that. His words stay with me for the rest of the morning, even as we compare notes and add anecdotes to the di erent parts of our speech. We won’t have time to rehearse, but I doubt we’ll need to. “It’s nearly twelve,” I say. “Use the spare bedroom to change.” Rhys grumbles at my heavy-handedness, but they obediently grab their dressing bags and head into the spare. The door to Faye’s room is still closed. I knock twice. “Come in!”

Having been near her for days now, you’d think that I’d be used to her beauty, but it still strikes me like a physical blow. She’s standing in front of the mirror, putting in an earring. Her hair falls in soft waves, some of it pinned back, framing her face. She’s painted her lips a deadly shade of red. Her dress is modest, but it still hugs her curves, showing me the waist I had my arm around and the ass that tormented me all night long. “Henry?” I realize I haven’t said anything. I close the door behind me and lean against it, needing distance between us before I do something I’ll regret. “You look stunning.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “Thank you.” “You always look stunning.” She cocks her head, putting in the other earring. “What’s all this?” “Have you eaten anything?” “I had some breakfast before you woke up.” “You could’ve joined us, you know.” She frowns. “Sorry. I just ﬁgured you’d want to discuss family stu , so I might as well get ready.” I shake my head, this conversation already slipping out of my grasp. “Thank you for cooking and for baking. I really appreciated it.” “You’re welcome,” she says. “Am I the best assistant you’ve ever had, or what?” Assistant. All I can manage is a weak smile. “Yes. The very best.” “You should go get changed. We need to leave soon.” I close the door to her bedroom behind me and shake my head at myself. Well, that wasn’t what I had wanted at all. I don’t want to be her boss, and her my assistant.

And I want her to sleep in my arms every night.

FAYE

The wedding is held in the small Paradise Shores chapel, a beautiful wooden church with weathered wood and stone floors. It looks like something out of a fairy tale, filled to the brim with bouquets of lilies, one after the other, the smell heady and intoxicating. When I comment on the flowers to Jamie, she shoots me a grin. “That’s at her mother’s insistence. And I’ve been told that if anyone asks, we’re to repeat that fact, so no one thinks she’s that narcissistic.” I laugh. “I’ll do the same, then.” Jamie hurries to take her place as one of the bridesmaids and I head to my allocated seat. It’s on the front row, right next to Mrs. Marchand, alongside uncles and aunts. In the front row on the right side of the church is a handful of people. An elderly-looking man and a young woman with hair the color of Hayden’s. A few men sit beside them—Hayden’s military friends? My gaze travels back, inevitably and predictably, to the front of the church. Henry in a tuxedo is not something to miss. He’s the tallest of the four men up there, his brothers and Hayden. Altogether, they’re a stunning display of masculinity in its prime—thick hair and broad shoulders, all

of them tanned from time spent at sea. I can practically feel the pride and emotion radiating from Mrs. Marchand next to me. Henry’s eyes land on me, and under his heavy gaze, something tightens in my chest. Happiness, longing, fear. Uncertainty and embarrassment. Twice in two days, I’ve basically asked him to sleep with me. And twice in two days, he’s said no. He’s clearly more in control than I am. And despite us agreeing that it wouldn’t, this weekend has changed things. Last night changed things, with his hand in between my legs and lips against my neck. I can’t have him as my boss anymore. It’s the only way forward, even if this is just an inconvenient attraction to him and nothing more. I couldn’t bear it if I had to schedule his dates or plan his trips—to see him at work every day, but never get anything more in return. He’d wanted a game about who could be more professional, and he’d been right when he said he always won, because I’ve reached my limit. My heart is already too invested. I’m done playing. Mrs. Marchand leans in closer, whispering in my ear. “Isn’t he handsome?” She means Henry, who is still looking straight at me, a small crease in between his eyebrows. “Yes,” I murmur. “He’s amazing.” An expectant hush falls over the congregation, and in the silence, a single violin starts to play the Wedding March. It’s hauntingly gorgeous. Heads turn, expectantly, but I don’t look at where Lily is entering. I look at Hayden. I’ve only been to a few weddings before, but each time, this is what I want to see—the look on the groom’s face. Call

me a romantic, but it floors me every time. Hayden doesn’t disappoint. The raw emotion on his face brings tears to my eyes. From the way he’s staring, there might as well be no one here at all, and that’s when I realize that this whole wedding is just for her. All of it. He would be just as happy in a courthouse, and he would look at her the exact same way, knowing she was agreeing to spend her life with him. Only then do I look at Lily, and she’s glowing, a vision in white lace. Her smile is as broad as I’ve ever seen it, but there are tears in her eyes, too. I swallow my emotions and watch in stunned silence as Mr. Marchand kisses her on the cheek and hands her over to Hayden. Their vows are short, but they’re spoken with the kind of stark sincerity that betrays far deeper emotions. They’re raw. And I can tell that it’s held short because it’s private; this couple isn’t showy. It makes me like Henry’s family even more. Hayden and Lily say I do. His voice is low and vibrating with emotion; hers nearly breaks with it. Their kiss makes me teary-eyed again, to my surprise. I’ve just met them, and still… It’s the kind of wedding that makes me long for the day I might have my own. Mrs. Marchand reaches for my hand—unexpectedly—and squeezes as we both watch them together up there. I squeeze back. Henry’s eyes find mine again. This weekend, we’ve gone from almost strangers to almost lovers. I don’t know how to act around a man who brought me over the brink, who walked hand in hand with me along the beach at midnight, and who will sign my next paycheck. The ceremony finishes and people all around me start to rise, watching the newlyweds walk down the aisle hand in

hand. We make our way outside, the reception held on the lawn outside the chapel, the sea a blanket of dark blue in the distance. It’s a gorgeous venue, the summer sun shining. I’m talking to one of Lily’s aunts when an arm wraps around my waist. “There you are,” Henry says. “Sorry, Auntie. Is it okay if I steal my date for a moment?” Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “But of course, Henry. It was lovely talking to you.” “Likewise, Mrs. Newman.” Henry’s arm tightens around my waist as he leads me to the refreshment table. “That was beautiful,” I breathe. He hands me a glass of champagne and takes one himself, spinning me around so I’m facing him. “You were watching Hayden,” he says, “when Lily walked in. Why?” I swallow. “The ﬁrst look. I like it. I like seeing… it’s hard to describe.” “It made you sad.” “No, not sad. They were happy tears.” His hand runs along the bare skin of my arm. “You’ve just met them.” “Yes, but…” I struggle to ﬁnd the words. “Love is beautiful, don’t you think? And it was there, in that church, in a purer form than I’ve seen for a long while. Maybe I’m jaded, I don’t know, but it’s not something I see often.” Henry’s gaze is warm, and his answer is a long time coming. “Maybe it would’ve been easier if I didn’t hire you,” he says softly, “but I’m very glad I did.” “What are you saying?” “What I should have said this morning. Faye, I slept better last night than I have in years, and it was because of you.” “Really? You were… uncomfortable.” He chuckles. “Yes, but you were in my arms.”

“Another point lost.” “Fuck the points, Faye. Fuck that whole thing. I want you. And not just in bed.” My world narrows, until it’s just him and me, our gazes locked. The champagne glass in my hand is shaking. “Are you serious?” “Deadly,” he says. “You’ve said so yourself—when do I joke?” “Oh, but you do,” I say, and I’m smiling, and stepping closer to him, and the sun ﬂares impossibly brighter. “You’re very funny when you choose to be.” He tips my head back and kisses me, his arms sliding around my waist. It’s a kiss with purpose—a kiss that speaks of more kisses to come, that this is the beginning, not the end. It’s the best kiss he’s ever given me. “You make me lose all self-control, Faye.” “Oh, so it’s my fault?” The sound of his deep laugh in my ear sends shivers down my back, and then he readjusts, and I can feel just how much he wants me. “Oh.” “I’m half out of my mind with want. Have been for days, but after last night, it’s nearly uncontrollable.” “Henry Marchand, out of control.” I reach up and run a hand through his hair, warm from the sunshine. “This is one for the books.” “Not my best moment. We’re at my sister’s wedding reception, for Christ’s sake. There are people everywhere. I should be mingling and catching up with relatives, but the only thing I want to do is take you away from here.” I look up at him through my lashes, biting my lip slightly, and watch as his eyes darken. “Damn it.” “I’m sorry. Maybe I should move away…”

His hand grips my waist. “Not necessary. I’ll have it under control in a minute.” I take a sip, the champagne cool against my parched tongue. “This is going to complicate things further, you know.” “You and me?” Hearing him say it gives me goose bumps. “Yes.” “Life is complicated,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Trust me, Faye.” And the crazy thing is… I do. “Now, come on. Let’s try to do what we came here for before I go completely mad.” He bends down to my ear again. “Did I tell you that you look stunning?” I smile. “Yes. But I’m not sure I believed you the first time.” “Well, I’ll just have to say it again. And again. And again…” I laugh, my head spinning happily. “I’d tell you to stop, but I don’t want you to.” He grins. “Then I won’t.” We spend the rest of the reception mingling. It’s like the Founders’ Gala all over again, only this time, we don’t leave each other’s side. Henry’s hand is on the small of my back, or at my elbow, grasping my hand, touching at all times. I’m no better. I lean into him when we listen to the violinist play, and I thread my fingers through his as we su er through anecdote after polite cocktail party anecdote. “It’s time for dinner soon,” he says. “We’re seated at the same table, but I’m not sure if we’re next to each other.” “I can handle it.” He looks pained, and I laugh. “Can you?” “I’m not sure. I might have to rearrange the seating chart.”

“Henry, no,” I laugh, and he bends to kiss me again, without regard for anyone who’s watching. “Fine. I’ll grin and bear it, I suppose.” The dinner is gorgeous. Hayden and Lily return, both flushed, having taken their wedding pictures. I’m seated at the family table, with Rhys to my right and Jamie to my left. Oddly enough for someone who’s a plus-one, I feel completely at home. “Thanks for the breakfast this morning,” Rhys tells me. “It was an impressive spread.” “Oh, you’re welcome. It was nothing.” “No, it was e ort. Plus,” he adds, eyebrows drawing closer together, “Henry would kick my ass if I didn’t give you your dues.” I laugh. “I doubt that.” “I don’t.” “Did you fight a lot growing up?” “No. Well, yes. But not terribly. Parker and Lily, though, they liked to get into it.” “Really?” I look over at where Parker is sitting, looking like an angelic Abercrombie model, with his sun-bleached hair and square jaw. “Oh yes. Close in age and both too stubborn for their own good.” I think of Henry’s determination, and the fire in Rhys’s eyes. “I’d say you’re all stubborn.” His lips twitch. “Yes, I suppose we are. It’s a family vice.” “And a strength.” He raises his glass to mine. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but the way you stood up to Dad the other night at dinner was legendary. You’ll be written about in the history books, immortalized in statues, saved forever for posterity.” I laugh again. “I was afraid I’d be convicted as a war criminal. Does your dad hate me?”

“Hate you? He loves nothing more than someone who can stand up to him, if that someone isn’t related to him. No, don’t worry about that. And he knows that he’d lose Henry if he ever said a bad word to you about it.” I look at Henry, sitting further up the table. He looks over, as if sensing my gaze, and smiles. You okay? he mouths. I wink at him, and his smile grows impossibly wider. He only looks away when he has to—drawn into conversation on his end. “See?” Rhys says at my side. “No, you have nothing to fear from our father. Henry’s approval is all that matters.” “He seems di cult, though, or so Henry has told me. Did you also have it out with him growing up?” It’s meant as an innocent question, but Rhys’s face shutters. “Yes,” he says. “You could say that.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” “No, I know you didn’t.” I frown, realizing I know nearly nothing about him. I know about Lily’s art gallery and Parker’s business. But Rhys? What does he do? I open my mouth to apologize again when someone clinks their spoon to a wineglass. This time it’s Jamie, her maid of honor, and I watch in amazement as Lily cries during her speech. It’s a funny one, too. “I think she’ll cry seven times tonight,” Rhys tells me in an aside. “Henry wagered ﬁve, but I know her best.” I smile. As an only child, their dynamic is marvelous to observe. “Where do I place my bets?” “You’d bet against Henry?” “Of course. He always needs to be knocked down a peg.” Rhys laughs, and I notice several of his family members turn their heads to observe it. The grin he gives me is a bit wild. “Never leave my brother, please. You make family events so much more amusing.”

