Iris stirs the coffee, then hands me a chipped mug, motioning to the chair in the corner. I shake my head, refusing to take the only chair in the place, and she huffs in exasperation.
“You’re a guest. Take the damn chair.” Then she sinks onto the matching ottoman, stretching her long legs onto the bottom rung of the ladder, using it as a footstool. I settle into the worn blue wingback armchair, cradling my coffee.
“I’m sorry about your drafting table,” she murmurs, blue eyes finding mine over her mug. “I found a similar one online. It should arrive at the office in a couple weeks.”
I frown. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“No, it’s not about the table. It’s…” I shake my head, looking down into my mug. “The table was my father’s. I inherited it when he died.”
Her mouth falls open. “Oh. Shit. I’m so sorry. No wonder you were so angry.”
I decide to let her believe this is the reason for my outburst today. It’s a hell of a lot easier than explaining that, more than anything, the thing that’s getting under my skin isher.
“I think it can be repaired,” I add. “Can you cancel yours?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think so.”
I glance around her apartment, remembering her words about how it’s all she can afford. “What did it cost?”
She winces. “You don’t want to know.”
Guilt tunnels through me. I should never have let her walk out this morning like that. Fuck.
“I’ll reimburse you,” I say, setting my coffee on the windowsill to reach for my wallet, and amusement colors her features.
“You’ve got eight hundred bucks in cash on you?”
“Jesus,” I mutter. She spent $800? That’s outrageous. “No. But I’ll get it.”
A long breath gusts out of her. “It’s fine. I broke yours. I know it’s not the same, but…” She shrugs. “Now you’ve got a spare.”
I study her, taken aback. She wasted all that money on a new table for me, money she clearly doesn’t have, and she’s prepared to let it go? The thought doesn’t sit right in my head, and I try to make sense of it as I pick up my coffee again. Taking a sip, I wince at the bitter taste.
Iris watches me with amusement. “Told you you’d get your coffee. Bet you didn’t think it would taste this good, though.”
I smile wryly. It’s possibly the worst cup of coffee I’ve had in my life, but sitting beside Iris in her tiny apartment, I’m surprised to find I don’t mind. I let my gaze wander around the room, thinking back to the model she made. Now I see where she got her inspiration. Why she could use the space so well.
“I meant it this morning,” I tell her. “When I said your model was good.”
There’s a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, but she quickly hides it. “I believe what you said was,It’s not half bad.”
I chuff a laugh, nodding. “And I meant every word.”
She snorts. “Maybe college wasn’t a total waste then.”
I glance up. “You actually went to Columbia?”
She regards me carefully over her mug, as if trying to read something. “You really don’t know? I figured my father would have told you.”
“He hasn’t told me anything.”
She twists her lips to one side, then looks down at her mug. “Yes, I went to Columbia. Studied architecture.”
My mouth pops open in surprise. No wonder the model showed such a clear grasp of design principles. I assumed she’d picked that up from John.
“But…” I rub a hand over my beard, baffled. “Why are you working as myassistant, then?”
