I sigh, wondering if bringing him coffee again was a mistake. The argument in the car has left me confused and exhausted. Honestly, it’s been a roller coaster since I arrived at the firm. Maybe Aidan’s right, and I should quit. I’m only here to placate my father, but it’s hardly worth it. The fallout with Dad wouldn’t be nearly as unpleasant as arguing with a man who seems to want me one moment and hate me the next.
But when I imagine walking into my father’s office to tell him I can’t do it, my stomach churns. I’ve already flunked out of college. Already proven to him on multiple levels that I’m a failure. This studio project is something I couldactuallybe good at. Is it too much to want to do well at something? Justonelittle thing?
Maybe instead, this is my chance to show Dad college wasn’t a complete waste. My life might not look how he wants it to, but I can prove I have good ideas. That I have something valuable to contribute beyond getting coffee. Then I won’t only get him off my back financially, he might trust me to make some decisions for myself, for once.
Perhaps the more important question is, what do I have to lose by trying? For the first time in ages, I’mexcitedabout something. I’ve missed this feeling. Honestly, part of me wondered if it would ever return.
And the thing is, once I’m interested in something, I find it kind of impossiblenotto pursue it. It’s like an itch in my brainI have to scratch. I can already feel the urge to dive into this, despite what Aidan said, and I want to explore that.
Besides, it’s the least I can do after putting him in this situation, right? If I can help in any way, I probably owe it to him.
I waver, deciding it’s better if I don’t say anything yet. After the way we left things in the Uber, who knows what he’s thinking? But I know one thing, he won’t accept my help on this project unless Ishowhim what I can do.
I set the coffee down on his desk, give him a tight smile, and turn to go.
“Iris…” he says quietly, stopping me in my tracks.
I glance back, and he hesitates. For a second I think he’s going to apologize, but he looks down at his hands.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he murmurs.
It’s not an apology, but it feels like a step forward.
“You’re welcome.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, then picks up the coffee, turning back to his drafting table.
And I head back to my desk, excited to get to work.
11
AIDAN
Ispend all weekend working on plans for the Bushwick studios and get nowhere. At 150 square feet, the apartments might technically meet code, but every time I try to make it work, my brain keeps reaching for space that isn’t there. I’m used to thinking in feet, not inches.
The work is a good distraction, though. Iris spent the rest of Friday afternoon working quietly at her desk, giving me space to breathe. I half wondered if she would even come back to the office after the way I spoke to her in the Uber, so it was a surprise to look up and find her in my doorway, holding a cup of coffee.
And evenmoreof a surprise to find I felt awful.
Because I shouldn’t, right? She had it coming. She’s supposed to be my assistant—as inassistingme, making my job easier. Instead, she’s nothing but a walking temptation. As if that’s not enough, I’m now saddled with a project I don’t want, while she promises miracles tomyclients.
But that didn’t stop guilt from eating at me all weekend, despite the headache these studios are turning out to be.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’m in a shitty mood. I bet my father never had to work on projects like this. Asa prominent New York architect, his mark is across the city. Not in inconsequential shoebox apartments, but in grand structures that make people stop and look up, not duck their heads to squeeze inside. The scale of them—the prestige—is thrilling, even if they feel a little impersonal and removed from everyday life.
It’s snowing when I pull my Mercedes into my usual parking space outside our offices on Fruit Street, and I heave a sigh as I step from the car. I can’t tell John I don’t want the project, not when I’m on the cusp of making partner. That will make me look ungrateful at best, unprofessional and incompetent at worst. I just need to suck it up and get the damn thing over with. Hope John will reward me when it’s done.
Given the early hour, I expect to have the offices to myself when I arrive, but my office door is ajar. I pause in the doorway when I spot Iris, standing at my drafting table with her back to me, humming quietly to herself.
My mouth goes dry. Caramel waves spill down her back, that same indigo wool dress she wore in Marco’s clinging indecently to her ass, black heels making her legs unimaginably long. For a second, my irritation is eclipsed by the primal urge to cross the room and sweep her hair to one side, to sink my teeth into the soft skin of her neck before bending her roughly over my desk. My dick twitches in my slacks, and I snap myself out of it by dumping my briefcase on the desk.
Iris jumps, spinning around to look at me. Color stains her cheeks as she hastily snatches something off my desk. I lift my brows, holding out my hand, and she reluctantly passes me the item. It’s a small, neatly-constructed model of one of the studio apartments, with the bed on a raised platform. Shit, that’s clever. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Did you make this?” I ask in surprise.
Iris nods, holding her breath. I examine it more closely, realizing it’s not only well made, it’s well thought out. The layout is functional, achieving a lot in the small space, maximizing the light, and adding additional storage.
“It’s not half bad,” I admit.
