by Olivia Hayle
Faye nods, slowly. Her long hair is up in a tight bun, no trace of the shimmering sheet of black she’d worn down at the office that night. But it only enhances her heart-shaped face and the fullness of her lips.
“I do. I can’t describe it… but I always have. There’s something about the potential, you know? The progression each day, the laying of brick and concrete…” She shakes her head. There’s conviction in her voice, and feeling. She burns for this business. “It’s hard to explain, but I’m sure you know. You love it too.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I do?”
“Yes,” she says, eyes challenging again. “At least I think you do.”
“And why do you think that?”
“I’ve met many developers and builders. Most are only interested in dollars and cents, and they wouldn’t visit a building site like this. They’d send their middleman. But you knew everything about that project,” she says. “Either your memory is infallible, or you genuinely find it interesting.”
I glance away from her. There’s truth in her words, more truth than most people guess. It was the reason I was drawn to the same business as my father in the first place. Creating—building—is the closest to making things last. To bringing something to life, something that might or might not outlast you.
But for my father, money and legacy was the important part. Not the architecture—not the art.
“I enjoy it,” I say carefully. “And I find that it’s often more effective if I get involved myself.”
“Remind everyone who’s boss?” Faye asks, her voice clearly teasing. It never stops surprising me how easily she switches between the professional and the friendly.
“Exactly,” I say. “Food’s here.”
She watches me silently for a second, as if she doesn’t really believe I’ll eat a kebab, so I take a big bite to show her just how wrong she is.
She rolls her eyes and digs in to her own. It makes me want to laugh, her incredulity. As if I’m some silver-spooned Upper-East-Sider who would never deign to get my hands dirty. Hah. If she only knew.
She takes a sip of her soda. “I haven’t emailed you yet, but I got a reservation at Salt for Friday at seven p.m.”
Damn, I’d nearly forgotten about that dinner.
Chelsea Moreno lives in the apartment building next to me and drops regular hints whenever we bump into each other at the taxi stand in the morning. I know next to nothing about her, apart from the comments she’d made about a career in fashion, her love of yoga, and that she goes to the hairdresser twice a month to maintain her platinum blonde. She doesn’t particularly interest me. But after my mother’s phone call last week, I needed to take action.
Not to mention I needed to get my assistant out of my mind.
“I’ve been to Salt before,” I tell her. “I know where it is.”
Her tone becomes a shade too innocent. “So, is it a good place for a date?”
This woman. “Miss Alvarez…”
“Just asking for future reference, so I know where to book your personal meetings.” She grabs a fry and it dangles between her slim fingers. “To ensure I’m the best assistant I can be.”
She’s fishing. I resist the urge to smile. “Yes, it’s a good place for a date,” I say, thinking about the soft lighting and the intimate booths, with enough privacy for deep conversations. Faye would look stunning in that environment.
“So you have one planned for Friday?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Sorry. Too personal?”
I take the last bite of my kebab. She doesn’t look the least bit contrite. Usually, this kind of insolence would bother me, but instead I find myself intrigued. A woman like this… no way she’s unattached. There’s no ring on her finger, but there has to be someone—a boyfriend, or two. Women who have her brains and look like her don’t stay single long.
“Relationships are hard in this business,” I say instead, leaning back. “Working the sort of hours we work.”
“Yes. It’s why I haven’t…” She shakes her head, thinking better of it. “You’re right.”
“Why you haven’t what?”
“I technically have a date, too, on Friday. So we’ll both be out romancing.” She looks away and her cheeks flush slightly. The sight is unusual—she’s never anything but confidence personified. It must be serious, then.
It bothers me. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Who with?”
“Someone my friend is setting me up with.”
“You’re going on a blind date?” What in all the world? This woman is a perfect ten in every category. Why would she need to be set up with some lowlife?
“Yes.” She sighs, still looking flushed. “But you have to get out there, you know.”
I ball my napkin up and gather our combined trash. “Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s head out. I don’t want to be too late.”
Faye nods. The lovely blush on her olive features is receding fast, quickly replaced by a mask I now recognize as her own professional armor. We head back to the office mostly in silence. The few things we talk about are all work-related.
And damn it all, but now I want to know who she’s going out with. I try to picture Faye on a date. What would she wear? Her hair down, for one. I bet she’d use that blinding smile of hers mercilessly. She’d probably run circles around him with her wit. Poor fellow. I doubt he’d be able to satisfy her, with her ambitions and determination.
Or perhaps he would—he might satisfy her all too well. And to my surprise, that thought displeases me even more.
It’s not working.
There’s something missing—the facade isn’t quite right. Damn it.
I run my hands over my face. The deadline for the submission is less than two months away, and I’m no closer to finishing the design than I’d been weeks ago.