I can only smile in response to that. We’re halfway through dinner when Henry pushes back his chair. The music hushes as he raises his glass, the picture of male elegance in his tux and thick hair. “I think we can all agree that today has been a magical day,” he says, voices quieting down to listen. “Unfortunately, that will probably end now, because my brothers and I will attempt something that we’ve failed at many times before. Cooperation.” Scattered laughter rings around the room, and I lean back in my chair, watching Henry perform. He looks down at Lily. “Lily, we all love you so much. I just hope you feel the same about us after we’ve butchered our speech.” More laughter, and Lily’s eyes glitter as she watches Parker stand as well. To my left, Rhys pushes back his chair. “We have known you your whole life, Lily. While I’ll admit that not all of us started out thrilled about the idea of having another sibling,” Henry glances meaningfully at Parker, who makes a show of looking contrite, “you quickly completed our family. You kept Parker on his toes and made Rhys experience emotion for the first time. For my sake, I was happy to finally have a student on the sailing boat who actually listened when I gave instructions.” Lily laughs again, looking up at Henry, and in that moment my heart feels like it’s welling over for him. Parker clears his throat. “For those of you who don’t know—though I can’t imagine that’s anyone here—Lily is very stubborn. It’s amazing that we made it out of the War of the Chores unscathed.” He regales the crowd with a story about their childhood that makes everyone laugh, about dog walking and bitter sibling rivalry. Rhys’s voice is cold when he starts. “We’ve known Lily all of her life, but oddly enough we’ve also known Hayden for most of his. I’ll be the first to admit that we had our doubts

at times. Being good enough for our little sister isn’t an easy task. I didn’t take it well when I found out.” He raises his glass to Hayden, and then to Lily. “I’d apologize for that, but I’m not actually sorry.” Parker shakes his head. “But he’s happy now. Aren’t you, Rhys?” The middle brother makes an elegant half-bow toward the bride and groom. “Ecstatic. It’s an odd thing to see two people you know so well getting married. Hayden, there is no one I’d rather see my sister with. Being your groomsman today was an honor,” he says, sincerity ringing in his voice. Then he clears his throat. “Also, Lily would have killed me if I said no.” Good-natured laughter erupts from the guests again, and I watch as Hayden ducks his head. Henry is smiling broadly, catching my eye. This time, he’s the one who winks. “Joining this family can be daunting. We’re a complicated, stubborn, cantankerous bunch, every last one of us.” He glances down at Hayden, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Thankfully, that means Hayden ﬁt right in.” Henry pauses for the laughter, Hayden and Lily’s included. From the way they’re both looking up at him… he’s playing his role so well. Responsible older brother and entertainer. Welcoming and teasing at the same time. By the time the three of them are ﬁnished, they’ve practically brought down the house. I join in on the thunderous applause and watch as they take turns kissing Lily on the cheek. Henry bends to whisper something in Hayden’s ear, and the younger man nods in thanks, his eyes wide and sincere. Curiosity is burning inside me. When dinner is over, sta clear away the tables and the music changes gear, drifting away from soft and romantic to

upbeat. Henry finds me, his body strong and sure behind me, as we watch Hayden and Lily’s first dance. “You were magnificent,” I tell him quietly. “The speech was fantastic.” “Thanks,” he says, gently running his hands up my bare arms. I’m glad we’re in the shadows and everyone’s attention is locked on the newlyweds. “You practiced it this morning?” He presses a soft kiss to my temple. “Yes.” “All this public display of a ection…” “You object?” “Not at all.” I lean against his body and shiver when his arms close around my waist. “Will you dance with me later?” His arms tighten around my waist. “All night, if you’ll have me.” “I will.”

FAYE

Henry is a good dancer. He leads e ortlessly, and we spin, each brush of his hand on my waist reminding me of his words earlier. Of what happened last night. His eyes, darkening with each song, speak of the same emotion. The fire between us burns. “This is nice,” I murmur, swaying against him. We’re pressed together so close it’s almost indecent. He bends down to whisper in my ear. “Nice?” “Yes,” I say, smiling at his outrage, “although I can think of something I’d rather do.” Henry stills, his eyes closed, an almost pained expression on his face. “Damn it, Faye.” I thread my fingers through his and pull him away from the dance floor. I’d been aiming for the bar, but his strides lengthen until he’s the one leading me. We’re heading for the door. “We’re leaving?” “Yes,” he says. “Or do you want to stay?” The urgency in his eyes makes something inside me knot darkly, my hand burning in his grip. “Absolutely not.” It’s a short walk to Lily’s cottage from the chapel, the tension between us rising with each step. “What we spoke

about earlier…” He releases my hand only long enough to unlock the front door. “About the point system being outdated?” “Yes. And about you wanting me.” “Very much.” “And how it would complicate things…” “We can uncomplicate them.” I wind my hands around his neck and pull his head down to mine. There’s the faintest, sweetest pause before he touches his lips to mine, when anticipation hangs in the air. And then he’s kissing me like he’s never done anything else, like we walk home hand in hand all the time, like our bodies already know each other intimately. His hands flatten on my back and pull me tight against his body, until I feel the hardness of his thighs against mine and the planes of his chest against my breasts. “This dress,” he murmurs, lips against my neck, “has been haunting me all day.” “This? It’s modest!” “Anything on you looks indecent.” “Are we really doing this?” I pull back, our gazes meeting. Fire against fire, flame against flame. “I don’t want to be someone who sleeps with her boss.” His hands flex around my waist. “I don’t want to be someone who sleeps with his assistant,” he says softly. “But I do want to sleep with you, very much.” And it’s the look in his eyes that undoes me—the look that says he’ll make it worth my while, that there are pleasures untold waiting for me. That this is the start of something—not the end. I wrap my arms around his neck and find it hard to think about anything but his lips against mine. “I’ll send out new CVs on Monday. We’ll figure it out,” I say in between kisses.

“I’ll look for placements in other ﬁrms,” he says. “Make a few calls.” “God, you taste good.” He grins against my lips and tugs at my zipper. I shimmy out of my dress, standing there in only my underwear. His hands immediately replace the dress—they run along my sides, my back, searing my skin with his touch. The look in his eyes is nearly feverish. “Fuck, Faye…” I kiss him, needing to be closer still, and tug at his bowtie. Henry is just as eager as me and we make a good team as we work on the buttons of his shirt. He slides it o and I’m ﬁnally running my hands over those wide shoulders. The trail of hair that disappears into his pants makes my mouth dry. “So hot,” I breathe, unable to stop myself, and he laughs. “At your service.” He grips my thighs and then I’m lifted up, like I weigh nothing at all, my legs wrapping around his waist of their own accord. Henry’s arousal is thick through his pants. I grind, and he groans in response. “You’re too much.” I’m placed on a hard surface. The dining-room table? A kitchen counter? I’m too far gone to notice. Strong hands yank on the cups of my bra, the fragile lace giving way. His gaze devours me whole—there’s no shyness when he’s staring at me like that. Like we’ve been waiting forever for this. In a way, we have. He ducks his head and takes one of my nipples in his mouth. I slide my hand into his hair, holding on as waves of arousal roll through me. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, releasing my nipple long enough to switch to the other. His spare hand skates across my hip and lands between my legs, already spread for him. Thank God I chose the matching set of lingerie, I think, and then I don’t think at all,

because he’s touching me through the fabric and my head falls back in pleasure. He bites my nipple gently. “You’re already wet,” he says. “You’re so ready for me, aren’t you?” And God help me, I didn’t know that dirty talk was my kind of thing, but hearing him say those things… It sends fresh need pounding through me. “Yes. I need you.” He tugs at my panties and glances downwards. “I didn’t get a chance to see you last night.” And then he does the unthinkable—he sinks to his knees before me and puts my legs across his shoulders. “Henry…” But he doesn’t hesitate. He just tugs my panties further to the side and looks up at me, his green eyes nearly black with desire. “So beautiful,” he says. “All of you.” He leans forward, his tongue searingly hot against my skin. My ﬁngers thread through his hair again and I lose myself entirely, to his skill, his tongue, to the forbidden connection between us. It’s the hottest moment of my life. He reaches up and pinches my nipple with one hand, while the other teases along with his mouth. He slips a ﬁnger inside me, my body clenched around him. He curses against my clit. “Fucking hell, Faye.” “Don’t stop.” The warm exhale of his laugh against my exposed skin makes me shiver, and then he’s right back there, and I explode. It’s not gentle or pretty. It’s strong, starting from deep inside me, spreading through my body. Henry keeps his mouth on me the entire time, never letting me go, and when my orgasm is over, he looks up at me with an unmistakably masculine glint in his eyes.

“Now that’s a point game I’d play with you,” he says. “How many times can we make Faye come? I’d win, sweetheart.” “I want my shot at scoring too.” I grip his shoulders and pull him to standing. He’s rock hard, groaning when I reach down and touch him through the fabric. Henry grunts. “You have me so on edge, you’d score just like that, if you’d just keep going.” I a ect him just as much as he a ects me, and I want to enjoy every tantalizing moment of this, reveling in my newfound power. I grip his belt loops and tug him toward the master bedroom. “We can’t have that, can we? I haven’t seen you.” He scans my eyes, my lips, my breasts, still half-exposed. With a skilled hand, he reaches around and undoes the clasp of my bra. I toss it aside. Henry curses again, and I smile, both in pleasure and in pride. I know I have curves. So many times in life they’ve been more of a hindrance than a blessing—maturing fast in school, being catcalled on the street, male employers only seeing a butt and boobs rather than an intelligent woman. But here with Henry, my body is a joy to us both, and I want to share it with him. To enjoy him just the same. “You’re so fucking unreal,” he says. I laugh and close the bedroom door behind us. “Who would’ve thought that Henry Marchand liked to talk filthy?” “Filthy? Oh, if you think that’s dirty...” He pulls me close and tells me in excruciating detail what he likes about me, all the while running a finger along my soaked panties, igniting the fire below again. His words make my cheeks flame. Sweet, perfect pussy, he murmurs. Fuckable lips. Hips I want to grab a hold of. Legs that were made to be wrapped around me. He leans back and grins, seeing the flush on my cheeks. “Dirty enough for you?”

My response is to reach for his belt. He helps me unbuckle it, pushing down his pants, and my mouth goes dry at the bulge. I stroke him through his boxers, and he groans, resting his forehead against mine. “Do you see how hard you make me?” “Yes,” I say, and because I want to see if my words a ect him as much as his a ect me, I add a little something. “I can’t wait to feel you inside me.” “Fuck.” I push him on the bed and climb on top, pulling down the elastic of his boxers. “You didn’t think you were the only one with power here?” “No,” he says. “I’ve always known you were the one actually in charge.” I take him in my hand, hot and throbbing, and start to stroke. He groans in response, throbbing in my hand. “You have no idea how good that feels.” I think of his mouth on me in the kitchen, the earthshattering orgasm he gave me, and how I’m on fire when he touches me. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” I say, and bend down to wrap my lips around him. His groan of pleasure feels like victory. I keep going, working up a rhythm, enjoying the taste of him. With Aiden, this was simply expected of me. With Henry, I want it. I want to be the one who brings him to the brink. His hand slides through my hair. I twirl my tongue around the tip and he curses again. “I can’t, Faye. You have to stop. I’ve wanted you for too long, and it’ll be over too fast.” I kiss my way up his stomach. “It’s not fair if the rules of the new game mean I have to stop before the finish line.” He laughs and flips me over, kissing down my neck. “Life’s not fair,” he says. His arousal twitches against my stomach, trapped between our bodies. “Faye...”

“Yeah?” His arms are braced on either side of my head. “I can’t have you regret this afterward. Faye, I need to know...” I understand. I run my hands up his arms, over the strong muscles of his back, into the thickness of his hair. “I won’t regret this. I promise.” He sits back and grabs my panties. I lift my hips and he slides them o . Keeping a hold of my ankles, he places them on his shoulders. My breath is coming fast. “So fucking beautiful,” he says again. I raise myself up on my elbows and watch as his gaze travels from my eyes to my lips, to my breasts, to my stomach and the spot between my legs. And then he pushes inside of me. Inch after inch disappears, my body taking him fully, before he wraps his hands around my thighs and pulls out again. He sets a slow, deliberate tempo, the strength of his body overpowering. “You feel so good,” he growls. “Too good.” Words have escaped me. I nod, my own pleasure rising with each of his thrusts. I’m so deliciously, deliciously full. As he watches, I pinch my nipples and cup my own breasts. He groans in response. “Touch yourself.” Obediently, my hand trails down between my legs. Circling my clit is dangerous—my body is already close, has been since his mouth was on me in the kitchen. It doesn’t take much e ort to bring me right back to the brink, not while he’s inside me. There’s not much thought involved. For weeks, I’ve imagined this, his body on mine. His body in mine. Henry speeds up, reaching deeper and faster, hands gripping my thighs hard. We’re both losing ourselves to this, the control in his eyes evaporating with each thrust. Yes, I want to say. I want you as undone as I am.

My hand circles my clit faster. If this is a race, it’s a race we’ll both win. “Yes,” he tells me, eyes blazing darkly. “Again.” Pleasure rackets through my body at the permission, something I never knew turned me on before. If my orgasm in the kitchen before was good, it’s mind-blowing now, with him inside me at the same time. Through the fog of my own pleasure, I hear Henry groan, his hips bucking sharply against me. His heavy breathing mirrors my own. For a few beautiful seconds, we just stare at each other, neither of us moving. Then he smiles, gently lowering my weak legs from his shoulders, and bends to kiss me. I thread my ﬁngers through his hair and kiss him back, our bodies still connected, skin slick with heat. “That was amazing.” He smiles against my lips. “Amazing? That’s mild praise. I know you know a lot of good words. Try another.” I wrap my legs around him, locking him in place. “Extraordinary. Phenomenal. Marvelous. How e usive do you want me to be?” “That’ll do,” he says, pressing a kiss to my neck. I want to stay here forever, in this bed, this town, where we’re just us. Just Henry and Faye, exploring this thing between us. No expectations, no titles. No o ce to return to. I told Henry I wouldn’t regret this, and I meant it. What I have with him… it’s not something I’m willing to give up easily. We’re going to solve the inconvenient puzzle of being assistant and boss. I’ll quit or transfer somehow. This thing between us is stronger than that—Henry is stronger than that, and so am I. But in the back of my mind, a niggling doubt creeps in, impossible to stop. I have more on the line than he does, and

at the moment, I’m not his girlfriend, and I’m not an architect. I’m just a woman who’s slept with her boss.

