“Right,” I say dryly. “And you’ve got a degree in architecture, do you?”
The flush on her face deepens, gaze faltering, and I smirk.
“Exactly. So let me do the talking, okay?” I straighten my tie. “The sooner this is over, the sooner we can get back to work that actually matters.”
Iris’s gaze darts over my shoulder, her brow knitting. I turn to find a guy waiting with folded arms and a frown. Our client, I presume.
Fuck.
Iris clears her throat, stepping past me. “Mr. Lancaster,” she says, smiling broadly. “I’m Iris Prescott, Mr. Brooks’s assistant.”
I watch the guy, a slim, thirty-something man with blond hair, a tan-colored peacoat, and beady eyes, as he contemplates me for a beat longer, then looks at Iris.
“I, uh, hope you take milk in your coffee?” she says hopefully, holding out one of the cups.
He hesitates for a moment, then takes it from her, sharp features softening with a smile. “I do, Miss Prescott,” he says, in a crisp British accent. “Thank you.”
She beams, glancing back at me. There’s a twinkle in her eye, almost as if to sayYou’re welcome, but I ignore it.
“Aidan Brooks,” I say, extending a hand.
The guy looks at me warily, taking my hand in his. “David Lancaster.” We shake for one, two, three beats, tension brewing between us.
It’s my fault. I should never have criticized the project on site, regardless of my personal feelings. That’s the height of unprofessionalism.
But with Iris hovering beside me, I can’t bring myself to apologize. As much as it might be the right thing to do, I can’t stand the thought of losing face in front of her.
I’m not sure I want to know why.
Instead, I take a deep breath, force a tight smile, and motion to the doorway behind him. “Ready to show us the space?”
David nods, leading us into what can only be described as an architect’s nightmare: low ceilings, old pipes, angles that make no sense. The lack of natural light is astounding, and the space somehow seems smaller than I imagined. How on earth will we fit four entire apartments up here?
David talks us through his vision, outlining the budget and timeline, while I stare at him in disbelief. “Make it rentable,” he says as he wraps up. “I don’t care how small, as long as it’s legal.”
I stifle a snort. It might be legal, but that doesn’t make itright. No one should have to cram their life into a space this small. I glance at Iris, hoping for some sign of agreement, like a wince to acknowledge she sees it too, but she’s got her notebook open, pen moving quickly across the page. Her nose is scrunched in concentration, and I pretend not to notice how cute it is.
I glance away with a sigh, rubbing my temple. In all my years in this job, I’ve never once told a client they were asking for the impossible. Marble foyers, wine cellars, rooftop terraces, you name it. But as I gaze at this space and think of what he’s asking, four apartments with a minimum of 150 square feet of living space, plus a kitchen and bathroom in each, I realize there’s a first time for everything.
I draw breath to speak, but David turns to Iris.
“What do you think, Iris?” he asks, then backtracks, “Can I call you Iris?”
A light blush stains her cheeks. “Of course.”
He gives her a confident grin, and it sets my teeth on edge. I narrow my eyes as he continues, “Well, Iris, I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
She taps her pen to her lips, tilting her head to one side. “I think it’s great. There’s so much you can do with this space.”
I scoff. “You can’t be serious,” I say without thinking, and David bristles beside me. I turn to him with an apologetic expression. “Forgive me, but you’re asking a lot. Do people really want to live somewhere they can barely fit a mattress?”
“People want to live somewhere affordable in a highly sought-after neighborhood,” David replies coolly. “That’s what I’m giving them.”
Iris’s brow knits with worry. “I think what Mr. Brooks means,” she begins, giving him a placating smile, “is that there will be challenges with the space. There’s no denying that, but we can easily make these feel twice the size they are. People are going to love living here.”
I glare at her. I know she thinks she’s saying the right thing, but she’s doing so at my expense.I’mthe one who has to turn these shoeboxes into livable space, regardless of her casual use of “we.”
“Excellent.” David grins. His gaze moves to me, his smile dimming somewhat, and something about that riles me.
