“Shit,” I mutter, eyes widening. “Yes, I do.”
“I told him how much he’s hurt me, that I won’t let him push me around anymore. Then I quit.”
My lips part in awe. “You did?”
She nods, and pride surges through me, so strong I think I might burst. “God, I’msofucking proud of you, sweetheart.”
“Yes, well…” She cringes, her gaze flicking away. “You might not bequiteas thrilled to know I told him about us. He asked, and I didn’t want to lie. I wanted to own it.”
I scratch my chin as I absorb this, realizing I don’t care. If anything, I’m glad it’s out. No more hiding.
“How did he take it?”
“At first I thought he was worried about me, about you taking advantage of me by crossing the line, or something.” She releases a laugh that’s without mirth. “But all he really cared about was the firm’s reputation.”
I grind my jaw murderously. Fucking typical. John’s worried about damage control, not his daughter. I feel sorry for him, in a way. He doesn’t know any other way to be. My father was exactly the same. Putting his work above all else. Abovelove.
And I’m so fucking grateful that’s no longer me.
“And then…” Her eyes glint wickedly. “I rubbed salt in the wound by telling himallthe places we crossed the line together.”
“Oh, shit,” I say, surprised to find myself laughing. “For real?”
“Uh-huh. You should have seen his face.”
I pull her close again, burying my face in her hair with a chuckle. “I wish I could have.”
She sighs against me, soft and warm like home, and I decide it’s time to ask. To see if she wants the same things I do.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask, drawing away to study her face. “You’re free from John’s control. You can do anything.”
She scrunches her nose. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just impulsively marched in there and quit.”
We share a knowing smile at her use of the wordimpulsive.
“I’m thinking of starting my own firm,” I say, and her eyes light up.
“Oh, Ilovethat. That’s exactly what you should do.”
I smile at her enthusiasm. “I was wondering if you might be interested.”
She lifts her brows. “You want me to work for you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Color stains her cheeks. “Sorry, I thought—”
“I want you to workwithme. As my partner.”
She sucks in a breath, eyes moving between mine, as if searching for the catch. At last she asks, “Really?”
“Really.” I take her hands in mine, squeezing. “I want to choose projects we’re both excited about. Projects you can work on. Not as my assistant, Iris. As a designer. A real one. The way you should have been all along.”
Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, like she can’t decide what to say. “Can I…dothat? Without the qualification?”
“Yes. You can’t call yourself a licensed architect, but you can design, like you did with the studios and the lighthouse. As long as someone with a license signs off on the drawings”—I gesture to myself—“you can take on project work. This time, you’ll actually get the credit and the paycheck.”
Her eyes glitter with possibility. “What would I call myself, then?”