HENRY

Faye and I wake up late the next morning, and this time, she doesn’t get up before me. Her body is warm against mine, her hair draped like black silk across the pillow. Sleepy eyes meet mine. “Hey,” she whispers. “Hey.” I curl my hand around her waist. A smile is playing on her lips, and I smile back, until both of us are grinning for no apparent reason. “Wow,” she says. “Wow, indeed.” She buries her face against my chest, her lips pressed to my skin. “I can’t believe we did that.” I pull her closer, ﬁtting her against my body. Her skin is like satin. “No regrets?” “No, none. Just surprise.” “And satisfaction, I hope.” Her smile turns crooked. “Yes, there’s that.” I tip her head back and run a ﬁnger over her full lips. Just woken up, with her hair messy and her eyes dazed, she’s almost too beautiful to handle. “I’m going to tell you something,” I say. “What is it?” “It’s serious. Are you ready?”

Her eyes narrow. “Henry…” “You already know I think you’re stunning, but it’s worse than that. You’re quite literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She laughs. “Asshole! You made me think it was actually serious.” I smile at her laughter and bend to break it o with a kiss. Heat travels through me at the soft touch. “You’ve told me how your looks mean people don’t take you seriously, though,” I say. “I’ve resisted commenting on them.” Her smile deepens, her eyes glittering. “You take me seriously, so you’re allowed to compliment me.” “I might abuse that privilege.” She chuckles. “Flatterer.” I flip over on my back and pull her atop me, her head resting on my chest. It makes it easy to reach out and run a hand over her hair and the soft skin of her neck. “Will you tell me about it?” Faye takes a deep breath and nods, settling in. When she finally speaks, I listen, as she tells me all about the little insulting compliments given at Elliot Ferris’s o ce. About the colleague at her internship who refused to accept that she didn’t want to go out with him. About an architecture professor who regularly made pointed jokes in class after she spoke, saying things like apparently everyone can become an architect these days, even the pretty faces. When investors took a coworker’s portion of the pitch more seriously than hers. Practically every anecdote makes me angry, and Faye can tell, because she laughingly runs a finger over the furrow in my brow. “This isn’t supposed to bring us down.” “It’s not bringing me down. It’s infuriating.” “Yes, well, it’s in the past.” She rises up on her elbows, cocking her head. “How about you?” “Me?”

“Yeah. You’re very hot.” I blink in surprise. “Hot?” She bursts into laughter, and it rains down around me. “Your expression is priceless. Yes, you’re hot. Handsome. You look good, you know.” “I get by,” I say. “If you merely get by, I’d hate to imagine how other men feel.” I sit up in bed, pulling her up with me. “All right, time to change the subject.” “Wow, you really can’t take a compliment,” she says, the smile on her face wide. “We’re going to have to work on that.” “Mhm. Shower first, though.” The en suite bathroom is large, the shower doubly so, and it’s an easy fit for the both of us. It doesn’t take long until showering is the last thing on my mind—not when Faye’s hands, slippery with soap, slide over my skin. She wraps them around me, already painfully hard, and I have to brace myself against the shower wall. “Whoops,” she says, her beautiful eyes glittering with desire. “Whoops?” I run my hands down the silken skin of her arms, down her back, cupping her breasts. “You know where this is going to end.” Her laughter is cut short by my kiss. It’s one of the longest, least e cient showers of my life. It’s also one of the best. It’s midday when I finally crack open my laptop in the living room. Work has been the last thing on my mind this weekend, but for once, there’s no stress involved with that thought. Faye heads to the sofa next to me, but I grab her instead, pulling her into my lap. She’s a delicious weight against me. “Henry!”

“What?” “We can’t work like this.” “Why not?” I reach for my laptop and prop it on her lap, my arms reaching around her waist to tap away at the keyboard. “It works. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” “Mhm. And how will I get anything done?” She leans back, her head nestled below the crook of my neck. “You’ll help instruct me. We’re almost done with this.” The opera house is complete, and with her changes, it now has a balance and symmetry it lacked before. Faye’s fingers trail down my arm. “What will happen tomorrow?” Tomorrow, Monday. Another day at the o ce. It feels like an age has passed since the last time we were at work. “We’ll figure it out,” I say. “You know we will.” She relaxes against me, but the hand playing with my arm is restless. “How about this—you set some ground rules. You like those.” There’s a smile in her voice. “No kissing in the o ce.” “Sounds good. I’ll agree to anything you want.” “I don’t want anyone to find out about us, obviously. That would be… catastrophic.” I breathe in the scent of her freshly washed hair, her warm skin, and nod. She’s right. Both our reputations would be tarnished if it got out, but it wouldn’t be equally, as unfair as that is. “We’ll keep it a secret. Don’t worry.” “And…. I can’t work with you anymore. Long-term, I mean.” She twists to face me, her hand cupping my cheek. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I actually think we work great together.” “Me too.”

“But I just… it would complicate things too much. And I couldn’t spend my days afraid that someone would find out, and in a blink, I’d lose everything. That’s just not a longterm solution.” “I agree,” I say, because I do—whole-heartedly. It’s a problem I’ve already begun trying to solve. “We’ll find you another position.” “We? I think I need to do this on my own.” “I’ll help you, of course. I’m the reason you can’t stay at Marchand & Rykers, am I not?” She cocks her head. “Well, technically, yes.” “Then, technically, I should help. You have excellent credentials, a solid background, and tons of raw talent. You’ll find a place that you want, don’t worry about that.” Faye smiles, but the expression dies as she glances down at my watch. “Oh, we really need to get going. It’s a long drive back.” I tip her head back to meet mine. “We will. Just promise me you won’t worry. We’ll solve this.” She kisses me, sweet and soft. “I won’t.” I reluctantly release my hold and watch as she heads to the bedroom. This morning had been unreal. The sex, both yesterday and today, was some of the best of my life. We’d packed up our things and eaten breakfast together. It feels easy. It feels right. And I’ll be damned if something as stupid as work comes between us. We stop by my parents’ house for a final goodbye before we hit the road. My mother, still in her bathrobe, is practically glowing with happiness. “Yesterday was marvelous, don’t you think?” Faye nods. “A stunning wedding, Mrs. Marchand.” “Oh Faye, thank you for coming this weekend. It’s lovely to finally see Henry with someone, and I couldn’t imagine

anyone better.” I cringe inwardly at the way that makes me sound, but Faye’s the picture of grace. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Marchand. And please give my thanks to Lily, when you see her after her honeymoon.” “I will, dear.” Turning to me, Mom makes me bend so she can press a kiss to my check. “Prends soin d’elle, Henri,” she whispers. Take care of her. “I will.” Faye waves one last time as we leave the giant house behind, the ocean receding in the rearview mirror, Paradise Shores becoming a memory once more. The drive is silent, the quiet between us getting heavier with each mile of road that carries us closer to New York. I glance over at Faye. She’s been worrying her bottom lip, practically nonstop. “Thank you for coming this weekend,” I say. “It was great to have you there.” “I enjoyed myself. More than I thought I would. Your family, Henry… they’re so great.” “They really liked you. All of them, which is an accomplishment.” I shake my head. “You managed to win over both my father and Rhys, too.” She sco s. “Well, I didn’t exactly speak to your dad again after the little outburst. He might still hate me.” “He doesn’t,” I say. “He told me that before the wedding.” “He did?” I nod, weighing my words. “He said you were brave.” He’d also told me to put a ring on her ﬁnger as soon as possible. “Wow,” she says. “Maybe I should start arguments with more people. Seems like a winning strategy for me.”

I reach over and put a hand on her knee. “It certainly worked on me. Your application letter was one hell of an introduction.” She puts a hand on mine. “What your mom said… is that the reason I was here, beyond moral support and work? Because your family really wants to see you with someone?” Damn. I should’ve seen that one coming. “I’m not going to lie,” I say. “When I first asked you, that was my thinking. Combined with the fact that we would be able to get work done, it seemed like a perfectly legitimate reason.” I shake my head at myself. “But it was all justifications, really. I wanted you here with me. Spending time with you is the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. My mother’s opinion, the wedding, work… it was all justifications for my own, selfish desires. I’m sorry for that, though.” She threads her fingers through mine. “You’re forgiven,” she says. “I’ll admit that I’m not exactly innocent either… Even before we had the negotiation, I’d decided to join.” “Really?” “Yes. The contract, my requirements… It was to prove to myself that I wasn’t a pushover. That I had dignity. But in reality, I wouldn’t have said no. How could I? I’ve never been able to say no to you.” I grip her hand tighter. “We’re on the exact same page there, Faye.”

FAYE

On Monday morning, I wake up to my alarm, a window full of sunshine, and a good morning text. Henry Marchand: Looking forward to our Monday meeting today. Wear the red dress? I smile at the phone. My good mood lasts all the way through my shower, my breakfast, to my conversation with my sad little palm tree. “Cheer up,” I tell him. “Life is good.” And when I walk into the o ce later—in my red dress— it’s with renewed conﬁdence. I might not know how Henry and I will solve our professional problem, but I have a job I enjoy, a purpose, and a man I really like. I open my laptop and get started on today’s work. The coming week is packed, but then again, so are most weeks here. As I sort through Henry’s calendar, my mind is already racing ahead, thinking about the di erent ﬁrms I could apply for. Only working for Marchand & Rykers for a few weeks won’t exactly look good, but at least I’ll get a good reference. What can I say as the reason for leaving? Creative di erences? An email lands in my inbox from Terri Richards. The headline makes me pause.

Terri Richards: I think you should check the break room. I’m sorry, Faye. That’s all it says. It’s with nerves in my stomach that I walk down the long hallway and into the open landscape. The atmosphere is normally competitive, but today it feels downright tense. Ben from accounting gives me a little smile, but he’s the only one. Terri is sitting in the break room with a stack of papers in front of her. “It has to be Kyle,” she tells me. “I’m sorry, Faye.” With shaking hands, I grab one of the papers, and the world drops out from beneath my feet. It’s a picture of Henry and me from the wedding. We’re dancing, and he has his lips against my temple. My hands are around his neck. It’s clearly been enlarged—we’re in the background of someone’s photo—but there we are, in all our pixelated glory. Below is an attached copy of my application letter. My eyes burn as I scan through the familiar drunken words. You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. And below it all is a single sentence in all caps. WHY DO YOU THINK SHE WAS HIRED? I sink into the seat opposite Terri and drop my head in my hands. I swallow, and swallow again, to keep tears at bay. Everything we’ve done this weekend suddenly feels cheap when exposed under these ﬂuorescent o ce lights. My dress that I’d so painstakingly picked out in that washed-out picture, his hands resting just slightly too low on my back. It looks bad. The whole thing looks just as bad—no, worse— than I ever feared. “I’m over,” I say. Terri’s eyes are sympathetic, her bob as perfectly cool as always. “I’m not one for kind lies. It is bad. I don’t know who

he’s circulated these to outside the o ce, but I think it’s time for damage control.” “Everyone’s seen this?” She gives a polite nod. “In the o ce? Yes, I think so.” She looks down at her nails, and her voice hardens. “Kyle hasn’t come in today. I bet that if we spoke to HR, we’d find his resignation letter.” “This is so… petty. It’s revenge. And all because I took his spot when we pitched?” “Yes, but it’s got to be more than that. He was an asshole every single day in this o ce, and he never felt he got the recognition he deserved. I think you got caught in the crossfires. And… I think he’s mad at Marchand. He idolized the man.” Oh, Henry. He doesn’t know about this yet. He can’t, or he would have been at my desk immediately. “I’m sorry, Faye. But I have to ask… is it true?” What point is there in trying to hide now? I look down at the picture of us, at the clear happiness on my face, and feel nauseous. “Yes. That’s not what he hired me for… but have we gotten closer? Yes. God, I’ve been such a fool.” She reaches out and puts a cool hand on mine. To both of our surprise, I grip it tight. We sit there for a long while, the two of us, both of us the picture of hard-working, professional o ce women, with blow-dried hair and fitted blazers. There’s no competitive atmosphere in the break room at the moment. “It happens,” she says softly, her ice-blonde hair an elegant sweep along her neck. “I don’t know you very well. I won’t pretend to. But you were excellent in here. For what it’s worth, I really enjoyed working with you, and I’d be happy to work with you again—as an architect.” “I enjoyed working with you too.”

