John’s been trying to get one of us to take on the Bushwick studios for weeks, a project he only accepted as a favor for a friend, but my name was never on the table. Four tiny studios in a building in Bushwick that are barely big enough to meet code, let alone leave any space to design with intention. He knows they’re not my area of interest or expertise and something one of the junior architects should take.
But now they’re my problem.
I shake my head as I wait outside the Bushwick building, the freezing January weather doing nothing to help my mood. I was in line to take the Whitmore Museum expansion, the kind of project that makes or breaks careers. Instead, John gives me this. After years of proving myself, it’s like a demotion. A punishment.
I get it. John’s making a point. Missing meetings makes it seem like I’m not taking the job seriously. Like I’m not responsible enough to be a partner, even if I’ve shown him time and again that I am.
Even if his daughter is the reason I’m in this mess.
But he’s hardly going to blameher, is he? Not when he’s the one who brought her in. Not when she gives him that look of wide-eyed innocence.
I curse under my breath, and it forms a white mist in the cold air. If Iris had just used the damn online calendar like she’s supposed to, this never would have happened. But no, she wanted to write things in her notebook, like she’s in high school. How the fuck is that supposed to help me?
I glance at my watch, impatience gnawing at me. She’s supposed to be here for our meeting with the client in three minutes, but I’m not expecting her. Time management doesn’t seem to be her strength. First, the issues with my calendar, then she didn’t order lunch until after two yesterday, and only because I reminded her. She seems to run on her own schedule, her own internal laws.
“Hi.”
I glance to my left, surprised to find Iris, clutching three to-go cups. She holds one out with a hopeful smile that makes me pause. My gaze sweeps over her before I can stop it, taking in her navy wool coat, the same heels she wore yesterday, emphasizing her long legs. She’s got a baby-blue beanie on her head with a fuzzy pompom at the tip, and it’s infuriatingly adorable. The cold has made her cheeks flush pink, her blue eyes bright, lips as full and plump as they were wrapped around my cock four days ago. The memory sends a flash of heat through me, even in the frigid air, and I find myself wishing weweren’tgoing upstairs to meet with a client.
I tear my gaze away with a curse.She’s twenty-six, I remind myself. John’s daughter.
And a pain in my ass.
“Thanks,” I mutter, begrudgingly taking a coffee from her. “Who’s the other one for?” I ask, motioning to the third cup.
“David Lancaster,” she replies with a shrug. Our client.
I frown. “You don’t even know if the guy drinks coffee.”
She gives me an odd look. “This is New York. Everyone drinks coffee. Besides, it seemed rude to show up without one for him.”
I shake my head, looking away. She can’t get her shit together when I have an important meeting, but goes out of her way to grab coffee for someone she’s never met. In what universe does that make sense?
“Let’s go,” I mutter, pressing the buzzer until the front door pops open.
We enter the building—an old walk-up that’s seen better days—and climb to the top floor, where the client’s waiting. The stairs are narrow and uneven, lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs, and with each step, my resentment grows. I’ve worked on luxury penthouses and million-dollar brownstone remodels. Sure, they’re more polish that substance, but that’s not the point. How am I supposed to prove myself and make partner if John sticks me with busywork like this?
“I shouldn’t be here,” I mutter under my breath.
“I don’t mind it,” Iris says behind me, voice chipper. “The building has character.”
“I have to squeeze four apartments onto the top floor,” I remind her, watching as my polished loafers leave footprints on the filthy stairs. “They’re barely over the minimum to meet code. I’ve worked on closets bigger than that.”
“Small doesn’t necessarily mean bad,” she quips, and something about her flippant, bubbly tone makes anger boil inside me.
We reach the landing at the top, and I spin to face her, jaw hard. I don’t even know why she’s here. It’s not like I need the distraction, and what can she possibly contribute?
“Don’t pretend this isn’t your fault, Cupcake,” I bite out.
Shit. Didn’t mean to call her that again. Every time I’m around her that damn word slips out, that’s how much she gets under my skin.
And I don’t like it.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “You’re the reason I’m wasting my time on a project like this.”
Her cheeks color as I glare at her, and a flicker of remorse passes through me. But she lifts her chin, gaze burning with defiance, and any guilt I feel dies away.
“A good architect can make any space work,” she counters.