The city of New York has commissioned a new opera house. It’s one of the biggest building projects in the city’s modern history, and in the spirit of artistic competition, they’re accepting submissions from architects all over the world. All final plans are to be submitted by early July.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I have no doubt the biggest names in the world will submit their designs, but it’s a blind contest. The judges will have no way of knowing if they’re looking at Frank Gehry’s design or mine. And that might work squarely in my favor.
But only if I have a perfect design to showcase.
And so far, the facade isn’t working.
I can’t put my finger on it, staring at the model in front of me. It’s simplistic; curving like the rippling of a flag, in a single sheet of bent steel. It’s innovative, energy-efficient… beautiful. But not quite there.
I need another pair of eyes.
Damn it. There’s no one else I can ask. My old friends from college are working in firms across the city, and they’re all mercenary bastards. Great for a beer—but not for this. Not for a project that could make or break an architect and a building firm. I don’t trust them.
And the architects at my own firm are vultures. Excellent, all of them—I wouldn’t have hired them otherwise—but I can’t use them for this. Most of them don’t know I still design myself, let alone that I’m planning on submitting my own design as the firm’s contribution to the city’s opera project.
Faye’s voice rings out over the intercom. “Rykers is here to see you.”
I toss the sheet over the model and cross my office, taking a seat at my desk. It’s unusual for my architecture partner to visit like this—unannounced. Both of us live by our schedules and routines.
“Send her in.”
The door opens and Marlena Rykers steps in. In her mid-forties, Rykers is a force to be reckoned with. We started as junior architects at the same firm once open a time, but quickly clawed our way up through the ranks until the firm’s constraints chafed. She had wanted independence; I’d craved it. We both had signifi
cant capital to use to start our own business—her from a divorce, me from my trust fund.
There’s no pretension between us. Both of us want to make money, and both of us want to grow the business. She focuses on her designs and I focus on mine, sharing the team between us.
It works well.
“Marchand,” she says by way of greeting, taking a seat in front of me.
“Rykers.”
“The pitch for Priority Media is coming up.”
She’s telling me something I already know. “Yes.”
“We’ve put Kyle and Terri on it, but I don’t think they can handle it.”
I lean back, tapping my fingers thoughtfully against the desk. The two are head of one of our architect divisions and usually a great combination. “That’s a problem.”
“They’re bickering like children,” Rykers says, waving a dismissive hand. “We both know this pitch is too big to screw up.”
It certainly is. If Marchand & Rykers gets Priority Media, we’ll be building for years to come. The multi-media platform wants new headquarters in New York and has a multi-million budget to back it up.
“Can we put someone else on it?”
“I’ve checked. We don’t have anyone else to spare at the moment. But we could rotate Rebecca in occasionally, and I’ll have a chat with Kyle and Terri. Tell them to straighten up or they’re off it entirely.”
That’s why I’ve always liked Rykers. She’s straightforward and cold-blooded. “And if they don’t, let me know. I think I might have a solution,” I say. Because she’s wrong about one thing: we do have another architect in-house, even if she wasn’t hired as one.
Rykers nods. She looks just as businesslike as usual, but her gaze turns thoughtful. “Are you going to the Founders’ ball next Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One of us should attend.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Am I taking the hit for both of us, then?”
“Yes. You’re better at networking, anyway. I just scare them off.”
Hah. There might be some truth to that—and that’s saying something, given how pointless I find many of the occasions. And if my date on Friday goes well, I might even have someone to bring along, as is expected at events like that.
But somehow, that makes the prospect seem even more boring. Having to battle small talk on all fronts, both with other guests and the one you’ve brought along with you.
I’ll have to find a way around that.
8
Faye
It’s late on Thursday evening. That’s no surprise. Henry Marchand works late every day, and as his assistant, so do I. It’s exhausting—the man never seems to rest.
I stifle a yawn and scan through my mailbox. Everything is replied to… everything’s organized. His calendar is all set for the next day. I’ve made the calls I need to—I’ve answered the people I need to answer. There’s nothing more for me to do. My phone pings, and I swipe at Jessie’s message.
Jessie Moore: Travis is really excited for tomorrow. I can tell!
Oh, no. The man himself had only exchanged two texts with me—one to confirm the time and the second to confirm the place. I didn’t like that Jessie had to be the messenger.
Faye Alvarez: You’re too invested in this. It’s unhealthy.
She responds with a variety of emojis that lets me know just what she thinks about that.
Jessie Moore: What are you wearing
I hadn’t thought about that yet. In all honesty, I was less and less enthusiastic about this date with each passing day. How high were the odds of finding love on a blind date, anyway? But Jessie was objectively right. It had been far too long since I went on a date and put myself out there.
Aiden had been over two years ago. And in the time since, I’d only focused on work, until Elliot Ferris saw fit to let me go over his own wounded pride. He couldn’t have someone on his team who had effectively built Century Dome without any recognition. I was a risk, and I was let go in a way designed to ruin me.