She pats my hand gently and lets me go. “Now, how are you going to get him back?” “Kyle?” “Yes, and Marchand. I like the man well enough, but he should not have gotten involved with his assistant. You would’ve thought the man had learned that lesson by now.” “What?” Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… but you should know now. His previous assistant was nice. Sara. A little shy, from out of town. Good at her job, by all accounts. But she got far too involved. I don’t know what happened between them, but she was very clearly in love with the man. In the end, she quit.” Something like ice settles in my stomach. I had asked why my perfect predecessor had been ﬁred, but every time I’d gotten non-answers. My application letter, there on the table in front of us, glares at me with its awfulness. He told me I impressed him in the interview. But how could I know it wasn’t because of my looks? “Can I sue Kyle? For slander?” Terri cocks her head. “Maybe. You’d have to talk to a lawyer about that.” “My application letter. How did he get it? Did Melissa give it to him?” “I know he has a background in computer engineering, before switching to architecture. If he wanted to access the ﬁle… maybe he could. But it seems unlikely.” I gather up all the papers on the table. As she watches, I tear down the ones stuck to the fridge, to the cabinets, and toss them all in the bin. “Thanks for telling me.” She nods. “You would do the same for me.”

And she’s right. I would. No one should have to go through this, even if it’s their own mistakes being thrown at them. My path forward suddenly seems crystal clear. “What are you going to do?” I look down at the one paper I spared, my proof copy. “The only thing I can,” I say. “Damage control.”

Henry’s eyes soften when I enter his o ce, over an hour early for our Monday meeting. “Hey.” But then my expression registers. “Faye?” I make sure to shut the door behind me and thank whoever designed this building that his o ce is an entire corridor away from the open landscape, currently filled to the brim with judgement. I put the paper down in front of him. Henry grows still as he looks it over, an angry flush creeping up his neck. “So that’s why Kyle resigned this morning.” “That’s what Terri thinks.” “The fucking asshole. I should have fired him a long time ago.” The paper crumples in his hand, knuckles white. “I’m assuming everyone has seen this.” “Yes.” He looks up at me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Faye.” No. No, no, no. I can’t stand the sympathy in his eyes, the apology, the acknowledgment that we did something wrong. I pace in front of his desk. “I’m ruined. Again.” “Not at all. Faye, you’ve done nothing wrong.” “Will anyone believe that? Think about the way it looks to everyone else! It looks like you pulled Kyle from the project for my benefit, and that I’ve been sleeping my way to the top!”

Henry is standing now, reaching out to me, but I don’t want to be touched. I throw my hands up. “This job was a godsend, and I mess it up not two months in.” “You haven’t.” “Really? Isn’t everything Kyle said true?” Henry pauses, eyes hardening. “Nothing Kyle is insinuating is true.” “Really?” “No. I didn’t give you the job because I was interested in you. I didn’t pull Kyle from the project for you. And I never wanted our personal relationship to a ect our professional one. You have to believe me, Faye.” I look at him, my insides at war, fear and hope and humiliation taking up arms. I said I’d never regret what we did, but right now, I can’t think of anything beyond the destruction it’s wrought. “I really want to believe that.” His mouth hardens. “I’ll fix this. I don’t want you to worry.” “There is no fixing it. You don’t think word will spread? My career is over, and it’s my own fault.” I put my head in my hands and fight the urge to cry for the second time of the day. I need to get my head in the game, to figure out a game plan, but I can’t stop feeling nauseous with embarrassment. “This should never have happened. How could I be so stupid?” I’d applied to all the big firms in New York months ago, after Elliot Ferris. They hadn’t wanted to touch me with a ten-foot pole, and then I’d only lacked a reference letter and been tainted by Elliot’s tentacle-like influence. This time, I look like a woman who uses her body to get ahead careerwise. I’ll never be hired again. A warm hand lands on my shoulder, like he’s afraid I’ll shake him o . I don’t.

“It’s not all over,” he says, and his voice is vibrating with emotion. If I’m despairing, Henry is furious. It rolls o him in waves. “It might feel that way now, but it’s not. And Kyle won’t get away with this. Not in a million years.” “Can I sue for slander?” “Potentially. I’ll look into it.” Right, I thought. Henry’s name is being dragged through the mud as well. Both of us come out of this looking bad, and the unnamed thing between us looks crude in the harsh light of day. I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. His hand drops as I stand, smoothing down the wrinkles in my skirt. "Why did your previous assistant quit?” “Why do you ask?” Something inside me sinks at the question, at the wariness in his eyes. “Someone just told me that she was in love with you. Did the same thing happen earlier?” He rubs his neck. “No, Faye, it wasn’t similar at all.” “Right.” I take a step back, unable to handle this discussion any longer, unwilling to hear whatever damning thing he’ll say next. My chest feels painfully tight. “Well, we didn’t exactly come out of this looking good, did we?” “We will,” he says, with far more conviction than I feel. He’s already back at his desk, shoulders wide with tension and purpose, picking up his phone. “I’ll make this disappear. Don’t worry, Faye.” I take a few steps toward the door and watch him in action. Thick hair and a strong jaw. In the corner, the model of his opera house is resting, covered by the sheet. I’d been naive enough to hope I could have it both—my dream job and the man of my dreams. I should have known that was too good to be true.

HENRY

I adopt my most friendly of tones. “Of course, and I wouldn’t ask you to. But I felt it was my obligation to let you know the reasons behind his dismissal.” “And I appreciate that,” John Keys says, one of the architects on Elliot Ferris’s team. “We o ered Kyle a contract just a few days ago. In light of your allegations, we might re-assess that.” “Do whatever you feel prudent,” I say. “I just know that on my end, slander and misuse of personal ﬁles is a serious o ense. I’d call Mr. Ferris directly, but I’m sure you’ve heard…” I trail o , hoping he’ll catch on. The feud between my dad and Elliot is well-known and has never been easy for me to navigate. “Ah, yes. I understand. And slander is a big deal for us too. Thank you for calling, Henry.” “Anytime, John.” In truth, I hadn’t spoken much to him after architecture school—and even less after he started working for Elliot. John pauses delicately on the line. “Now that I have you on… How about golf one weekend? It’s been a long time since we played.”

I resist the urge to snort. We hadn’t played together since we were seniors. “Absolutely,” I say. “Shoot me an email and we’ll set up a time.” I stare at my phone for a long time after we hang up. So Kyle had gotten a job at Elliot Ferris’s firm, the snake, which was why he felt confident enough to pull this kind of stunt. I have little doubt he was o ered the contract on Elliot’s instructions, specifically to score a point against us. But if my call can turn even one of the architects at Kyle’s new job against him, it’ll be worth it. Kyle Renner, snake extraordinaire, would never get a recommendation from us—instead, he would get a warning, a call to every future employer. There was no cocktail party I’d go to now where I wouldn’t mention his name. Asshole. I rub my temples against a headache, and the image of Faye in my o ce reappears, as she has so often over the past couple of hours. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake, she had said. Fuck. This weekend had been one of the best of my life, and everything was—for once—perfectly on track. And then this happens. What had we said, just yesterday? That we wouldn’t let work get in the way? We might as well have jinxed it. I force my hand to relax from its death grip on my armrest. One part of me wants to find Kyle Renner—I have his home address at my fingertips—and kick him senseless for hurting Faye like this. Another part of me wants to kick myself instead, for moving too fast. She’d promised she wouldn’t have any regrets, but that was exactly what had been on her face this morning. You have to believe me. And her response, broken and hurtful. I really want to. We’d barely spoken since then, her at her desk and me at mine. Every feet of distance between us felt heavy.

I send an email to Melissa in recruiting and ask her to come by my o ce this afternoon. The question of how Faye’s application got into Kyle’s hands is still unanswered. I want to order her to my o ce right away—I want to hold people accountable for this—but the anticipation will make it worse for her. Faye’s voice comes through the intercom. “Rykers is here for you.” I want to groan. The last thing I can stand at the moment is a dressing down from my senior partner. “Send her in.” Rykers saunters in with a wry smile, obviously aware of the situation. “I know,” I say preemptively. “It doesn’t look good.” She sinks into the chair in front of me. “No, it doesn’t.” “Kyle was a snake from the start.” “He was. I think that’s why we liked him, because he would do anything to get a project done.” She sighs, running a polished nail along her chin. “But if these are his true colors, then good riddance to him.” “I couldn’t agree more.” “I won’t berate you, but we do have to talk about… it.” Her smile turns sardonic. “I’ve known you for a long time, Henry. I don’t believe this is simply a lustful slip.” I release a breath. “It’s not. It’s poor timing, and it’s been handled poorly at that, but it’s not particularly scandalous at all.” “You two like each other, then.” I give a curt nod, even though Faye’s feelings are a mystery to me. All I have are hopes. “She’s smart. I saw her pitch with Terri, you know. Quick on her feet.” “She’s a brilliant architect.” Rykers leans back, a thoughtful look on her face. “Do you know what, Henry? I think it might be time for us to split up

the firm.” Fuck. This? At the same time? I put my hands at my temples. “I understand that this could tarnish our reputation with clients and other firms, if it’s circulated widely. But I already have a slander suit filed, and—” “Oh, Henry, no. Men have been having improper relations with their assistants since women joined the workforce. It’s not palatable, but it happens. And if you two are actually serious, I doubt this will have any negative repercussions for business.” I’m floored. “Then why?” “Don’t you think it’s time? We’ve both benefitted from this. We’ve built a good name for the both of us. But I want to branch out, outside of New York. I want more creative control over the projects. We’ve reached a point where it makes sense.” I regard her, the woman who fought side by side in the trenches with me to establish this firm ten years ago. Who was brilliant at convincing investors, using financial calculations I’d drawn up overnight. We’ve had a good decade together. Both of us have independent client bases now. Her suggestion has terrible timing, but it makes sense, echoing some of my own thoughts. “You might be right.” She smiles. “It will be amicable, just like this was when we started.” “We’ll split the associates?” “We’ll solve something with HR. And—here’s the part you might or might not enjoy—Faye Alvarez handed in her resignation an hour ago.” “What?” “Don’t be angry. It’s the only reasonable thing for her to do, in this position. But I’ve o ered her a job in my own firm

after the split.” Her smile is triumphant. “See? Isn’t splitting the firm a good idea?” My hand stills. “As an architect, I hope.” “Absolutely. I know talent when I see it.” My mouth sours at the implication. “I know you’re not doing it for me, but is it wrong that I want to say thank you?” “Yes,” she says immediately, standing. “Because it’s your loss, and my win. But as one friend to another, Henry… She’s been humiliated in the worst possible way for a woman in the workplace. Let her find her footing again and regain some dignity before you push.” “Push?” She shakes her head at me. “You’re a pusher, Henry. So am I. But it’s not always a recipe for success in private relationships.” And with that she leaves, and I’m left to ponder a world that looks radically di erent than it did just a few hours ago. Faye resigned. My heart feels squeezed in my chest, pushed too far by this entire ordeal. Why didn’t she talk to me about it? When I open my o ce door, she’s right there, her beautiful features fixed in a mask of cold professionalism. I watch in disbelief as she packs up her belongings. A set of mints from the bottom drawer. A hairbrush from another. She’s ignoring me, standing just a few feet away. “You resigned?” “It’s the only way.” Her voice is infuriatingly calm. “I can’t work with these people anymore.” “Of course you can. It’ll pass.” “No, it won’t. I can’t call them into a meeting or demand they adhere to their deadlines, all the while knowing what they’re thinking.”

I put a hand on her wrist. “Let’s solve this. I’ve already —” “You’ve what? Handled Kyle? Made angry phone calls? I’ve heard, and that’s good. But it won’t fix my reputation.” I want to shake her, shake us both, into some form of understanding. But Faye’s face is the picture of distance as she shakes o my hand. “I have to do this.” “Did Rykers speak to you?” “Yes. She o ered me a job.” Faye pauses, swallowing miserably. “It’s generous. It’s what I want. I said yes on the spot.” She looks at me as if she’s daring me to protest. “I heard. That’s great, Faye. Truly.” “Yes. Yes, it is. It’s a chance to make something of myself out of all of this. A chance I don’t really feel like I deserve.” “You do. Fucking hell, Faye, you’re so talented. The opera house is twice the building it was before you joined.” It must have been the wrong thing to say, because she shuts her bag with a snap. “I’ve written an instruction sheet for my replacement and notified recruitment that we need to put up another ad for your personal assistant.” “Faye…” She pauses and looks up at me, her eyes closed o in a heartbreaking way. I want to tell her that it’s all going to blow over. That we’re still us, that I’m sorry. But all of it feels too little and too late. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “News of this won’t spread.” “You can’t promise that.” “I can. This doesn’t change anything between us, Faye.” Her hand flits over mine, fingers soft and warm against my skin. I want to pull her near, to remind her of the closeness we’d shared this weekend. O er reassurance and be reassured in kind. But her eyes shutter, and she releases my hand.

“It does,” she whispers. I watch as she walks away, cursing myself for not being better with words, for not knowing what to say, for a situation that’s somehow spun wildly out of my control. Yesterday morning, I had been happier than I’d been in years. Fate has a funny way of giving you a taste of something wonderful, only to wrench it away immediately.

