Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  I walk into Marchand & Rykers with my architecture portfolio tucked under my arm. I couldn’t resist bringing it, even if the position he advertised was only for an assistant.

  The receptionist shoots me an uncertain smile. “Miss Alvarez?”

  “That’s me,” I say. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Marchand?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Excellent. Let me show you the way.” She leads the way up a wide glass staircase. It’s very obviously an architect firm—the blank white walls, the spotlights at artfully placed angles. Clean and plain.

  “Have you worked here long?” I ask her.

  “Nearly three years. It’s a great firm.” She’s quiet for a beat, fiddling with her key card to access the elevators. She presses the button to the eighth floor, and we start moving.

  “How’s Mr. Marchand?” I have no idea what to expect out of this. My heart is beating a rhythm of nerves in my chest, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. Odds are he just wants to laugh at me.

  “Well,” she says carefully. “He’s a very talented architect.”

  She doesn’t add anything else, and it’s not difficult to read the subtext. But he’s an asshole. Most builders and architects of this caliber are. Lord knows I’d encountered my fair share of them.

  You need a certain kind of ego to push through designs that might very well outlive you.

  She opens a glass door and leads me down a massive hallway. There’s an empty desk at the end, right next to a floor-to-ceiling window.

  “His assistant sits out here,” she says, “and Mr. Marchand’s office is through this door.”

  She gestures at a large oak door. Beautifully carved and weathered, it feels incongruous with the rest of the minimalist office. Interesting.

  “All right,” she says. “Good luck, then.”

  I pause in front of the giant door. “Does he know I’m here?”

  “Oh. I’m sure. You were supposed to be here at nine, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, but she’s already halfway down the hall, like she’s running from the situation. It doesn’t inspire confidence. “Alrighty then,” I murmur to myself and push my shoulders back. I’m Faye Alvarez. I was top of my class. I spent five years working on some of the most challenging designs in Manhattan. I’m a great architect.

  I knock on the door.

  There’s no response, only a soft, electronic click and the door swings open automatically.

  The office is massive. There’s a giant desk in the center, all modern and sleek, but behind it are rows and rows of bookshelves. I can see a classic architect’s desk in the corner, with sketching sheets and a clip-on lamp.

  A man is seated behind the desk.

  Well, I think. He isn’t old at all.

  The man can’t be more than forty. Thick, brown hair is pushed back. One stray lock has refused to obey him, though, and falls over a square forehead. He’s not in a suit. Instead, he’s wearing a navy-blue shirt tucked into a pair of gray chinos. It’s a casual look, but on him it looks like a million bucks. An expensive watch glitters at his wrist.

  He stares back at me. There’s nothing in his eyes—not surprise, not amusement, nothing at all to signal a welcome. I don’t know if he’s trying to unnerve me, but I refuse to let him know that it’s working.

  “Hello,” I say. “My name is Faye Alvarez. I’m here for an interview?”

  He leans back in his chair and looks me over. It’s not leering at all—it’s clinical. I’m being assessed.

  “Miss Alvarez of the famous cover letter,” he says. “Have a seat.”

  I sit down opposite him, trying and failing to hide my surprise. He’s nothing like what I expected. This man is handsome, even if it’s in a detached sort of way.

  “First and foremost, thank you for inviting me for an interview,” I say. “Despite my colorful language.”

  “Yes, your application was unusual. Do you make a habit of applying for jobs while… what euphemism did we use? Under the influence.”

  “Not usually, no.”

  “You made a special exception for my firm.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. Is he teasing me? It’s hard to tell when his face is impassive.

  “Anything for Marchand and Rykers,” I say airily. “And while I ask that you disregard my cover letter, my CV proves that I’m more than qualified for this position.”

  “Yes.” He thumbs through papers on his desk and smoothly pulls out my application. I see him glance through my CV. “It’s clear that you’re very well-educated. But then,” he adds, looking up at me, “you already told me that in the cover letter.”

  Don’t blush. I force myself to meet his gaze. “I did. I might be young, but I have a lot of experience in the field. I started as an intern at the City Planning office for five months. You’re welcome to call Anita Roberts, who was my supervisor there.”

  Henry Marchand leans back in his chair and taps his fingers along the desk, once, twice. “And then you worked for Elliot Ferris.”

  “Yes.”

  “But no reference from him. You were fired?”

  It’s increasingly hard to meet his eyes, green and piercing, but I force myself to do it. “I was, unfortunately.”

  “As you made abundantly clear in your letter, you believe this is one of the key reasons why I wouldn’t consider hiring you. Why I’m sure you’ve already been rejected by several firms, since you’re willing to… how did you so flatteringly put it? Stoop to this level.”

  This time, I can’t stop the flush of embarrassment on my face. “Yes. But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with my work performance. And while I understand that you have no reason to trust me on that, I ask that you do. I have co-workers there who I believe would vouch for my job performance.”

  Mr. Marchand glances down at my cover letter again. I can almost see the words sticking out on the page. Lecherous.

