And that’s a very dangerous feeling.
I turn on my computer and open my inbox, casting my eyes over the emails that have piled up since Mandy left. Now’s the perfect time to dive in and tackle them, but the woman from yesterday appears in my head again. Even an hour at the gym this morning wasn’t enough to erase the memory of her. I can’t put my finger on what, exactly, drew me to her, but I know it wasn’t simply her looks. Of all the beautiful women I’ve been with, I’ve never felt the pull I felt yesterday. Never wanted to give more than take, for once. Nevercared.
And then there’s the way she felt so fucking good in my arms. Looked so good on her knees. I wanted to return the favor, to thrust inside her and make her feel as good as she made me feel. Last night I tried to jerk off, but after twenty fruitless minutes, I gave up. I could have watched porn like I usually do, but all I could think of was the woman from Marco’s. Her long caramel hair, her sweet orange blossom scent, the way she trembled when I touched her. All I could do was imagine what it would be like to have her in my bed. And the more I thought about it, the more I regretted leaving when I did. I never got to feel the tight heat of her, never got to learn what makes her feel good. I’ll never know how she sounds, how she tastes, the faces she makes when she comes. Never know what makes her smile, and what, exactly, it was that hurt her yesterday, so I can be sure it doesn’t happen again.
Shit, listen to me.
I drag my hands down my face, heaving an agonized breath. I’m not this guy. I’ve never been this guy. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dabbled in the occasional relationship, but I’ve realized they’re not worth the price. More than anything, they’re a distraction from what matters most. My life revolves around work, and I like it that way. I’m damn good at what I do, even if it feels like I have to prove myself over and over again. Even if it feels as though I live my entire life in my father’s shadow.
So, yes. It’s just as well I’ll never see that woman again. I learned a long time ago that I had to make a choice between love and work. The last thing I need is to take my eye off the ball right now, not when what I’ve spent years working toward is within reach. I don’t need anything complicating my life, especially not a woman.
All I need is work.
I lift my coffee to my lips, screwing up my face at the bitter taste. I don’t know where Mandy used to get my morning coffee, but it was ten times better than this crap. Even our office coffee isn’t this bad.
I shove to my feet and head to the kitchenette, dump the coffee in the trash, and turn on our coffeemaker to warm. Leaning against the counter, I fold my arms, casting my gaze around our office as I wait.
Prescott & Associates operates out of a double-wide Italianate brownstone on Fruit Street, a quiet residential street in Brooklyn Heights lined with pin oak and ginkgo trees. The firm spans three floors, housing the junior architects—Simon and Akira—as well as John, Aidan Boscolo, and me. With two Aidans in the office, everyone calls me by my surname, Brooks.
My office is on the second floor with John’s and the other Aidan’s. There’s a kitchenette and an open area with three desks, for Tash, John’s assistant, Dani, Aidan’s assistant, and Mandy, who’s mine.
Well, she was.
I frown as I push a pod into the coffee machine and press the button. John was pissed I missed our meeting yesterday, and he had every right to be. After my father died, John became a mentor to me, taking me under his wing and teaching me everything he knew. So what if our personal tastes are different? He’s a brilliant architect, and anyone would be lucky to learn from him. I should know better than to miss a meeting withJohn Prescott, a meetingIscheduled, for fuck’s sake, to discuss me taking on the Whitmore Museum expansion. I’mthisclose to making partner here—to getting my name on that brass sign out front—and missing meetings because I’m getting a blowjob in a bar isnota good look.
Not that I told John that, of course. Fuck, no. When I got back from lunch yesterday, I locked myself in my office, then spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, thinking of her.
And hating myself for it.
The coffee machine splutters as it finishes, and I add a dash of creamer to my coffee before carrying it back to my office. I take a sip as I check my emails, but somehow, it’s worse than the stuff from earlier.
I need a replacement for Mandy ASAP.
“Brooks.”
I glance up as John pokes his head into my office on the way past. “Morning, John.” I return to my screen, then glance up again, catching him before he leaves. “Actually, do you have a minute?”
He pushes my door open further, filling the frame. John’s in his late-fifties, with a head of thinning gray hair, a clean jaw, and icy-blue eyes. He started the firm twenty years ago, focusing on luxury and institutional projects targeted at wealthy, private clients. When I first arrived, there were big promises about making partner, but that was eight years ago. I’m getting impatient. I’ve proven my worth a hundred times over, but John doesn’t reward people easily.
And missing that damn meeting didn’t help.
“I want to advertise for a replacement for Mandy today,” I tell him, pushing my coffee away. “Could you get Tash to—”
“No need,” John cuts in. “I’ve found her replacement.”
I scratch my chin, absorbing this. I’d hoped to interview people myself, find someone who’s a good fit for me and theway I work, someone efficient and focused. Another Mandy, essentially.
“Who?” I ask.
“My daughter will step in.”
I furrow my brow. “Yourdaughter?”
“Yes,” John says firmly, making it clear this isn’t up for negotiation.
But I’m not impressed. John almost never mentions his wife or daughter, and henevermixes personal with professional. It’s one of the things I admire about him most. So hearing his daughter will be working for me is completely out of left field.
“Has she got experience?”