Faye doesn’t answer my calls. One text comes in, two days after her resignation, asking for space. Space. Like we’ve had an argument, like we’re over. So I give her space. I fire Melissa from recruiting, who apparently gave Kyle the file after she read it herself. When she confessed to me, she admitted that she found it funny, and worth sharing, but hadn’t ever imagined that he’d use it for that. As if that was an excuse for violating confidentiality. My lawyers call daily with updates on the slander suit. Apparently, Kyle had gotten a hold of the picture of Faye and me through someone’s public Facebook account, and it was considered fair game, but the application letter and the implication he made weren’t. “We might not be able to get him on all these points in court,” my lawyer told me. “But we can make it painful for him to fight the allegations.” I’d given them a very simple response. “Make it as painful as possible.” The legal fees would be worth it—more than worth it—if it could discredit this thing. I see Faye’s face in front of me daily, the look in her eyes when she said how this made her feel, and I feel nothing but shame. She’s amazing, and

smart, and strong, and talented… proud and funny. And this job, and us together, had somehow broken that spirit. She still doesn’t answer when I call. So I give her even more space, as one week turns into two. I go to the gym in the mornings. I sit through excruciating interviews with new assistants, but none of them are Faye, and none of them could be. It’s unfair of me to compare, and despite it, I see her in all of them. It serves no one. I receive the new model for the opera house with the changes that Faye and I worked on. Curving steel, combined with thick timber. It’s gorgeous. It’s truly an abstract violin now. The shape ﬂows beautifully, a ready-to-build monument. It’s the best piece I’ve ever designed, and it’s better because of Faye. The longer I look at it, the clearer the touches she added become. The beam at the bottom. The increased stage space. Her speciﬁc ideas were never mere additions; they were fundamental. They altered it entirely, making it stronger. Some of the changes were a combined e ort. I remember when we discussed the curve on the outer beams—we had both been excited, referencing some of the early ’20s work in Manhattan as our inspiration—and sketched it out together. She’s not a junior architect on this project. She’s an executive. And that’s the way I credit her, when I submit the application. Architects: Henry Marchand and Faye Alvarez. On the third week post-Faye, I drive to Paradise Shores for the weekend. Lily and Hayden are back from their honeymoon and both Rhys and Parker are in town. The entire weekend is miserable. The Frida, which had been my family’s refuge for so long, reminds me of Faye. Staying in my sister’s spare house reminds me of Faye. Playing rummy reminds me of Faye. It’s not made better by my siblings asking about her all the damn time.

Sitting on the porch in the July sun, they’re relentless. “Why didn’t you bring her this weekend?” Parker pushes. I glare at him, but don’t answer. What is there to say? I fucked it up? My youngest brother rolls his eyes at me. “You were more fun when she was around.” Lily frowns. “Don’t mock him. He’s clearly upset about the whole situation.” “Henry doesn’t get upset. That would require feelings.” Rhys throws in his final hand. “And I win again.” I toss down my own cards, the loss souring my mood even further. She’d fit in here like a glove, by my side, giving as good as she got on every topic. Even my father—who barely spoke to me after the Chicago incident—commented on her absence. He called her that girl, but he had grunted in displeasure when I said she hadn’t joined this time. Mentally, I wondered if she ever would again, or if I’d ruined everything by going too fast. It’s late when I finally drain my whiskey and decide to go home. Parker has already gone to bed, and Rhys has long since retreated into himself, lying on his back to stargaze. Lily is watching him fondly, leaning into Hayden. They’ve been di erent since the wedding. Closer, if that’s even possible. I sigh as I watch them. Easy companionship. It wasn’t always easy for them, I know that now. Part of that was probably our fault—the entire nosy family. But now, with his arm around my sister and his eyes filled with quiet adoration, I know Lily couldn’t have chosen a better husband. And I need to get out of here, before I’m reminded even more of the woman I’d found and let slip through my fingers. For a few days, we’d had… oh, hell if I knew. Something that felt like everything.

Lily quietly extricates herself from Hayden’s arm. “I’ll follow you out,” she says, as if I don’t know the blueprint of her house, having designed the remodel. She’s unusually quiet. “Is everything all right?” “Yes. Yeah, everything’s fine. But Henry… are you fine?” Not this again. I nod. “Yeah.” “Did you two break up?” I don’t know if it’s because it’s just her and me, or the whiskey, or the late hour, but I nod. I must look as miserable as I feel, because Lily’s eyes soften. “Oh, I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. It was my fault.” “I find that very hard to believe.” Her eyes hold the same tint of hero-worship they used to have when she was a child, and I was lifting her up on my shoulders, or later, teaching her how to drive stick. It makes the guilt roil in my stomach. “She was my assistant at work. Not my girlfriend.” I wait for the admonition, but it doesn’t come. Lily just nods. I narrow my eyes at her in suspicion. “Did you know?” “No.” A faint pause. “I suspected. She mentioned something about the two of you not being serious, and then I did some internet research. She’s listed as one of your company’s employees.” I groan. “Lily.” “Faye and I spoke about you, briefly.” She puts a hand on my arm. “I basically asked her what she felt about you, when we had dinner.” “You were supposed to give her a house tour!” “Yes, well, you know how I get.” I run a hand over my jaw. “Yeah, I do.” “She was… worried that you didn’t care for her?” “She said that?” My sister’s hesitation says it all. “Well, that’s what she meant. And I told her that Henry Marchand doesn’t do half-

measures. That if you’re bringing her here, it’s because you like her. We’ve never met any of your girlfriends before! I tried to put her at ease.” “She was worried about that? That I wasn’t really interested?” “Yeah.” Lily shoots me a look that says this should be obvious to me. “It’s not hard to imagine why. She was basically considering getting together with her boss, Henry. It’s not exactly recommended.” “I know that. Hell, I do. That’s what ended the whole thing.” “I think she wanted to know if it was worth it. I told her that you were.” My throat tightens unexpectedly. Lily is staring up at me with determination, her small frame set in a mixture of frustration and unwavering belief. For so many years, I was the one who held us together as siblings, but she’s always been the beating heart. “Now, Henry Edward Marchand, was I right? Will you work hard for what you want, and for those you care about? Were you worth her taking a risk?” Faye’s expression comes back to me. Her anger at Kyle, at the situation. At the uncertainty I’d helped create. I’d given her space without a second thought. It had been what she asked for, and I’d respected that. But maybe I’d been too fast with it. There were still things between us that needed to be said—and things I need to make clear. I wrap an arm around my little sister, who leans into me with complete trust, as she always has. Her head barely comes to my shoulder. “Thanks, Lils.” “Of course.” She looks like something is on the tip of her tongue, eyes expectant, but then she shakes her head. “Go

and get Faye back, and then bring her back for another weekend here. I want us to go sailing together with Hayden.” “I will,” I say, backing away from her. She’s framed by the porch light, and in her white summer dress, she looks like an angel. “I love you, Lils!” “I love you too!” she calls back. “Go get your girl!” Back in the cottage, I sit down and write a letter. I write down everything that could have been a potential point of miscommunication between Faye and me. Everything is detailed. As soon as I get back to New York, I’ll drop it by her mailbox. I don’t know if it’ll be enough, but it’s a start, and I’ll refuse to stop from there.

FAYE

I stare at the envelope. It had been waiting for me in the mailbox this morning. There’s no stamp, only my name on the front, written in his handwriting. Faye. He must have hand delivered it. He’d been that close—just downstairs— and I hadn’t known. I’d been here in my apartment, stress cleaning or ironing or doing whatever other semi-productive thing I could during the days, waiting for my work contract with Rykers to start. I don’t know what I would have done if I knew he’d been downstairs, to be honest. If he’d texted me and asked me to come down. I’d have been panicked, of course. Excited. I want to see him—it’s like an itch under my skin, the lack of communication between us, even if I’m the one initiating it. Am I being a fool for needing space? The envelope is lying innocently on my co ee table. Despite my staring, it’s not giving me any answers. Jess, who has taken to staying over several times a week, gives me a disapproving shake of the head. “Are you actually going to open it? You’ve been staring at it for half an hour.” “I’m not sure I want to know what it says.” She sits down opposite me. “What do you want it to say?”

I look at the envelope again, at my name scribbled across the top. He’d called several times after I walked out of his o ce. I hadn’t answered a single time. “I don’t know,” I say. She shoots me a crooked smile, like she doesn’t believe me. “You want it to make things better between the two of you.” “Yes. But I can’t see how it could. What happened…” “Was seriously messed up,” she fills in. “And it’s perfectly understandable that you’re still upset about it.” “Yes.” “Your self-confidence was hurt.” “Yes,” I say again, weaker now. Jess leans forward and puts a hand on my knee. She’s just put a loaf of bread into my oven, and the scent in my apartment is divine. Thank God for being in-between jobs when you also have a best friend who mostly works nights. “And I get why. We both do. But what happened wasn’t like with Elliot Ferris. Henry didn’t try to cut you out of his project. He didn’t imply to companies around the city that you made improper advances. He is suing that asshole for slander.” “I know that.” “You do rationally, but you’re in exactly the same state as after you were fired from Ferris. Worse, actually.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks.” “I’m a harsh friend, I know. But you love it, and frankly, you need it at the moment. This whole thing hit you right where you’re weakest. Punished for your ambition. Your looks made out to be something dirty. And Henry and you… well, I’m guessing you allowed yourself to be vulnerable with him. And then it all came crashing down, and the issues are mixing in your head, when they’re actually very separate things.”

I look up at the ceiling and feel hollow inside, like I’ve been emptied completely. “When did you get so wise, huh?” There’s a smile in her voice. “People talk to bartenders a lot. More than they should, probably. And I’ve known you a long time.” “I know what I don’t want the letter to say. That he’s saying goodbye for real.” “See? Progress!” The sofa dips as she sits down next to me. “Do you miss him?” “Of course I do.” “From what you’ve told me, he was very concerned about not crossing any lines, right?” “Yes.” I think of his body against mine, of my promise to him that I wouldn’t regret sleeping together, that I was in this with him. I had messed this up, too. Other memories flood back. His laughter as we walked along the beach. His hair wet from the ocean. He’d let me into a piece of his world, his mind, his soul. And when we were found out, I’d retreated. “I’ve been an idiot. Not news, exactly.” “No, you’ve been afraid. There’s a di erence.” Jess nods at the co ee table. “And I think it’s time you stop.” She’s right. I need to find the version of me who sent a drunken application letter to a high prestige architecture firm. Who showed up to the interview determined to take any chance she got. I reach for the envelope, pulling out the letter with a trembling hand. It’s long, written in Henry’s neat hand. My heart is a war drum in my chest as my eyes scan through it. “Oh,” I sigh in relief. “It’s good.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Maybe I still have a shot.” “Of course you do. He’s wanted you since you two met. Tell me what it says.”

So I read it out loud, Henry’s words filling my small apartment. Faye, I’m glad you’re reading this, that you didn’t throw my letter out, and with it any chance of us. Thank you for that. You’ve asked for distance, and I’ve tried being respectful of that. But I also want to make a few things very, very clear. Maybe these are things you’ve been thinking about and maybe not. But for a long time, you and I communicated in riddles and games. That’s been more fun than I can express, but this is too important for that. I did not hire you for any other reason than I thought you had potential, and I didn’t like the idea of Elliot Ferris getting away with ruining someone’s career. I did not hire you to piss him o . I did not bring you to the Founders’ Gala to show you o to him. Most importantly, I did not hire you to sleep with you. Nothing ever happened between my previous assistant and me. She got too attached, and I felt it interfered with her ability to do her job e ectively. I informed her about it, and she agreed, deciding it would be best to end her contract. She left with an excellent recommendation. You have asked me repeatedly why I invited you to my sister’s wedding, and why I agreed to the contract with you. The truth is simple. I wanted your company. That was selfish, I’ll admit, and I’ll never forgive myself for the way it ended. I regret what it led to, with that picture. But I can’t find it in myself to regret the weekend itself or what happened between us, and I hope you don’t either. I’m sorry for not making that clear earlier. For not being more careful. For hiring Kyle all those years ago. For not letting you know that the risk you were taking was worth it—that I always wanted something long-term with you. I’m sorry for not following you out of the o ce the day you left. For not giving you enough space afterwards, or for giving you too much space. I

know I’ve fucked up, Faye, and if you want to yell at me for it, you know where I live. You’re very welcome. I would very much like to be a part of your life going forward, and I’ll accept whatever terms you set for me. Give me a contract if you want—I’ll sign it blindly. PS. Rykers has kept me informed about your employment. I understand you’re starting your new job next week. I’d wish you good luck, but I know you won’t need it. You’re the most talented architect I know. Henry I release another shaky breath and lean my head back on the couch, closing my eyes again. He addressed every single point I’d been thinking about, even the banal ones, the small ones, that I hadn’t been able to get out of my mind at night. Jess was right. This wasn’t the Elliot Ferris situation all over again. We weren’t doomed because of the way things went down at the o ce. With the exception of Terri and Rykers, I wasn’t planning on seeing most of those people again. Who cared what they thought? Kyle was an asshole, but in the end, he wasn’t right at all. Henry and I had begun as a mess. Messier than either of us were used to, and far too messy for my taste. A forbidden o ce romance. Assistant-boss relations. Project deadlines, co-workers, family. But that didn’t mean the connection we had was a lie. It had just happened inconveniently. And when had inconvenience stopped either of us from going after what we wanted in life? Suddenly, all of my feelings of shame or fear make no sense at all. “Well?” Jess prompts. “What do you feel?” “Like I need a shower and a plan.” Her smile is glorious. “You’re going to see him?” “If he’ll see me, yes. Hell, even if he won’t, I’ll make him.”

