“Well,” Teeny says as we climb the steps together, “he certainly isn’t Devon.”
“No,” I agree, glancing back to watch Conor’s retreating figure. “He certainly isn’t."
CHAPTER 4
CONOR
Morning light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across the polished concrete floor. I lean back in my chair, yesterday’s meeting with Betsy Miller still fresh in my mind—her quick intelligence, the confident strokes of her pen across those coffee shop napkins, the way her dark eyes lit up when she spoke about her vision.
“So,” Nicole says, breaking into my thoughts as she drops a stack of contracts on my desk. “Have you decided which architect you’re going with? The Parsons guy was practically salivating at the budget.”
I straighten in my chair, smoothing my tie against my chest. “I’ve made my decision. Elisabeth Miller.”
Nicole raises an eyebrow, the thin arch disappearing beneath her copper bangs. “Miller? She wasn’t on our shortlist initially.”
“I met her yesterday. She goes by Betsy.” The name feels intimate on my tongue, like savoring the first sip ofan expensive scotch. “She has a completely different approach than the others.”
“Different how?” Nicole crosses her arms, her silver bracelets clinking against her crisp white blouse. Her stance shifts into what I recognize as her bullshit-detector mode—shoulders squared, chin slightly lowered, green eyes narrowed to analytical slits. In the fifteen years she’s been my Chief of Operations, she’s developed an uncanny ability to see through corporate façades—and my own occasional lapses in judgment—with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“She sees constraints as creative opportunities rather than obstacles and understands the preservation requirements that made the others panic. She was already sketching solutions before I’d finished explaining them.” I tap my Mont Blanc pen against the polished mahogany desk, the sharp metallic rhythm matching the quickening of my pulse. “No ego, no pretension, just pure talent and vision that cuts through all the architectural jargon like a hot knife through butter.”
Nicole’s manicured fingers fly across her tablet, nails clicking against the glass like raindrops on a window. “Let me just take a quick look at her portfolio...” Her expression shifts subtly as she scrolls—first professional curiosity, then the unmistakable arch of her right eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Oh. I see.”
“What?” I say, my voice sharper than intended.
She turns the tablet toward me with deliberate slowness, which makes my jaw clench. There on the screen is Betsy’s professional headshot—those intelligent dark eyes like polished obsidian, full lips curved into a confident smile that reveals just a hint of perfectly straight teeth,dark hair falling in soft waves around her heart-shaped face, framing high cheekbones that catch the light even in a still photograph.
“You’re implying what, exactly?” I ask, forcing my expression to remain neutral while my fingertips press harder against the mahogany desktop. Nicole’s knowing look—the one she’s perfected over fifteen years of calling me on my bullshit—makes the back of my neck warm.
“Just noting that Ms. Miller happens to be stunning. Merely an observation.” Nicole’s voice is neutral, but her eyes dance with amusement. “Purely coincidental to your decision, I’m sure.”
“I’ve known you since Stanford, Campbell, back when you thought Ramen was a food group and wore that ridiculous corduroy blazer with elbow patches.” Nicole leans against my desk, arms crossed. “You haven’t looked this energized about a project—or a person—in years. You’ve got that same manic gleam you had before the Singapore merger.”
I yank my silk tie free with such force that it whistles through the air like a designer whip. “I’m meeting her at the site in an hour to review the space and discuss preliminary concepts.” My fingers fumble with my collar buttons like they’ve suddenly forgotten how opposable thumbs work.
“On a Saturday?” Nicole’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shoot up toward her copper hairline, her emerald eyes widening with barely concealed amusement.
“The board meeting is this Thursday. We need to move quickly.” I run a hand through my thick dark hair, disheveling the careful styling I’d spent ten minutes onthis morning. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh, betraying me like a polygraph.
“Have Thomas bring the car around—the Audi, not the Range Rover.” Nicole nods, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her glossy mauve lips. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small diamond stud that catches the morning light. “I’ll let him know. And Conor?” “Yes?”
“It’s nice to see you excited about something again.” Nicole’s voice softens, the teasing edge replaced with genuine warmth. I grab my charcoal cashmere jacket from the back of my chair and the leather portfolio embossed with the Campbell Enterprises logo. The leather feels cool against my suddenly warm palms. “It’s a significant project,” I say, adjusting my cuffs with more attention than necessary. “Of course it is,” she replies, not bothering to hide the knowing smile that creases the corners of her eyes and reveals the small dimple in her right cheek.
Thomas navigates through Brooklyn’s weekend traffic with ease, the sleek black Audi purring beneath us as we weave between delivery trucks and yellow cabs. We glide to a stop at the curb outside the old textile factory, its weathered brick façade rising six stories against the cloudless October sky. Through the tinted windows, I see Betsy already waiting, her dark hair—glossy as wet ink—catching the sunlight as she studies the building, one hand shielding her eyes. She wears fitted jeans that hug the gentle curve of her hips and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled precisely to her elbows, exposingslender forearms adorned only with a delicate silver watch. More casual than yesterday’s charcoal pencil skirt and silk blouse, but no less striking against the backdrop of industrial Brooklyn.
“We’re seven minutes early, sir,” Thomas says, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Would you like me to circle the block?” “No, that’s fine.” I straighten my French cuffs, suddenly aware I might be overdressed in my tailored Armani slacks and custom blue oxford. My fingers linger on the platinum cufflinks my father gave me when I made partner. “I’ll call when we’re finished.”
As I step from the car onto the cracked sidewalk, Betsy turns, spotting me immediately. The October breeze catches a strand of her soft brown hair, lifting it across her cheek before she tucks it behind her ear with slender fingers. Her smile—genuine, warm, reaching all the way to her dark espresso eyes—sends an unexpected flutter through my chest, like turbulence on an otherwise smooth flight. I haven’t felt that particular sensation since my twenties, and it catches me off guard, making my next breath hitch slightly.
“Mr. Campbell,” she calls, her voice carrying clearly over the distant rumble of Brooklyn traffic as she extends her hand, a silver bangle sliding down her wrist.
“Conor, please,” I reply, her hand warm and small in mine, her grip surprisingly firm. “Thank you for making time on a Saturday.”
“Are you kidding? I couldn’t wait to see this space.” Her enthusiasm is contagious, her eyes bright with anticipation, crinkling slightly at the corners. “I was up half the night sketching ideas—my coffee maker got quite the workout.”
“Show me,” I say, genuinely eager to see what she’s come up with.
As we walk toward the building, I find myself hyperaware of her presence beside me—the faint scent of her perfume, a citrusy and clean fragrance, and the graceful confidence in her movements. I’ve built a career on rational decision-making, on careful analysis of risk and reward. I pride myself on emotional discipline, on never letting sentiment cloud judgment.