  Don’t ask, I beg silently.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at my lap, where my leather-bound architect portfolio rests. It had been a wild shot to bring it here.

  “You brought your portfolio, Miss Alvarez.”

  “I did. Ask me anything.” I square my shoulders. “Let me show you that I know this industry.”

  “We regularly build for clients with very strong opinions,” Mr. Marchand says. “How do you balance function with aesthetic appeal?”

  Ah. It’s a classic question. He’s going to have to do better than that.

  “A client’s wish comes first, of course. We’re designing and building for them. But at the end of the day, we’re the ones with formal training in this, and if we don’t point out obvious flaws in their desires, we would be failing them.”

  “And in your own designs?” he asks. “How do you personally make the distinction?”

  There’s something unnerving about the intensity in his eyes. “Unless a client demands otherwise, I strive for simplicity,” I say. “There’s no need to throw in elaborate details that could be outdated a decade from now.”

  He taps his knuckles along the desk again. That’s really going to start to annoy me.

  “I start on a new project. Day one, what do I do?”

  “You focus on the logistics,” I answer, voice calm. “What are the legal property boundaries? How does the sun, the wind, water come into play? What features in the surrounding landscape could be a problem, or an asset?” I let my hands curl around the armrests of the chair I’m in, meeting his gaze head-on. “You start working on permits and timelines. I imagine you’re also mentally assigning tasks to different members of your team.”

  “You worked on the Century Dome,” he says, “if your cover letter is to be believed.”

  “I did.” And I was damn proud of that structure. Despite the client’s wishy-washy instructions, despite the work environment, it had turned out a fine building. It had received near universal praise when it was unveiled, and while my name was nowhere near it, I know that Elliot Ferris
would never have been able to finish it without me.

  I wonder if Mr. Marchand sees that pride on my face, because his eyes glitter with amusement when he asks his next question. “What would you change?”

  “With the Dome?”

  “Yes.”

  I want to protest instinctively. It’s perfect. But I can tell that would be to fail this particular test.

  Instead, I look around his office thoughtfully, gathering my ideas. He’s clearly a man with ambition leaking out of his very pores, to have achieved so much at his age. What would impress a man like this…

  “The name on the plaque,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other.

  “The position is that of an assistant, not an architect.” There’s challenge in his voice. “You realize that you’d be doing no practical architectural work? I have a full roster of architects on board and no space for another. I can make you no promises.”

  Something in me squeezes painfully tight at his words. “I’m aware, and I’m not asking you to. But I think my experience as an architect will make me a better assistant.”

  “As it so happens, so do I.” He taps his knuckles on the table a third time. “I don’t have time to teach you things.”

  My previous admiration of him lessens slightly. Insufferable man. “That’s all right.”

  “I know my previous assistant is leaving instructions, and Rykers’ assistant can help you get set up. But for the most part, you’ll have to learn on the job.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Can you start next Monday?” He braces his arms against the desk. They look unusually strong for a New York builder—the ones who rarely leave their offices.

  “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

  “We’ll start with a six-week probation period before you’re offered a full-time contract. I’ll have HR draw up the paperwork and email it to you before the day is out. If you have any salary or time concerns, respond directly to her.”

  “I will.” Good God, is this actually happening? “Thank you, sir.”

  He nods and reaches over to shake my hand. His is strong and dry, with calluses in his palm. Again… unusual, for these big cats. “Welcome onboard, Miss Alvarez. I’m taking a chance on you. Don’t make me regret it.”

  “You won’t,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on and hoping I wouldn’t either.

  4

  Faye

  “You’re Mr. Marchand’s new assistant?”

  “Yes,” I say. This is getting frustrating. “I was hired last week.”

  Kyle, one of the head architects at Marchand & Rykers, lets his gaze travel from my head to my toes in a very clear dismissal before he turns back to the coffee machine. “I suppose he had to hire someone.”

  The nerve.

  I shoot him a blinding smile and turn on the kettle to make myself some tea. “I suppose he did. And seeing how I have a degree in architecture as well, I’m sure I can be of assistance.”

  Kyle raises a cool eyebrow. His hair is artfully styled, square features complimented by a pair of glasses with bright orange frames. “How delightful. I’m sure you won’t mind helping the architects with some of our blueprints then, when you have some downtime.”

  I grit my teeth. “After I run it by Mr. Marchand, of course.”

  “Of course,” he says smoothly. “How lovely.”

  He leaves the break room and I take a deep breath of relief. Another attack averted. If there’s one thing this firm has too much of, it’s self-importance and self-grandiosity. First, it had been Kelly, the receptionist, who looked surprised when I returned and said I was hired. Then it had been Christine, Rykers’ assistant, who had looked me over in clear disapproval. And now Kyle.

  I put a bag of Earl Grey into my cup and close my eyes for a second, taking in the silence. It won’t be long until I have to go back to my desk and the jumbled mess that is Henry’s calendar.

  Me, the least organized of people, had somehow been hired for a job where organization was key. Good going, Faye.