I don’t let myself overthink it, either. That’s been my mistake for these past few weeks, when I’ve been stuck in my head and in my memories. I fish out my phone from behind a cushion and find his number immediately. The last text we’d exchanged was mine, when I’d told him I needed space nearly three weeks ago. Looking at it now makes me feel uneasy. Yes, there had been a power imbalance between us, but we’d spent a weekend together… and then I’d pulled away without any explanation. I text him a single, simple sentence. Faye Alvarez: Can I see you today? To my infinite pride, I don’t toss my phone away from me, either. I put it down calmly on the co ee table and bow to Jess’s theatrical little applause. “Now, o to the shower,” I declare, and she shoots me a thumbs up. One-quarter of my deep conditioner later, I emerge to freshly baked bread and Jess smiling from ear to ear. “He responded,” she says. “He did?” “Yes. Your phone beeped and I looked. You know I can’t help myself.” She hands me the phone and I read the response, just as sparse as mine. Henry Marchand: Yes. I can come over? Something inside me relaxes, at the same time as new nerves emerge. He’s never been in my apartment. Faye Alvarez: Meet me in Brooklyn. Let’s take a walk? It’s the coward’s way out, but he agrees, and we set a time. I put my phone down and look over at Jess, who is still smiling at me. “I can’t wait to meet him,” she says. “Jess!” “Not today, of course. But from the way he sounds, and the way you’re all in knots over him… I’ll meet him one day.” She opens my fridge in search of butter. “Of that I have no doubt. You two are basically soulmates.”

I watch her in silence as she cuts two thick slices of bread for us both. Her words are hyperbolic, but they’re spoken with sincerity, and something in them rings true. With Aiden, I never had this feeling, the desire to integrate our lives into one. To share our friends, our family. I’d met Henry’s entire family before we’d ever even shared a bed. And every step of it had felt right. “Well,” I say, reaching for one of the slices of bread. “Maybe you’re right about that.” “I know I am.”

FAYE

I see him before he sees me. Henry is leaning by the corner of a deli, looking supremely out of place, shirtsleeves folded neatly up to his elbows. His hair is a bit longer than the last time I saw him, pushed back from a face that’s gotten tanner. He must have been out sailing again at some point. His eyes scan passerby, coiled energy clear in his tall frame. I smile as soon as I see him. He hasn’t done anything particularly smile-worthy, but it’s still etched on my face by its own accord. He catches sight of me as I cross the street. My heart clenches as a smile spreads across his own lips, transforming his stern features. “Hey,” he says. I rock back on my heels and look up at him. “Hey.” “I’m glad you came.” “So am I.” I glance at the busy street around us. “Sorry for the dramatic set-up. ‘Meet me at the corner of Prince and Fifth’ sounds like something out of a movie.” His smile turns crooked. “We’ve had our share of drama, so I suppose it’s ﬁtting.” “I was never the dramatic one in school.” Henry snorts. “I deﬁnitely wasn’t.”

“Head in the books?” He nods. “Or on the sailing boat.” “Right,” I say softly. “The winner of the junior sailing regatta.” “You remembered?” “Of course. It’s your highest achievement.” He gives me a crooked smile, and I return it, warmth spreading through my chest. “Where do you want to walk?” “There’s a park down here. Is that okay?” “Lead the way.” It’s a beautiful summer afternoon, and children are playing in the sun, the park filled with people. Henry kicks an errant soccer ball back to where a group of boys are playing, and they shout their thanks. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy with things left to be said. I can almost see them floating between us. “Thank you for the letter,” I begin. He nods. “I’m glad you read it.” “It was… oh, I’m sorry, Henry.” “What for?” “For pulling away. For needing time.” “No, don’t apologize for that.” His hand lands on the small of my back—lightly, like he’s afraid I’ll object—and he heads toward an empty bench. We sit close, but not touching. “Faye, you have nothing to apologize for.” I meet his strong gaze. “Neither do you.” His mouth turns down in a faint frown, eyes unreadable. “What happened with Kyle was unforgivable. My lawyers are working on a slander suit as we speak, and if I have any say in the matter, he won’t work again. Not in New York, at least.” The fierceness in his voice makes me want to smile. “He acted out of envy and rashness.” “It was petty.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t deserve to have his career destroyed completely.” Henry’s gaze drops to my hands, resting in my lap. He’s quiet for a long beat before he speaks. “You’re a better person than me, to be capable of believing that.” “No, I’ve just thought about this a lot.” He nods, but it’s miserable. “Then you know as well as I do that Kyle isn’t the real culprit. I am, and I’m sorrier for that than you can imagine.” “Henry?” “I hired you, knowing what I knew about why you left your last job. I knew how important this job was for you. Regardless of whatever pull I felt, I shouldn’t have asked you to be my date to the wedding. It was unprofessional at best, seedy at worst.” I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his. He lets me, even as he continues to stare out across the park with his jaw clenched. “Did you ever see me as an easy lay? An assistant you just wanted to fuck?” His eyes flick to mine, and there’s both hurt and anger there, despite his e orts to mask it. “Jesus, Faye. No. Never.” I grip his hand tighter. “And did you ask me to the wedding with the aim of sleeping with me?” “No.” His voice grows fainter. “I wanted time with you.” “Then your actions weren’t seedy. Henry, I said yes. Every step of the way, I was right there with you.” I fight through my embarrassment and say the next part, too. “I was even urging you on, at some points. We both acted unprofessionally. But it wasn’t seedy.” His fingers curl around mine, my hand nearly swallowed whole in his steady grip. “You have regrets. It’s the one thing I couldn’t bear, and I caused it anyway.” “No.”

His look tells me that he doesn’t believe me, and I scoot closer, our thighs touching. “I don’t. Did I, at the moment, with Kyle? Yes. The price seemed high. But Henry, do I regret anything that happened between us? Absolutely not.” “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says. “Not the way Elliot Ferris did. I never wanted you to feel like I only wanted you for your body, or that I didn’t value your ambition. You’re the most talented woman I’ve ever met. I wanted to support your career, not ruin it.” He runs his hand through his hair, and the agitation in him breaks and spills over, his carefully controlled features dissolving into anger. “I didn’t handle it right. Us.” His words, the longest speech I’ve ever heard him make, warms something in me. “You didn’t play your cards right? Henry, I thought you always won.” “You were never a game.” I lean in closer, until his eyes widen in surprise, and neither of us is breathing. “You weren’t a game to me either,” I say. “But… if we were playing, I’d say we could still come out of this as winners.” “Both of us?” “Yes.” His hands ﬁnd my waist, pulling me closer. “Tell me.” “As far as I see it, there’s nothing stopping us from being whatever we want to be, now.” Henry’s thumb smooths over my waist. He’s giving me a smile, so genuine that it squeezes something inside me. “You’re giving me another chance, Faye.” “No. We’re giving us another chance, because we’re both responsible for this. If that’s what you want?” His smile turns teasing, reminding me of the many nights we’d spent sparring in his o ce. “If? I need to work on my writing skills, if you’re still unsure of what I want after that letter.”

I press my lips to his. He responds softly, sweetly, and warmth spreads through my body. This. This is what I’ve wanted since the beginning. Him beside me, holding me. Someone I respect and like in equal measure. “Maybe we could do things right this time. In the right order.” We’d never even been on a proper date together, and still, I’d met his family. We’d done things out of order. He pushes my hair back. “You want to be taken out to dinner?” “Maybe.” “Wined and dined, huh.” He puts a hand on my knee, a warm weight against my skin. “Breakfast in bed. Sunday brunches.” I grin at him. It all sounds so… coupley, so unlike anything I’ve had with a man before, and the teasing in his voice is lovely. “Morning showers,” I add. The hard cut of his jaw clenches once as he swallows. “Yes. To save water,” he says. “Very sustainable of you.” “I was top of the class in Intro to Sustainable Building. Haven’t I told you?” Henry’s smile widens. “No, I don’t believe you have, but it doesn’t surprise me.” “Material e ciency,” I whisper. “Ecological conservation.” He leans in and kisses me again, with more pressure this time. All thoughts of teasing him evaporate as the warm heat of his tongue slides against mine. Nobody has ever kissed me the way he has; like he wants to own my body and crown me as queen at the same time. Strong ﬁngers tip my head back slightly, giving me better access. I’m breathless when he pulls away. “Sorry,” he says, “but talking about sustainable architecture gets me pretty riled up.” I laugh. “Really? How do you get through a day at work?”

“Barely.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me into standing. “Now come on, Alvarez. Show me your neighborhood.” We walk through the park and out onto the main street. My part of Brooklyn is quiet and calm, and I tell him that, but he only shakes his head. “No part of New York is ever truly calm.” I study his proﬁle. The city might not be calm, but he looks it, the restlessness gone from when I’d seen him waiting by the deli. “Not like Paradise Shores?” His eyes slide to mine, and I wonder if he’s remembering it all the way I am. The two of us on the boat or walking along the shore at midnight. Alone together in the cottage. “No,” he says softly. “Not like Paradise Shores.” “Would you ever move back?” He frowns, but it’s his thoughtful look, not his displeased one. I’m not sure if most people realize there’s a di erence. “Maybe,” he says ﬁnally. “But it would have to be the right time. I can’t see myself leaving all of… well, this.” He sweeps his arm across the busy street, the water beyond, the pounding beat of the city we both live and work in. I can’t imagine leaving it either—not yet, anyway. Our slow, meandering walk eventually comes to a stop outside my building. I’ve been leading us here, to the red brick building that’s been home since I moved to the city nearly six years ago. “This is me,” I say. Henry looks past me to the lobby. “I remember.” “Right, the letter. Thanks for that, by the way. Truly.” He rubs his neck. “I should have thought of it sooner. We could’ve had this discussion weeks ago.” “It came at exactly the right time,” I say, and I mean it, too. These weeks have been long, but I’d needed the time to

sort through my own emotions—to separate Henry and me from the professional role we’d met in. Henry takes a step closer, until we’re nearly touching. He runs his fingers along my cheek, my jaw, tipping my head back again. “I like our height di erence,” I say, stupidly. His mouth quirks up. “I’m glad. That’s not something I could’ve changed, had you not.” I smile at him, and he smiles back crookedly, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Can I come up?” I think of him in my apartment, his giant size in that small space, the shabby carpet, my dying palm tree. I think of my framed architecture posters on the wall and his visionary mind. Of his arm around my waist as we sleep. “Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.” Something in him relaxes, as if he’d been unsure of my response. He slides a hand down my arm, taking my hand. “Lead the way, then.” When we reach my front door—Apartment 13C emblazoned in gold letters—my heart is beating with a mixture of excitement and nerves. Henry, here in my space. Good thing Jess left for work at the same time I did. I unlock the door and he steps past me, opening it for me. “Thanks.” “You wanted us to do this properly,” he says with a sideways grin. Once, I’d thought that smile was rare, and treasured each one. He’s been liberal with them today, just like he was during the weekend in Paradise Shores. Henry stops in my living room and looks around, his gaze taking it all in—my crocheted throw on the sofa, made by my mother. My overflowing bookshelf filled with biographies and architecture books. He takes a step forward and looks at the posters on my wall. With his hands in his pockets, his shirt stretched out

over his broad shoulders and thick hair kissing his neck, he feels too good for this space. Too much. I wait with bated breath for his commentary. “These are magnificent,” he says finally, looking at the architectural crosscut of the Colosseum. “Where did you find these?” There’s a faint lump in my throat, all of a sudden. Jess was my best friend in the whole world, and she had never paid them any mind. Aiden had though they were needlessly expensive and yet another display of my inconvenient ambition. “Online,” I say. “An artist makes them, drawing on real historical records. Some parts of them are speculative.” Henry nods, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Have you ever been?” “To Rome?” “Yes.” “No.” He trails a hand down my arm, his fingers leaving goose bumps. “Good to know. Are you hungry?” “Um, yes. A bit. Do you want us to cook something? I think I have chicken in the freezer.” He pulls me toward my couch, and we sink down on it e ortlessly, his arms still around me. “Absolutely not,” he says. “I’ll order something, and we’ll eat right here on your couch.” “We’re having our first proper date right away?” “Yes.” I smile. “Not wasting any time, are we?” “I’ve wasted too much already,” he says. The sunlight illuminates a faint five-o’clock shadow along his jaw and circles under his eyes. How had I missed that earlier? “Sounds good.” I put a hand on his cheek and smooth my thumb over his cheekbone, his eyes closing in pleasure. “You

look a bit tired. Have things been stressful at work? Splitting up Marchand & Rykers?” “Yes,” he sighs. “Dividing up the projects turned out to be harder than we thought. Rykers and I have had a few disagreements about personnel, too.” I slide my hand into his hair and run my fingers along his scalp. “She might be the only one at work who’s not afraid to go toe to toe with you.” He snorts. “At the moment, yes. But only because you left.” “Flatterer.” “It’s the truth.” Henry sighs again, leaning into my touch, eyes closed in pleasure. It makes me smile. “Plus, I’ve been terribly distracted at work. Forgetting to reply to emails. Losing my train of thought. Forgetting the details of projects.” “That doesn’t sound like you.” “No, it doesn’t.” A smile hovers on his lips, even as his eyes remain closed. “I had this smart, talented, beautiful woman in my life, and then I screwed up and lost her. And it turns out I couldn’t really think of anything else after that.” I slide my fingers down to the nape of his neck, gently massaging the thick muscles. “You really are a flatterer tonight,” I murmur, “but I’m enjoying it immensely.” His smile quirks up. “Another point to me.” “You want to play the compliment game?” I kiss the edge of his jaw, the stubble tickling my skin. “You’re going to have to get used to being called handsome, then.” “Mmm,” he says softly. “If it’s by you, I think I’ll manage, somehow.”

