His icy stare turned molten, his eyes narrowing as if trying to assign a name to my defiance. I suspected he didn’t hear ‘no’ very often. He lifted an eyebrow in challenge, and a smile pulled at my lips.
“I want to learn everything from you. I don’t get coffee or copies, and I don’t do busywork. Your philosophy on the role of sustainability and efficient design in preservation shaped my entire approach as an undergrad and beyond, and I’ve spent the past five years absorbing every field experience possible to prepare me forthiswork. Withyou. Atthisfirm. I want to learn fromyou, Mr. Walsh. I want to learn the soul of preservation. I want to learn everything you have to teach me because your work fascinates and enthralls me.”
On top of Patrick’s vision seeping into my blood and bones, his family was gaining legend status in their corner of the architectural universe. In an age when architecture had more to do with erecting sterile filing cabinets as lifeless boxes for work and home, and sustainability was being co-opted as a hollow branding strategy, the Walsh family was proving boutique firms could run with the big dogs.
Their successes weren’t accidental. It was clear they ran a tight ship, and I knew much of the credit belonged to Shannon Walsh. Talking to the petite redhead was like being caught in a tornado—she yelled, exaggerated wildly, cursed like a frat boy, and walked faster in four-inch stilettos than physics should allow. The aggressive click of her heels coupled with the fifteen hair-thin jingling silver charm bracelets on her wrist meant everyone knew when Shannon was coming, and they made sure to pass inspection.
“Is there anything else, Miss Asani?” Patrick asked, his voice taking on a thick, gravelly quality that tickled the hairs on the back of my neck.
I didn’t want to talk about architecture anymore. I only wanted that voice. And it was all wrong.
“This is the only apprenticeship I want,” I continued, my eyes zeroing in on Patrick. “I know everyone you’ve interviewed. Zemario? He’s only interested in checking off the historical box so he can get started on his doctorate and teach undergrads how to hold a ruler. Heywood? He wants residential—McMansions—and he’s going to leave the second something opens up in the Sun Belt. Morton-Myers? He’s smart, but lazier than most housecats. I’m the one for you, Mr. Walsh. You’re not going to meet anyone else as eager to learn from you or as invested in sustainable prez.”
Patrick ran his thumb and forefinger along his chin, his stubble rasping against his fingers and filling the silence with a slight grating sound. He stared at me, and I held his gaze while curiosity replaced his chilly indifference.
“You know a lot about the competition.”
“I make it a priority to always know what I’m going up against,” I replied. “And as I’m sure you know, there’s no shortage of gossip at Cornell.”
“Do you always succeed? Do you always know what you’re up against?”
I offered a slight shrug.
“All right. Andy, it was amazing to meet you,” Shannon interjected, an eye trained on her brother.
The articles I read about Shannon suggested she knew her shit and enough of everyone else’s too—real estate license at eighteen, first seven-figure sale at twenty, business degree at twenty-one, law degree at twenty-five. Everything I read pointed to her real estate savvy as the kick-start Walsh Associates needed to survive and thrive through the housing market crisis, though she insisted that success was a product of their team.
And fuck me if I didn’t want to be on that team more than I wanted warm blood pumping in my veins.
“We expect to finalize our candidate pool this week, and you’ll be hearing from me. Can I give you directions to South Station, or call you a cab? Do you have a sense about town?”
“No need,” I replied, my eyes locked on Patrick while I responded to Shannon. “I’m here a few more days.”
Standing, Shannon extended her hand across the table. “In that case, enjoy the week and stay out of the cold. Not too different from Ithaca, I know, but I think we have better restaurants.”
“More variety,” I offered. “I’ll take Boston over Ithaca any day.”
“Funny,” Shannon said as she rounded the table and gestured toward the door. “Patrick says the exact same thing.” Shaking her head, she smiled. “My assistant, Tom Esbeck, will show you out. Again, so fantastic to finally meet you.” She leaned out the door and bellowed, “Tom!”
I nodded, taking in the pristinely preserved Beacon Hill offices. Working here would be a dream come true.
I glanced back at Patrick. He didn’t offer any parting words or acknowledgement, but the inquisitiveness in his eyes seemed to grow with each moment I held his gaze. I felt his stare on me as I exited the conference room, and a subtle toss of my hair told me he was still staring when I walked down the hallway.
Chapter Two
PATRICK
Whatwasthat?What the actual hell was that?
A long curtain of dark, wavy hair caught my eye through the conference room windows. I stared after it, half expecting to develop X-ray vision to see through brick walls, half hating myself for noticing it in the first place.
Shannon leaned against the door and squealed, “She is freaking awesome!”
Andy was nothing like the other candidates with their nervous tics, obvious immaturity, and shortage of authentic interest in this type of work.
She radiated cool confidence. Her gestures were measured and meaningful, her speech deliberate.
How she could sit there while I hit her with impossible scenarios and answer as if she expected the goddamn questions, cool as a fucking cucumber, was beyond me. I dug in with increasingly outlandish questions—problemsIwas trying to bendmybrain around—with the perverted hope I’d break that cool.
