Her breath rushes out in relief. I glance up to find her lips curled in a tentative smile, and it hits me hard in the chest. We’ve done nothing but argue since she arrived, and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to make her smile.
Like the day we met.
I think of the first time she smiled in Marco’s—really smiled, not the fake one she put on after returning from the restroom, after she’d obviously been crying. No, the first time she smiled was when I ordered her a drink. Something so small that seemed to make her entire day better.
That smile mademyday better.
A rough breath escapes me as I set the model down on my desk. Why do I keep doing this? Thinking of Marco’s? The circumstances were entirely different then. For one, I thought she was at least five years older than she actually is. And two, she wasn’t my boss’s daughter. She wasn’t nearly as off-limits as she is now. Even if I could get past her age, even if my career wasn’t at stake, I could never do that to John. He’s been my mentor for years, a friend of my father’s even longer. He doesn’t deserve me going behind his back and making a move on his daughter, even if we’ve already crossed that line.
Even if it’sallI can think about.
I glance around the room, desperately grasping for a way to take back control of the situation. That’s when I notice she’s been working on my drafting table. It’s covered in papers and not where it usually is. I pounce on the distraction.
“What have you done to my office?” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but I let them hang. I’d planned ona quiet morning to make headway on the Bushwick plans, and instead I arrive to find her taunting me in that dress, holding a model of the studios that’s annoyingly good.
Messing with my careful sense of order and control.
She flinches at my sudden change in tone. “Sorry,” she says, flustered. “The light is better by the window. I… I just moved the drafting table a little.”
“A little?” I echo. “It’s on the other side of the room.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles again. She snatches the model off my desk, hastily shoving it under one arm as she turns back to the drafting table.
I study her, thrown. What happened to the woman who snapped at me in the car on Friday? I was expecting a snarky comeback, more of her bratty attitude. As irritating as it is, I’d take that any day over the woman cowering in front of me. Especially when I suspectI’mthe reason.
“I’ll put this back and get out of your way,” she mutters. She tugs on the table, the legs screeching against the floorboards as she attempts to return it to its original position, and I sigh in frustration, though I’m not sure if it’s with her or myself.
“Leave it,” I mutter. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I can do it,” she grits through the effort of moving it. But the foot of the table catches on the edge of the rug, sending her stumbling onto her ass, the table landing at an awkward angle beside her, the model under her arm collapsing with a crunch.
“Shit, Iris.” I’m at her side in an instant. “Are you okay?” Concern lances through me as I reach for her, fingers brushing her arm. She’s breathless as our eyes lock, her skin heating under my touch. It sends a shock of awareness through me, and I yank my hand away, cursing myself.
“I’m fine,” she says, dropping her gaze. She pulls the crumpled remains of her model from under her arm and inspects them with a sigh. “Damn. This took mehours.”
My gaze snags on the drafting table, and that’s when I notice one leg has snapped clean off. I pick the piece of wood up with shaking hands, swallowing hard. This table was my father’s, and one of my most prized possessions. The table where he designed some of the city’s most impressive buildings.
Iris notices the broken leg and cringes. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are wide when they come to mine. “I’ll replace the table, okay?”
My lips press into a thin line. “You can’t.”
“I’m sure I can,” she tries to assure me. “You can find anything online.”
I glare at her, and she shrinks, beginning to ramble.
“They have these new drafting tables now with light boxes, have you seen them? Oh, of course you have. Dad has one.” A laugh squeaks out of her. “Well, I’m sure we could get one of those, and they’re actuallybetterbecause—”
“I don’t want one of those!” I snap, startling us both.
She blanches, curling into herself. I press my fingers to my temple, inhaling slowly. My mind flashes back to Sophie, aged eight, when she built a fort in our living room. She draped a blanket over the back of the sofa, securing it under one corner of our father’s record player, but she tripped while pretending to be a mermaid, pulling the blanket and record player to the floor. By some stroke of luck, nothing broke, but with the way our father exploded, you’d think she’d burned the house to the ground. I tried to tell Dad it was an accident, but he didn’t care, and I resented the way he made Sophie cry. The way healwaysmade her cry.
Especially after Mom left.
Blowing out a breath, I push to my feet, telling myself this is the same. An accident. I’m annoyed about the table, but if I’m honest, I’m more annoyed by the woman herself. By the things she’s making me feel.
I look down at the piece of wood in my hand. The break is clean enough that I can probably repair it.
“Here,” I say, extending a hand to help Iris to her feet, but a sound at the door makes me turn.