EPILOGUE

One month later

Faye rolls away from me in bed. “We need to get going.” She’s fast, but I’m faster. I tug her back against my chest, smiling as she laughs in protest. “We’re going to be late!” “So?” She struggles against me, but there’s no escape, and I tell her that. She rolls her eyes at me. “You used to be so punctual. What’s happened?” “You’re a bad influence.” I push back her silken hair and rest my face in her neck. She smells as wonderful she always does—warm skin, soap, and something unmistakably hers. Faye turns in my arms. We’re back in Paradise Shores for the weekend, borrowing my sister’s seaside cottage, and the sunlight streaming in through the window paints her skin a thousand di erent shades of beautiful. “A bad influence, huh?” “Absolutely terrible.” I run a hand down her waist, her hip, finally gripping her butt. “I took a two-hour lunch break twice this week, and I blame you entirely.”

Faye’s laughter is the best sound in the world. She wiggles closer in the bed, running her nails over my back in the way she knows I love. “You weren’t exactly innocent either, mister. Do I have to remind you that I’m still trying to make a good impression on my boss?” Her naked body against mine is making it hard to think— she feels too good—but I make a heroic e ort. “Rykers is obsessed with you.” “No,” she corrects, “you are. She’s still undecided.” I snort. “Don’t undersell yourself.” “I’m not, I’m just not biased. Now come on. We’re going to be late, and I really want your family to like me.” “They already do. Probably more than they like me.” She laughs, and I revel in the sound again. With her, I feel amusing in a way I’ve never felt before. “Patently untrue. You’re fishing for compliments and I won’t give you any. Now come on, you vain man. I need a shower, and—” “So do I.” “—you can’t join me, or we’ll never get out of here. Put on the co ee machine in the meantime?” I lean back and watch her slide out of bed. Rising from the sheets, all of her beautiful curves on display, she’s gorgeous. Tan skin and black hair that kisses her low back. Best of all, her body fits against mine perfectly, like they’re companion pieces. “Do I ever tell you that you’re beautiful?” Faye walks toward the bathroom, a small smile on her face. For all of her confidence and ambition, I know she still likes to hear this, and I love giving it to her. “Sometimes,” she says. “Only sometimes? I’ll have to remedy that.” She pauses by the door to the bathroom, facing me, still completely naked. I let my eyes roam lasciviously over her

ﬁgure. “Well, while you shower, I’ll be writing an ode to your beauty.” She grins. “An ode?” “Yes. I can go Shakespearean, but knowing how you react to me talking dirty, I might go that route instead.” Faye rolls her eyes—she hasn’t stopped doing that—but color rises in her cheeks. Somehow, she’s still a ected by my words. It’s beyond fun to tease her about… and I exploit it regularly in bed. One dirty word about the act itself and her cheeks go scarlet. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Oh?” I toss the cover back so she can see just what the sight of her naked body is doing to me. “You’re so gorgeous, and I want you so much. All the time. All I want is to feel you beneath me, to spread your legs, and fuck your tight pussy until—” Faye shuts the bathroom door with a bang, and I burst into laughter. She must have heard me, because a second later, her voice calls through the door. “Save it for later!” I brew co ee as she showers and get dressed. It’s the ﬁrst time she’s meeting my family since the wedding weekend, but they’d been completely smitten with her—she has no need to be nervous. Besides, things have been good between us since we got back together. Well, good is perhaps somewhat of an understatement. Fucking fantastic is a much better description. It was made better by the fact that we work next door to one another. Rykers has the o ce space next to Marchand’s, so Faye and I spent most evenings together, either at mine or hers. Mine was closer to work. I smile into my co ee, thinking of the last time she’d spent the night. I’d casually suggested she get some stu to keep at mine—a blow-dryer, her shampoo and conditioner, a drawer of clean underwear—to make the mornings before

work easier. She’d been floored, and then kissed me in a way that made it clear the suggestion had been very, very appreciated. We’ve taken things slow, but there is no doubt in my mind where this is heading, if I don’t accidentally screw things up again. I couldn’t handle another bout of separation between us. And never before had I met someone who understood, even appreciated, the person I am at work. Building is a part of me, just like it is for Faye. She emerges fifteen minutes later, hair loose and a navy dress hugging her figure. She looks like a million bucks. “Quit staring, Marchand. We have a brunch to attend.” “When did you get so bossy?” I reach for her, wanting her hand in mine again. “Don’t ever stop.” “When you stopped,” she says, grabbing her handbag. “Now, remind me—what terms are you and your father on at the moment?” My good mood doesn’t vanish, but it sours slightly. “Speaking terms, of course. But the last time was a few weeks ago. He’s still upset about Chicago.” She squeezes my hand. “His loss. You made the right call.” “I know.” And I do, but it’s nice to hear her say it— especially because she genuinely thinks it, too. It’s coming from a place of both support and honesty. She’s as knowledgeable about this business as me or my father and understands these decisions. We walk over to my parents’ house. Faye asks my opinion on one of the projects she’s working on, and we’re deep into a discussion of structural materials when we arrive at the end of Ocean Drive. Lily and Hayden are waiting for us on the porch, Parker sprawled in a sun chair nearby, a pair of sunglasses on his

face. He looks half-dead. I shoot a look at Lily, and she nods in conﬁrmation. He’s hungover. Stopping by my brother, I reach down and yank the sunglasses o . He sputters in surprise. “Hey!” “Late night last night?” He puts a hand to his temple. “Yes. And don’t speak so loudly, Jesus, Henry.” “Are you twenty-nine, or nineteen?” Lily plucks the sunglasses out of my hand and puts them back on Parker’s face. “Don’t answer that, but don’t let Mom see, either. Or Dad.” “I know, I know,” Parker grumbles. Our parents have been forgiving with their youngest son—his mediocre grades were always compensated for by his athletic prowess—but they’re not lenient about partying. Faye steps around me and gives Lily a hug. “It’s so nice to see you again.” Lily smiles at me over her shoulder. “You too. We missed you around here this summer.” “I did too.” “And now we’re all here, together again.” Lily shoots us all a wide grin, using her announcement voice. I narrow my eyes at her. “Rhys isn’t coming?” She shakes her head. Damn. He’s always had a tendency to go o the rails, to make rash decisions, or retreat back into himself. The last text he’d sent me was just a picture of a sunrise somewhere in Asia from one of his photography trips. Parker snorts. “He’ll be back. He always returns.” We all hear the word he doesn’t add. Eventually. “Yes, he always does,” Lily says, smiling happily, but no doubt she’s worried. She’s always worried about Rhys, despite being the younger sibling. I’ll talk to her about it

later and reassure her. “Anyway, we wanted to tell you guys something before Mom and Dad join us outside. We don’t want them to know quite yet.” Hayden slides an arm around her waist. His face is relaxed, eyes happy, even as they watch both Parker and me intently. Parker straightens. “Lily…” Her smile widens. “I’m pregnant. It’s early, still, but I wanted you to know first.” For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, at them both. I didn’t know they’d decided to start trying. Next to me, Parker seems similarly frozen. Faye is the one who says congratulations and rushes forward, enveloping my little sister in a hug. “Wow,” Parker finally says. “Congrats. Wow.” I hug Lily, and she fits neatly into my arms. Her cheeks are rosy with happiness. “Congrats, Lilypad.” She smiles up at me. “I’m making you all uncles, you know. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Uncle Henry.” I have to swallow before I can reply. “Yes, it does.” Parker has his arm around Hayden’s shoulders. “Uncle Parker. Man, do I sound old. This is unreal.” “I know. Trust me, I know.” Hayden is grinning too, an unusual expression for him. “And amazing.” “Good thing you guys got married.” Lily gives me a gentle shove. “Hush, Henry.” Hayden meets my gaze head-on. He’s a few years younger than me, but his years in the Navy changed something in him. The broken boy I’d once met is gone. “The house is perfect,” he tells me. “You’re basically the architect of this pregnancy, since you added a nursery to the master bedroom.” Lily laughs. “We just had to fill it right away.” Faye leans into my side. “You designed their house?”

“Yeah. Just the remodel, though.” “That place is gorgeous,” she says, sincerity in her voice. Lily beams at her. “It is, isn’t it? Henry did a great job.” “He has a fantastic eye,” Faye agrees. “You should see the project he’s working on now—it’s a skyscraper for a medical company, the most boring client ever, but Henry is making it stunning. Adding details they couldn’t dream of, and all within budget, too.” My little sister’s eyes widen in excitement, and I ignore the amused looks both Hayden and Parker shoot me. “Really? Henry, you’re designing a skyscraper?” “Well, that’s sort of my job.” “You never tell us anything,” Lily says, turning to Faye. “He never does.” Faye’s voice is amused. “Not hard to imagine.” “How exactly did this conversation swing back around to me? Lily, let me know if you need anything, all right? Anything at all. That goes for you too, Hayden.” They both nod at me, but if they think I’m being overbearing, neither of them mentions it. They’re grownups, but it’s hard to ignore the urge to ﬁx things for them. This is one time where I can’t show them the ropes, though. Lily will be the ﬁrst of us to try parenting. Faye is smiling beside me, her face the picture of happiness, and my mind immediately wanders to her expecting. To a child with our features mixed together. She smiles up at me. “What are you thinking?” “Just about you,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple, calming my racing imagination. The rest of the evening passes in a blur. It’s early September, but the weather is still warm, and we eat on the porch. I watch in amazement as my dad teaches Faye how to grill lobster.

“The claws need to be on the upper level,” he instructs her, “because they need more heat.” She handles the creepy crawlies like a pro before returning to my side, a glass of white wine in her hand. “That,” I say, “was very impressive.” “Oh? A woman by the grill is a turn-on for you?” I snort. “You by the grill, yes. But I was referring to how you wrangled the beast.” She laughs. “Your dad can be nice.” “Yes, because he loves you.” “So arguing with Marchand men is the way to their hearts?” Her brown eyes glitter, the way they do when she’s teasing me, and my arm tightens around her waist. “Yes. Be as argumentative, as challenging, and as ambitious as you want, and you’ll have us all wrapped around your little ﬁnger in no time.” “Well, as long as I have you wrapped, I’m happy.” After dinner, Dad asks me to join him in the study. It’s subtle—one of his looks and a nod—but I recognize it for what it is. So do my siblings, who watch in curiosity as I follow him into the house. Our di erence of opinion has lasted for months this time. It’s almost a record. I watch in silence as Dad rummages through papers on his desk. What will it be this time? Another ﬂawed investment opportunity? A chance to disparage my business decisions? Finding what he’s looking for, he hands it to me, a frown on his face. Ah. It’s a short excerpt of a newspaper article, but the message is clear. A group of city planners, activists and lobbyists had managed to stop the Chicago project and the city’s building council, buoyed by the momentum, is set to announce new zoning laws for the area.

I lower the paper. “Rolfe and Pierce can’t be happy about this.” “They’re not.” Dad leans back in his o ce chair. “But I was.” It’s impossible to hide my surprise. “Did you end up investing?” “Yes. But not as much as I had originally planned. They’re going to reimburse me every last penny, too.” Through the window in his study, the sun is setting, bathing the backyard and the shoreline in warm golden light. Studying it gives me a moment to compose my features. “All right,” I say finally. “I’m glad you weren’t more exposed.” His grin is crooked, containing something rare. Selfmockery. “If you won’t say it, I will. You were right, son.” “Wow.” “Don’t get used to it,” he says with a snort. A smile is slowly spreading on my face. “Oh, I won’t.” “I shouldn’t have dismissed your opinion like that. Now, what’s this I’ve heard about a split between Marchand & Rykers?” My grin is full-blown now. We haven’t discussed business or building for months, so he hasn’t been able to ask me about this. It must have been eating him up inside. “We can discuss it,” I say, coming around to his side of the desk. “I’ve been lining up projects for the coming years, deciding on a profile for the new firm.” He fires up the computer. “Show me?” “I will.” It’s late when Faye and I finally walk home that evening, taking the route along the beach, her hand in mine. The sun might have set but the boardwalk is teeming with life, with teenagers skateboarding and couples in hushed conversation on benches. The unseasonably warm September evening has brought everyone out.