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about that.
The time on my computer reads nearly seven p.m. If Henry doesn’t need anything else, I’m heading home.
I press the intercom button. “Do you need anything else before I head home, Mr. Marchand?”
He usually answers right away, but there’s a nearly minute-long pause before his voice rings out. “Yes. Come inside.”
Frowning, I head through the door to his office. He’s not at his desk. Instead, he’s standing by the model in the corner. It’s the first time I’ve seen it uncovered. It’s definitely not one of Marchand & Rykers’ current projects, because I know those by heart by now.
It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.
The building is shaped a bit like a violin, with graceful curves in steel. Even from the small model, it’s clear the building is planned to be very large. Steps lead up to a concealed entrance in one of the curves.
It’s gorgeous. There’s something elegant about it.
Understated.
My eyes slowly shift to Henry’s. For the first time, his gaze isn’t clinical at all.
He runs a hand along the sharp edge of his jaw. “I want your opinion.”
“My opinion?” I step closer, looking at the meticulous details. Is this another test?
“Yes.” His voice makes it clear he’s not entirely comfortable. “You had good notes for the Rexfield project, about the use of the top floor.”
Ah. Maybe I’ll see something he’s missed, he means. It’s not uncommon for architects to ask each other for input. But by the way he’s holding himself, stiffly and uncomfortably, it’s clear that it’s unusual for him.
“I’d need to see the blueprints for the digital model for that,” I say softly. “But the outside is stunning.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I think something is missing,” he says carefully, “and I don’t know what.”
I lean closer, looking at all the details. The model is in complete 3D and beautiful from all angles. My first instinct is that there’s nothing missing at all. But after he points it out, I can see what he’s saying. It’s cold in its beauty. It’s clearly a building meant for the arts—a building to admire from afar.
“I’d add wood,” I say impulsively.
“Wood?”
I ignore his offended tone, the snob. “Yes. Some natural element to anchor the… the floatiness of the curves. These steps here, see? They could be made out of stacked timber. And this portion here could be in dark wood.” I point, seeing it in my head. “I’d play around with a digital model and see how that changes the effect.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. There’s still denial there—I can tell that he doesn’t appreciate my suggestion about a natural component. But he doesn’t protest, just stares at the model like it holds all the answers.
“What is the building for?”
Henry meets my gaze, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “It’s an opera house.”
Oh. I stare at him with newfound respect. “You’re planning on participating in the city’s design competition.”
“Yes.” He throws the sheet over the model, all the beautiful curves hidden again. “I am.”
Damn.
I take a step closer. “Does anyone else know?”
“No one at the firm does. And I’d like to remind you that you signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of your contract.”
God, this man. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Henry nods and steps back toward his desk. “Good.”
It’s his classic form of dismissal, and I retreat back to the office door. My gaze can’t help but flick back to the model in the corner. I didn’t know that Henry actively designed. Most builders at his level outsource all of that to the architecture teams.
I’d been right, then, when I asked him earlier this week if he loved it too.
It’s clear, wi
th every painstaking detail in his model, that architecture is in his lifeblood too.
Before my date with Travis, Jessie is all rainbows and sparkles on the phone. “It’ll go so great.”
“I’m sure.” I smooth my hand over my dress—red, A-line, perfectly date-appropriate—and roll my eyes at her optimism.
“You’re using the tone that says you’re indulging me.”
I laugh. “I’m just not quite as sure as you. But I am looking forward to it. Now leave me alone, he could be here any minute.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow at the gym—I can’t wait to hear everything!”
We say our goodbyes and I slide my phone into my purse. I’ve been waiting outside the bar for a few minutes, but so far, no Travis. I head inside and take a seat at the bar. The place is half-full, waiters carrying out fancy cocktails served in intricate glasses. The spot had been his suggestion, and since he’s a bartender, I’d gladly accepted.
“A martini, please.”
The bartender shoots me a smile and starts mixing the drink with practiced movements. Tonight will be good, to get back into the dating game, to meet someone new. Good. Very good, in fact.
Henry would be on his date too. I had looked up Salt beforehand, and it was a beautiful place. No doubt his date was someone beautiful, too. I’d googled Henry Marchand before—hadn’t been able to stop myself—and I’d only found one picture of him with a date. He’d been in a tuxedo, and the woman on his arm had been stunning. Slim and with big doe-eyes. The title had been mocking. The son of famous New England developer attempts to make a mark on the New York scene.
In the picture, Henry stared into the camera in a way I was getting used to, like he was daring it to take a picture of him. His green eyes indifferent, as if whatever you choose to do—or don’t do—doesn’t matter to him in the slightest. It’s a look I recognize. It’s what makes him a challenging boss.