  A deep voice cuts through my musings. “What are you doing?”

  I blink my eyes open to see Henry himself standing in the entryway to the break room. “Imagining how nice an office could be without office politics.”

  Henry frowns and heads to the coffee machine. “I’m not paying you to daydream.”

  “No, that’s a bonus feature,” I say. “I run two-for-one specials at the end of the month, too.”

  Nothing. Not a smile, not a twinkle in his eyes. He just turns the coffee machine off and motions for me to join him out of the break room. We walk toward the hallway in the back, the gateway to his giant office.

  Several of the architects and consultants cast glances at us when we walk past. Henry doesn’t acknowledge anyone, back straight and head forward. Cold bastard.

  He’s wearing a suit today, but without the jacket and tie. His sleeves are methodically folded up to his elbows, showing off his forearms, tanned and strong. I wonder how old he is. Mid-thirties, I think, though he carries himself like a man with a lifetime of experience. Some of the architects on the team must be older than him. It’s unusual.

  “Gather your things, and then we’ll talk about your tasks here. Join me in my office as soon as you can.” He pauses, a hand on the oak door. “And I’d appreciate it if you upgrade into a model that gets me coffee.”

  “I’ll work on that right away.”

  He nods and disappears into his office, still without a smile on his face.

  Damn.

  The man was ice cold.

  I’d arrived at work—I had a job!—that morning to find a fully prepared welcome kit for me. A keycard, a login to the computer system, and a new email address. The woman in HR gave me a sour look and muttered something about this going too fast. Maybe she’d had to work overtime to get the expedited details ready for me.

  Henry had already been in the office when I arrived, despite me being early. And from the looks of the several coffee cups on his desk, he’d been there a while.

  I grab my laptop and my notebook. Henry is sitting at his desk when I enter. It’s not the first time we’ve discussed business today, but it’s the first time we’re going to actively go through my tasks.

  He nods at me when I come in but doesn’t look up from his screen. Well then. I take a seat opposite him and open my laptop. My list of questions is right there on the screen.

  “Obvious things first,” he says, still looking at his screen. “There are trips booked. Go through everything and make sure transport and accommodation is arranged.”

  “On it.” That one I’d already started with.

  “Handle my invitations to events and the like. We’ll go through them once weekly.”

  I type that down. “Noted.”

  “Lunch and dinner reservations, catering for events, screening my calls. Accompanying me to meetings—sometimes I’ll want you there.” He looks up at me suddenly, eyes shockingly green. “You’re good at taking notes?”

  “Yes.” I try not to be insulted by the basic question.

  “Good. I’ll let you know regarding that. Coordinate work with the architect team, pass on designs to me. Keep a roster of all of our clients—I think Sara did that, who worked here before you… Maybe see if you can find it. She’d remind me of a client’s history and personal details before I met with them. That was useful.”

  I take all of this down in my notes. “Sara did leave me some information, yes.”

  I’d found a little cheat sheet from her. It contained a lot of good information, including some that felt… bizarre. She had written down exactly how Henry liked his lunch, and from which restaurants nearby. Don’t order a Reuben sandwich more than twice a week. Ask for the whole-wheat bread and absolutely no more than two pickles. Never order anything with sesame seeds. She’d underlined the word sesame. She’d included his shoe size and size in suits. Where he usually dropped off his dry cleaning. Fr
ankly, her notes bordered on fearful or downright obsessive.

  Is he that terrifying of a boss?

  So far, he doesn’t scare me, even if I haven’t seen him smile once.

  Even if the others in the office clearly keep their distance.

  “You’re trained yourself, so I won’t go into the details of what I need building-wise. I trust you can catalogue blueprints and ensure my AutoCAD software is up to date with the company’s latest developments.”

  Excitement itches in me at the suggestion. “I can, yes.”

  “Email me if you have any questions.”

  Even though I’m just sitting outside the door? That seems… excessive, but what do I know. I’ve never worked as an assistant, not to mention ever had one.

  “All right.”

  Henry turns back to his computer screen, and it’s clear I’ve been dismissed. I look down at the questions I’d scribbled in my notebook… and find that I can’t ask any of them. He’s basically told me to solve most of it on my own.

  In the week since the interview, I’d googled everything there was to know about being an assistant. Tips and tricks, things to do and to not do. It seems like it’s all about anticipating his needs and reading his mind.

  Well. It’s time I become a mind-reader, then.

  It’s late when I leave the office that evening.

  I’ve spent the entire day organizing his calendar—hello color-coding!—and going through every piece of information Sara left me. I also sent an email to the entire office to introduce myself and ask that all non-essential information be sent to me and not directly to Henry.

  Two people out of twenty-seven had responded with a Hello! Welcome to the company!

  It seemed like a great start.

  I wait for the elevator and rub my neck, stiff from staring at a screen the whole day. My feet ache, too, from the heels. Turns out you lose the ability to walk in heels a whole day when you haven’t done it for weeks.