Faye squeezes my hand. “I love this place.” “Mmm, good. You’ll have to be here a lot, you know.” She chuckles. “Good thing I like your family too.” “Even better.” I press a kiss to the top of her head, conveniently within reach. “Tell me again what your parents said when you told them about me.” Faye elbows me. “You vain creature.” “Tell me.” “Finally, they said.” Her cheeks flush. “That I’d finally met my match.” I slide an arm around her waist, bending so my lips are close to her ear. She smells divine. “Don’t be embarrassed. My mom told you they’d been waiting for me to meet someone. To meet you.” She clears her throat. “Dad also said that I sounded head over heels when I described you.” “Did he?” Interesting. “Yes.” She sneaks a sideways glance at me. “Mom agreed.” “You sound head over heels, or you are head over heels? There’s a di erence.” She pushes me away, her laughter exasperated. “Henry!” I catch her. It’s not di cult, wrapping her in my arms and tipping her head back. She kisses me back, surprised, warm and lovely. “I am head over heels,” she murmurs finally. “You’ve tortured it out of me.” I grin. “Tortured? You wound me, Faye.” “Not in the least,” she says. Her eyes glittering with happiness might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Come on.” I pull us along toward the cottage. Her words have worked like catnip. The past month has been one of the best of my life with her in it, and the need to be alone with her—to show her that—is nearly overwhelming.

Faye laughs as she hurries along beside me. “Hey! My legs are shorter!” “Sorry. I’ll slow down.” “Or I’ll speed up.” She releases my hand and starts to jog, her hair trailing behind her. “Down for a little competition, Marchand?” I grin at her. “You know I don’t lose.” “No,” she says, already ahead of me. “Only to me!” We reach the cottage almost neck-and-neck, neither of us running to win. Faye laughs as I lift her up and carry her across the threshold. “Getting ahead of yourself, Marchand?” I don’t reply. I kiss her instead, and she melts in my arms, my hands flattening against her back as I press her closer still. Her lips move hungrily against mine as I kick the front door shut behind us. A month together and I still can’t get enough. I doubt I ever will. I walk her backward toward the bedroom. “Are you still wearing that thong?” “Of course.” Faye’s lips trail down my neck, undoing the buttons in my shirt. Her response sends fresh need pounding through me and my hands fist the fabric of her skirt, wanting to tear it o , to see the little piece of lace she’d bought to tease me with. It barely covers anything. She pushes me onto the bed, eyes blazing. “But you’re going to have to earn it.” “Oh?” I put my hands behind my head, letting my gaze sweep across her body. “I do love a challenge.” Faye proceeds to give me exact instructions, her cheeks on fire from the words she’s using. She’s gotten better at handling the dirty talk—but I hope it never stops embarrassing her a little. “God, you’re sexy,” I breathe. “Come here.” “You do your part first.”

“Want me to sign a contract as well?” She shakes her head, eyes following my hands as I unbuckle my pants, following her instructions to the T. It’s not di cult—I’m already hard. “This is what you do to me,” I say. “Every day.” She swallows. “Uh-huh.” “Want to see just how badly?” She nods, hand toying with the zipper in her dress. I grin and tell her in excruciating detail what I feel, what I want from her. How I need her tonight. I use all the words she likes—the ones she’s admitted get her even wetter than she thought possible. It takes a long time before we ﬁnally settle down to sleep that night, every minute more enjoyable than the last. Spoiler: we both win. Afterwards, she’s warm in my arms, body curved neatly against mine. The scent that clings to her skin is intoxicating. Sea and sex and sun. My arm is resting around her waist, and her hand smooths up and down my skin lazily. I close my eyes. It feels too good, this. A dream. A fantasy. “Henry,” she murmurs softly. “You didn’t tell me earlier. Are you head over heels, too?” I smile. “I’m weak after sex. Are you exploiting it?” Faye laughs, burying her face against my neck. “Maybe.” My arm tightens around her waist. Her body against mine is something I’d never stop taking for granted. The quiet is expectant, but not uncomfortable. Faye will be okay with whatever I reply, as long as it’s the truth. “In every relationship in my life, there have been... expectations. I have to be someone. A son. A big brother. A winner, an instructor. A role model. A boss.” My thumb rubs a circle over the silken skin on her stomach. “But here with you, I’m just me. And it’s enough.”

Faye is quiet for a long moment. Then her lips, gentle and warm against mine. “Henry,” she murmurs. “That was a yes,” I clarify. “To your question.” Her laughter is soft in the dark, surrounding me completely. “I’m glad.”

The next day…

“I’ve been practicing my knots,” Faye says. “I bought some string at the supermarket.” “That’s it, you’re the best student I’ve ever had.” “Anything to impress you,” she says with a smile, grabbing her bag from the trunk. Lily and Hayden’s car is already here—parked next to ours. They should be waiting by the Frida. My phone rings, and it’s a number I don’t recognize. On a Sunday? I debate letting it go to voice mail, the ocean beckoning, before I decide di erently. Still watching Faye, I answer. “Henry Marchand.” “Hi, I’m so glad I could reach you. My name is Richard Drew from the Architecture Society of New York. As you might recall, we’re in charge of the jury selection for the new opera house.” My throat has gone dry. “Yes, I recall.” “Well, we were very impressed with your submission. The jury has met and deliberated, and they have unanimously chosen your design. Congratulations!” Faye locks the car and gestures with her head. Can we start walking toward the dock?

“Erhm,” I say. “That’s good news.” “It certainly is! The public announcement won’t be made yet, not until this week. We will be in contact on Monday with all the details. I’m sure you have a ton of questions.” “Yes, I do.” “But we wanted to let you have the weekend to digest it.” He pauses, voice happy. “Congrats again, Mr. Marchand. We’re looking forward to a great partnership.” “Yes. Thank you. So am I.” We hang up. Faye, now staring at me curiously, takes a step closer. “You okay? You look white.” I grin at her, excitement racing through me. “Well, Miss Alvarez. Think you could handle working together with me again?” Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?” I don’t answer for a second, just letting her see my smile. It feels massive—etched on my face. After I sent in the model, I’d almost forgotten about the dates for the jury’s selection. My mind had been occupied with Faye, with getting her back, and then with being with her. “Henry,” she prompts. “Who was on the phone?” “The Architecture Society of New York.” Her arms fall limp at her sides. “No way.” “Yes. Guess who’s going to be building New York’s new opera house?” “You will,” she murmurs, her voice weak. “Oh my God, Henry.” “We will,” I say. “We’re both listed as executive architects.” And then her arms are around my neck, and she’s laughing, or maybe crying, and I swing her around on the marina parking lot. They chose our design. Out of hundreds of applications, they chose ours. The curving steel and

wooden beams we’d labored over in digital detail will become real. “Yes,” she ﬁnally breathes, her smile wide. “I’ll work with you again.” I kiss her soundly. “Just draw up the contract, sweetheart, and I’ll sign.”

Thank you so much for reading Henry and Faye’s story! Receive new book updates and bonus content by signing up to my newsletter. Ice Cold Boss is book two in the standalone Paradise Shores series. Read Rogue to discover Lily and Hayden’s epic love story, or turn the page for a short excerpt!

ROGUE

Hayden Cole was everything I should stay away from. He was my brother's best friend and the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Broken smiles. Dark hair. Eyes that had seen far too much for his age. We spent a summer together in secret. In the darkness, in the silence, our hearts spoke the same language. Until he left without a word and tore mine right out of my chest. Ten years later he’s back from the Navy, and he’s demanding a second chance. He’s every inch the rogue I remember— crooked smiles and amber eyes. But this time I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m staying far away. Lily Marchand was everything I could never have. She was the golden child of my uncle’s rich employer and far too good for a guy like me. I’d known it, and I reached for

her anyway, and it led to disaster. I had no choice but to leave and break both of our hearts. But a decade has given me the respectability and money I lacked before. This time I’m not giving up without a ﬁght— not when I know she feels the same. Her parents might still despise me. Her brothers might want to kill me. But I’d just like to see them try to run me out of town again, because there’s no way I’m giving up on Lily without a ﬁght. Some people are meant to be together.

PROLOGUE

LILY

You were everything to me, and then you broke my heart. But I think that part was inevitable. We were destined to love each other. That’s fair, isn’t it, Hayden? At least that’s the way it was for me. I don’t think I ever had a choice, really, from the moment I ﬁrst laid eyes on you, all those years ago. Sure, I didn’t know it back then, but that doesn’t make my love any less real. The truth is, you’ve fascinated me since I was ten years old. I once told you that, remember? And you smiled at me with those amber eyes of yours and asked if I meant fascinating, like how a weird bug is fascinating, and my heart ached at wanting to make you understand just how much I loved you. How much you meant to me. How much I still love you. Things could have been so di erent, Hayden, if you would have just let me in when I asked the ﬁrst time. If you had given us a chance. If you hadn’t left after the accident. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll let me in this time around. We’re older and wiser. Things have happened that even the best of intentions can’t erase. But some things haven’t

changed. Our hearts still understand one another. The distance and the silence hasn’t changed that. Some love stories are simple. But ours never was.

CHAPTER 1

HAYDEN

Hayden, 11 It’s hard to forget the day you’re saved. I remember it like it was yesterday; the wind howling in the trees, the sound of heavy rainfall against the tin roof of my uncle’s shabby car. “They’ve o ered me a job,” he had told me. “We’ll get a place to stay, too.” But the house at the end of the driveway isn’t like any house I’ve ever seen. It’s a mansion. A white, sprawling porch wraps around the front, visible even in the darkness. “We’re going to live there?” “No, there’s a house down by the beach where we’ll live.” “They have their own beach house?” I can hear the weariness in my uncle’s voice. “Yes. Don’t make this di cult.” I shrug and turn away from him. I’ve been nothing but easy. Five moves in the past two years, with ﬁve di erent schools, too. I was the poster child for easy. I haven’t seen much of Paradise Shores so far, but one thing is clear—this is a rich place. People like us don’t stay here, not for long.

“They have children,” my uncle urges. “Mr. Marchand said he had sons. They should be about your age, I think.” “Uh-huh.” “This will be good. It’ll give us some stability.” “Yeah.” Gary blows out a frustrated sigh. “I’m doing the best I can here, kid.” “I know.” I bite out the following words, bitter in my mouth. “Thank you.” One day, I won’t need to thank anyone. I’ll be as rich and as famous as those stars on television, on social media, who could go anywhere and do anything. I’ll own a house like this myself. “Come on. We can’t stay out here forever.” Gary puts the car in drive and rolls up the wide driveway. His left knee is bouncing. Gary isn’t usually nervous. I lean forward and try to get a good look at the house. It’s at least three stories with white, wooden paneling. It has blue double-doors and the porch is ﬂanked by well-maintained ﬂower beds. It looks like a house from a commercial, the ones with golden retrievers and blond children with happy smiles. “Are you really sure this is it?” Gary sco s. “Yes, I’m sure, kid.” The front door opens. A tall man stands silhouetted against the light, a child standing to his right. He has a hand on her head. “Gary?” he calls. “Is that you?” My uncle swears and pulls his jacket up around his ears. He’s buzzing with nervous energy. “Stay here,” he tells me and steps out into the rain. It wets his thin bomber jacket and makes his brown hair stick to his head. It’s so di erent from my ink-black hair, the color from my father’s side. It’s the only feature I share with

him, although he hasn’t been around lately for me to double-check. I watch as he talks with the man, this Mr. Marchand. The girl at his side is peering out into the rain. She can’t see me, not through this darkness and the rain. Besides, Gary always tints his car windows. She disappears back into the house. My stomach growls again, but I ignore it. It’s only a nuisance when Gary hears it. I hate making him feel guilty. I hate being a burden. The girl comes running out of the house, a raincoat hastily pulled on and an umbrella in her hand. She stops by my door and pushes back tresses of long, auburn hair. She’s younger than me, but probably not by much. “Hello? Are you in there?” I take a deep breath and double-check the Band-Aids across my right knuckles. Don’t let them see that you’ve been ﬁghting, Gary had said, and shook his head when I’d tried to explain that I was only defending myself. Then I open the door and set foot in Paradise Shores for the ﬁrst time.

“Rogue” is a second-chance novel, starring a brooding bad boy looking to win back the girl of his dreams, a ﬁesty heroine with plenty of opinions, and tons of gut-wrenching feels.

ABOUT OLIVIA Olivia Hayle writes contemporary romances made out of sugar, spice and all things nice—with a pinch of heat, of course! She’s a happily-ever-after addict who loves her cups of tea large, her men tall and her chocolate dark. When she’s not knee-deep in creating new book boyfriends, you can ﬁnd her interacting with fans on any of her social media platforms or with her head in a good book. Join her newsletter for updates and bonus content. Read more about her at www.oliviahayle.com. Connect with Olivia