She puffs up her cheeks, letting her breath trickle out. “I know. It’s just… I’ve never done this before, designed something and watched it come to life. What if I’ve overlooked a major issue? What if there’s a design flaw, or the reality isn’t—”
“Iris, honey.” I stifle a smile, stepping closer. “It’s perfect. We’ve already seen the basic layout, remember?”
Her lips twist in a smirk. “I was a little distracted that day.”
I chuckle, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “I know, but trust me, they’re amazing.”
She softens. “Thank you.” Her fingers tighten in mine, gaze warm. “For… everything. Believing in me. Letting me do this. Trusting me.”
Fuck, I love you.
The words sit poised on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them. I can’t tell her here, in this dusty stairwell under the flickering fluorescent lights. Not when her mind is on the studios.
And Idefinitelycan’t bring up ADHD yet, even if I’m more convinced than ever that it’s Iris.
Last night, despite the late hour, I went home and researched ADHD in women. It was startling to see so much of my sister in what I read, not only now, but growing up. All of Soph’s quirks, her creativity and chaos and charm, everything that makes her who she is. And the more I read, the more I thought about our father. He should have seen this in her, seen she struggled, but he was too obsessed with his work to care. Just as John is too dismissive, too focused on the firm’s reputation to consider his daughter.
And God, I don’t want to become that kind of man.
Guilt gnaws at me as I think about Soph, how long she struggled alone. Why didn’t I realize she needed help? If I had, could I have saved her years of heartache?
That question is the one thing pushing me to speak to Iris. She’s still young—a fact I’m all too aware of—and has so much life ahead of her. How might it improve if she gets the support she needs?
Because ADHD isreal. I had no idea how debilitating it could be, but it explains a lot. Why Iris struggled so much in college. Why she’samazingat some tasks that are incredibly difficult, like designing the floor plan of a lighthouse, for Christ’s sake, but unable to file a document, or email a client.
And then there’s the impulsive stuff, like the way she pulled me into the restroom at Marco’s without a second thought, which, not going to lie, I freaking loved. I loved the spontaneity of her touching herself in my office, crawling under my desk,letting me take her at our team-building event behind a fake waterfall. How she’s so eager and willing whenever I need her.
Which isallthe time. How could I not? I watched her at work today with this new information, seeing her in a different light. How hard she tries, how much she cares about doing things right. The way her mind works, connecting dots I didn’t know were there. I don’t care if I have to order my own damn lunch if it means I get to see her blossom.
Knowing this about her only makes me love her more, if that’s even possible. It only makes me want to help. To encourage her to see someone and find out if this is really what’s going on for her, or if there’s something else happening. Whatever it is, she deserves to know. To get support. I’ll support her however I can, but what if that’s not enough?
I drop another lingering kiss on her forehead, breathing in her sweet orange-blossom scent. “Let’s go see the magic you made, sweetheart.”
She sighs, and we climb the rest of the stairs hand in hand, only letting go when we reach the landing at the top. The door to 5A is open, and I knock on the doorframe, calling out to David. He crosses to us, taking my hand in a hearty shake.
“Aidan Brooks,” he says, in that familiar accent. His gaze moves to Iris, twinkling. “And Miss Iris Prescott. The woman of the hour.”
She laughs, tension loosening from her shoulders. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Lancaster.”
“I do.” He motions around him, the space bright and airy, lit by the last rays of sun as it creeps toward the horizon. “Look at this place. I could never have imagined it would look this good.”
I glance at Iris, giving her a good-naturedItold you solook, and she grins, cheeks pink.
“Well… thank you. I’m so glad you’re happy.”
“Ecstatic,” David corrects as I pull out my iPad for final checks.
With David effusive in his praise, Iris finally lets herself take in what she’s created. She wanders the space, running a finger along the countertop, pausing at the kitchen sink, as if imagining herself using it. Then she crosses to the raised platform in the bedroom, smiling to herself as she looks out the window to the street below. I want to go to her, to pull her close and tell her how amazing it is, this space I wrote off as too small, that she turned into four homes. I want to tell her how proud I am, that I think we could—should—do this together, on our own terms, without her father hovering.
But I’m hesitant, knowing there’s something else we need to discuss first. Knowing I need to get my ducks in a row before I potentially blow up my career. If I do that, I could take Iris down with me, and that’s the last thing I want.
After I’ve walked the studios, checked the finishes, and signed off on the last punch-list items, I shake David’s hand, congratulating him on a successful project. He mentions something about wanting to work with us again in the future, but I’m only half-listening, eager to get Iris to myself.
The minute we’re on the street, she turns to me, beaming. “Did you see that? Oh, my God. I can’t believe I did that.”
I pull her close, not caring we’re in public. “You sure did. I’msofreaking proud of you, Cupcake.” I grin, humming with pride from the inside out. “Let’s go. It’s Friday night, and I’m taking you out to celebrate.”
Her brows pop up. “Really?”
