I shrug. “Your title would reflect your role. Designer. Partner. Both. Whatever we choose. The point is, you’d be building thiswithme.”
“With you,” she whispers. I wait for her to smile, but a frown creases her brow. “But what if… Knowing what I know now, what if I can’t stick with it? What if I get bored? I’ve had so many jobs, Aidan. So many hobbies…”
I soften. Of course, her mind goes to the ways she might mess up. That’s going to be a hard habit to shake, one I’m all too happy to help her with.
“We’ll deal with that if the time comes,” I say gently. “But it’s our firm, and we have the power to choose. To look for projects that genuinely excite us, challenge us. God knows I need that as much as you.” I reach for her face, stroking my thumb softly over her cheek. “Your ADHD doesn’t mean you can’t stick with things, sweetheart. It just means you need to follow what interests you. How can that not be a good thing? We’ll let your enthusiasm and passion guide us.” I give her a wry smile. “I know one thing for sure: we’ll never be bored.”
She issues a quiet laugh. “That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”
“Exactly,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to hers.
She bounces on her toes, like she’s already excited and can’t wait to get started. “So, what do we do now?”
“I’ve drafted a business plan, and I’m still coming up with a name for the firm. We need to find an office somewhere, because…” I motion around us to my living room, too full to move, and she laughs. “And then we need clients. A project to actually work on.”
She stills suddenly, as if realizing something, her breath catching.
“You okay?” I ask, and she nods, a grin curling along her lips.
“A project?” Her eyes sparkle as she reaches for her phone. “I think I’ve got the perfect one.”
40
AIDAN
It’s strange driving along Fruit Street again. It’s only been a few days, but everything has changed. I almost expect to feel some nostalgia, maybe even a flicker of doubt about my decision to walk away, but all I feel is relief. I spent so long in those offices, working my ass off for something it turns out I didn’t even want.
Didn’t evenneed.
Iris glances at me as we pass the offices, as if checking I’m okay, and I squeeze her thigh. We stayed up all night brainstorming ideas for the name of our new firm, eventually settling on something we both love:Lighthouse Architecture Studio. We agreed not to use Prescott because neither of us wanted the tie to John, and I knew if her name couldn’t be in it, mine wouldn’t be either. I wanted something that captured us both.
When Iris suggested the wordlighthouse, inspired by the one we’d visited in Wetherly Cove on the weekend that brought us together, it felt right. Especially since we want to take on more unique projects like it.
Which is where we’re headed today. Iris knows someone with a carriage house in Brooklyn Heights who needs an architect, and she’s convinced we’re the right firm for the job.
She consults the map app on her phone, pointing to a tiny side alley called Lemon Lane, off Fruit Street. “Down there,” she says, and I turn, pulling up outside a dilapidated Federal-style carriage house.
I shut off the engine. As we climb from the car, I take in the symmetrical, two-story structure. It’s red brick, with a large central arched door over what would have once been a horse stable. To the left is a wooden door, ajar, and above sit three identical windows under a peaked roof. The paint surrounding the window trims is chipped and peeling in places, ivy creeping up the brickwork, over mortar that’s seen better days, past the missing panes from one of the windows.
I nudge the front door open a little more, and it creaks on its hinges. A musty smell seeps from inside, and when I spy debris and old wood strewn across the brick floor, I get a flashback to the Wetherly lighthouse. It makes me smile. Iris slides her hand into mine, and warmth spreads through my chest when I see the excitement in her eyes.
The door opens abruptly, and I step back. A guy fills the frame, around my age, with dark hair and a beard flecked with gray, a flannel shirt open over a tee and worn jeans.
“You must be Aidan,” he says warmly, dropping a measuring tape into the tool belt around his waist and extending his hand. I take it in my own.
“Yes.” I glance at Iris. I’d thought we were meeting a woman. “Sorry, you’re…”
“Kyle. Kyle Armstrong.”
A short blond appears beside him and extends her hand too. “I’m Violet, Kyle’s wife and business partner.”
I glance between them in surprise. Hiswife? She looks to be at least fifteen years younger than him.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Aidan,” she adds, grinning.
Finally?
I arch a brow, glancing at Iris, whose cheeks turn pink as Violet pulls her into a hug. She’s got the lighthouse plans rolled in a tube under one arm, fumbling a little as Violet and her part. It occurs to me she’s nervous, and my heart squeezes. I touch my hand to her lower back, steadying her.
