“Not at all,” I reply, extending my hand. “I was early.”
His handshake is firm but not aggressive—a balance that seems to characterize everything about him. Up close,I catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive that doesn’t announce itself but invites me closer.
“I’ve been following your work since the Lindstrom renovation,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “Your use of space and light... It’s intuitive in a way that can’t be taught.”
The compliment warms my cheeks. “Thank you. Though I think my professors at Columbia might argue about what can and can’t be taught.”
He laughs—a genuine sound that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Fair point. Should we order first? I’m told thecortadohere is exceptional.”
For the next hour, I find myself lost in the most stimulating professional conversation I’ve had in months. Conor doesn’t just ask questions—he listens to my answers, building on my ideas rather than waiting for his turn to speak. When I explain my philosophy about architecture as a dialogue between structure and environment, he leans forward, elbows on the table, completely present.
“What about constraints?” he asks, tracing the rim of his empty cup. “Some architects see them as limitations. You seem to view them differently."
“Constraints are invitations,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the words flow. "They’re the difference between a blank canvas that paralyzes you and a framework that inspires creativity.” My voice gains confidence with each word, like a musician finding her rhythm.
His eyes never leave mine—blue pools framed by dark lashes that most men wouldn’t deserve. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for in our new headquarters. We needsomeone who sees the challenges of the site as opportunities.”
The site, as it turns out, is a former textile factory in DUMBO—all exposed brick and soaring iron-framed windows, with historical preservation requirements that protect even the worn loading dock doors and century-old freight elevator. As Conor describes his vision, my mind races with possibilities. I sketch rough ideas on napkins—quick, decisive strokes of my pen capturing floating mezzanines and light wells—while he watches, leaning forward until I can feel the warmth of his breath, his appreciation evident in the way his questions pause at precisely the right moments, as if he’s reading my thoughts before I can articulate them.
“You understand exactly what we need,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, creating a dimple in his left cheek that hadn’t been visible before. “Though I should warn you—my board is notoriously difficult to impress.” His fingers tap once against the napkin where I’d sketched a floating staircase, the pad of his index finger lingering on the corner of the paper.
“I don’t impress easily either,” I reply, then feel heat rise to my cheeks at the flirtatious edge in my voice, the warmth spreading down my neck like spilled wine.
Conor’s eyes darken slightly, deepening to indigo for just a heartbeat, but his response remains professional, his posture straightening almost imperceptibly. “Then we’re well-matched. I’d like to move forward with a contract, if you’re interested. And I’d like you to present your initial concepts at our board meeting next week.”
I blink, remembering Devon’s words from last year: “You’re too intense about your work, Bets. Dial it back inclient meetings.” Yet here’s Conor Campbell, CEO of a billion-dollar company, not just tolerating my passion but actively responding to it.
“I’d be delighted,” I say, gathering my sketches. “Though these are just rough ideas. I’ll need to visit the site before the meeting."
“Of course. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow, if that works for you.”
He pays our bill despite my protests and insists on walking me home when I mention I live nearby. The late afternoon sun casts shadows across the brownstone-lined street as we walk. Conor matches his stride to mine naturally, without the impatient edge Devon always has when we walk together.
“This is me,” I say, stopping at the steps of my building. “Thank you for the coffee and the opportunity.”
"The pleasure was mine,” Conor replies. “Your reputation is well-deserved, Ms. Miller.”
"Betsy, please."
“Betsy,” he repeats, and my name sounds different in his mouth somehow.
Before I can respond, a car door swings open, revealing a tiny woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair and bright, curious eyes.
“There you are, darling! I’ve been waiting for her for ages!” My grandmother strides from the backseat of her black town car with remarkable agility for someone who is seventy-five on her next birthday.
“Teeny!” I exclaim, embracing her. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow."
“Well, the bridge club was a disaster—Mildred kept forgetting we were playing contract, not duplicate—so Idecided to come early." Teeny’s gaze shifts to Conor, assessing him with unabashed interest. “And who is this handsome gentleman?”
"Conor Campbell, ma’am. A new client of your granddaughter’s.” He extends his hand to Teeny with the same respect he showed me earlier.
“Theresa Miller, but everyone calls me Teeny. Ironic, isn’t it?” My grandmother beams up at him. “New client? Well, you’ve chosen wisely. My Betsy is brilliant.”
"I’m quickly discovering that,” Conor agrees, his eyes finding mine again.
In this moment, with warm late-afternoon light gilding the edges of everything, something shifts inside me. It isn’t just professional recognition or physical attraction—though both are undeniably present. It’s the sensation of being truly seen, of having someone look at me and recognize not just my talent or appearance, but the essence of who I am.
As Conor says his goodbyes, promising to email the site details this evening, I catch Teeny’s knowing look. My grandmother has always been perceptive about people.
