I pull up to the curb beside her, but she doesn’t step forward. It’s not until I roll down the passenger window and lean across to call out her name that she realizes it’s me.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, flustered as she slides into the passenger seat. “I didn’t…” She shakes her head. “Nice ride.”
I pull away from the curb, considering the car through her eyes. It’s a nautical-blue Mercedes-Benz E-Class I bought a few years back. Sleek, professional, and reliable. Understated class. My father always drove a Mercedes, and the day I could afford my own felt like a quiet victory. I keep the leather interior immaculate and the dashboard clean, but as Iris jams the to-go cups into the cup holders, I sense it may not remain that way.
“Ooh,” she says, wriggling in the seat. “My butt is toasty.”
“Seat warmers.” I stifle a smile as we pull onto the Long Island Expressway. I never use the passenger seat-warmer, for obvious reasons, but it was weirdly nice to turn it on today.
She tugs off her beanie, tousling her caramel waves. It’s just as well I have to hold the steering wheel, otherwise I’d reach over and run my fingers through those silky strands.
Her eyes sweep over the interior of the car, wide as they take in the streamlined dash, the digital navigation map inching forward as we fly along the expressway.
“I’m starting to really understand the difference in our salaries,” she says dryly, and it pulls at something inside me. The same something that bitterly resents what John’s doing to her.
“I wish you’d let me pay you back for the drafting table,” I mutter.
She cuts me a look. “Iwish you’d stop bringing it up.”
I grind my teeth, saying nothing. So damn stubborn.
She’s quiet as we drive, gaze skimming over the cold, slate-gray world outside, dulled by low-hanging clouds. I sip the coffee she brought, trying not to steal glances at her. Trying not to wonder what she’s thinking.
I distract myself by thinking about the lighthouse project. I did a little research last night, and it looks pretty weather-beaten. From what I can gather, the town wants to preserve it but lacks funds, so our job is to draw up restoration and adaptive reuse plans so they can apply for grants. A noble mission, no doubt, but hardly my area of expertise.
“I’ve never seen you in jeans,” Iris murmurs quietly, interrupting my thoughts.
I can feel her gaze on me, and I shift in my seat, self-conscious. She’s right. It’s always suits at the office, even that night when I dropped by her apartment, because I came straight from work.
But today, I couldn’t be fucked with the suit. Maybe I should, given we’re meeting a potential client, but some tiny part of me rebelled at the idea of putting on a suit on a Saturday. Maybe it’s a smallfuck youto John, after he gave me yet another time-wasting assignment. Something to wrench back some control when it feels like he’s putting me through the damn wringer. Instead, I chose dark jeans and a forest-green crewneck cashmere sweater. My watch glints in the soft interior light, and I notice Iris’s gaze catch on it, before straying over my torso. When she bites her bottom lip, I have to look away.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she might like the way I look out of a suit, but I’m not going to lie—it feels pretty fucking good.
I catch myself, shaking off the thought.
Work. Focus on work.
Iris has the same thought, because she says, “I’m surprised you agreed to this lighthouse project. It seems… out of your wheelhouse.”
I slide her a look. “You know what my wheelhouse is, do you?”
She lifts a shoulder. “After you made such a big deal about the Bushwick studios, I looked through your portfolio. Some impressive projects in there.”
I nod. She’s not wrong. I’ve worked on some amazing places, for some notable clients. All work that’s meant to impress, but sometimes it’s hard to feel the difference it really makes.
“The lighthouse is… different,” Iris adds, and I grunt a sardonic laugh.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
Worry flits across her brow. “Oh. Fuck. I didn’t mess up another meeting, did I?”
I soften. “No,” I say, resisting the urge to add her sweet nickname. Of course, she assumes she’s at fault. “John thought…” I pause, wondering how much to share, then decidefuck it. “He thinks I’m distracted lately, and could use something to get me back on track.”
Iris fiddles with the lid on her coffee cup as she absorbs this, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t press me onwhat, exactly, has been distracting me.
“He also mentioned it would be a good way to prove I’m ready for partner,” I mumble, but it sounds ludicrous even to my own ears. I’ve done that a hundred times over already, on far more prestigious projects, but if I don’t believe that, then I’m not sure what I’m even doing here. What I’ve been doing all these years. And that’s not something I can unravel right now. “Once this is done, I’m sure John will finally deliver on his promise,” I add, more to reassure myself than anything else.
Iris hums quietly, as if wanting to say something and holding back. Eventually, she asks, “Is that your… thing? The thing that hasn’t turned out how you want?”
