Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she says slowly. “Adding the wood… I stand by that.”

  “I tried it.”

  “You did?” Her eyes widen with excitement. “In AutoCAD?”

  “Yes.” I open the digital building program on my computer and show her the design. “But I’m not convinced.”

  “No, no, not like that… add wood here instead.” She leans over my shoulder, pointing at one part of the design I’d struggled with since the start. The back of the curving steel, where the two pieces join together. “It would anchor the whole thing.”

  “Hmm. I’ll try it,” I say. This close, her hair brushes against my cheek. She smells like woman, like warm skin and flowers and heat.

  “And here… you could make this into greenery. It’s a small change, but it’ll give the impression that this steel wave is rising from the ground.” She’s right. Her changes are small—but they could give the whole thing more balance. This is exactly the second pair of eyes I’ve been needing for this project.

  “Miss Alvarez, when I hired you, I made it clear that I couldn’t offer you any architectural work.”

  Faye takes a step back, taking her hair and scent away. There’s a small furrow between her dark eyebrows. “I’m aware.”

  “Despite that, you’ve proven to have valuable input. I’ll send you the AutoCAD blueprints tomorrow, and when you have time, I’d like your feedback on the structure.”

  Her eyes light up with excitement and creativity combined. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “The deadline is in less than two months.”

  “We can do it,” she says, nodding to herself. I’m silently amused at how fast it became a we, but I don’t comment. “And no one else at the firm is involved, or even aware, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods again, a smile playing on her full lips. It’s one I recognize—the love of a challenge.

  “Let’s do it.”

  10

  Faye

  Jessie stretches from side to side, both of us sweaty from our spin class. “All right,” she says. “So Travis won’t work out.”

  I almost laugh at her summary. “No. Which I think you knew in advance.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jessie.”

  “Okay, so I figured he wasn’t your usual type. I knew it wouldn’t be a love connection. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun, you know.”

  I bend over, stretching out the back of my legs. “I can’t have fun with someone I don’t connect with.”

  “Of course you can. The only thing Steve and I have in common is incredible sex.”

  This time, I do laugh. “And that’s awesome, but I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” She puts her hands on her hips, her workout shirt bunched at the waist. “When was the last time you had sex with a man?”

  “I don’t miss it.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Faye Alvarez.” She takes a seat, bending at the waist and reaching toward her toes. The class had managed to clear my head, as it always did.

  “All right,” I say. “I do miss it. I haven’t had sex in over a year.”

  “A year.” She throws her hands up dramatically. “A year.”

  “You already know that,” I say. “It’s not news.”

  “Yes, but you need to be reminded of how rare that is—and that it’s time to do something about it. Work is great, but it’s not everything.”

  I lie back on the yoga mat and stare up at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. It’s so bad, I’m starting to get attracted to my boss.”

  “The asshole who somehow decided to give you a shot?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessie’s sitting upright now. “Who calls you on a Friday evening when he knew you were out on a date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, but he should respect your working hours.”

  “I’m a personal assistant to someone who probably makes millions of dollars a year. My working hours are all the time. Lord knows he’s paying me enough to be on standby.”

  “Still, he shouldn’t have called.”

  “I know.” And especially not about something so minor. For an absurd moment, I suspected he hadn’t called about that at all, but rather to interrupt my date.

  “See, if you had been getting regular sweet loving in between the sheets, you wouldn’t be developing a highly inappropriate crush on your boss.”

  I groan at Jessie’s phrasing. “I don’t know if your logic is brilliant or deranged.”

  “Brilliant. You’ve always been a glass-half-full kind of person.”

  “You’re right,” I say finally. “He shouldn’t have called.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And so what if he’s handsome, and intelligent, and passionate about the same things I am? He’s my boss. I was damn lucky when he accepted me for this job. I know that.”

  Jessie nods. “No screwing that up. He’s off-limits. Too risky.”

  “I’m going to be professionalism personified.”

  “The dictionary definition herself,” Jessie agrees. “And you’re going to keep your eyes open for other handsome, intelligent men.”

  I grin at her. “How hard is it to be indifferent, anyway? I’ll show up on Monday and barely look his way.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  As it turns out, indifference is hard to practice when your boss looks like Henry Marchand.

  He’s cool and reserved at our Monday meeting, thick hair pushed back and a let’s-get-shit-done look on his face. I wish I was immune to it. To all of it—the way he occupies space like he owns it, like he built it—and the ambition that rolls off him like thunder. But I’m not. I sit down opposite him, dutifully forgetting that other men even exist.

  Henry nods at the list I’ve prepared for the meeting. He hasn’t mentioned our late night on Friday, and any intimacy between us is gone. It might as well never have existed at all.

  “Well then,” he says. “Get on with it.”

  I run through the coming week. Henry nods or disagrees at the appropriate times, fingers tapping against the table.

  “Push the two o’clock on Wednesday,” he says. “Investors from Corporeal want to meet instead. I’m taking them out for lunch.”

  “Reservations?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can call Rema. It’s right across the street—you could be in and out in an hour.”

  “Good. Reserve a table for one p.m.”

  “Will do. And regarding the Founders’ Gala on Friday? They’re going to call again today, asking who you’re bringing.” I run a finger along the edge of my laptop and think about his terrible date last Friday. Did he have a roster of women he ran through? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, who to choose tonight…

  Henry’s eyes narrow slightly. “There will be people there from the Opera Project board.”

  “An excellent time to network, then.”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice softening a tad. “Which is why I’d like you to accompany me.”

  “Ah.”

  Amusement flashes in his eyes, like he doesn’t think I’ll say yes. Like he’s baiting me—another test to see if I’ll rise or fall to the challenge. I push my shoulders back.

  “All right, then.”

  Henry’s lips lift in a small half-smile. “Excellent. You have all the details, I suppose. Register yourself as my plus-one.”

  “I will.” I close my laptop, caught between wanting clarification and fear of exposing too much of myself in asking for it. “Do we meet outside the event?”

  “I’ll pick you up. Text me your address.”

  The thought of Henry Marchand, in his Town Car, waiting by my building in Brooklyn… Unbelievable. “Okay.”

  Henry rises from the table. He adjusts the cuffs of his jacket, every inch the CEO and property developer. “It’s a work event, Miss Alvarez. You’ll be paid.”

  “Yes. Good.”

  “I’ll send you
the blueprints for the opera house shortly. If you find the time, I’d like your feedback.”

  “Absolutely.” I grab my things and head to the door of his office. “Anything else?”

  He pauses by his desk, looking at me with intensity. I don’t know what to make of it—I don’t know what to make of him at all. “No, that’s all. Thank you.”

  I close the door behind me and take a deep breath.

  This job was nothing like I’d expected. Henry Marchand was nothing like I’d expected. The consummate professional, who spent his nights designing large-scale projects. Who expected professionalism and perfection—most of all from himself—but who clearly had a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath the cool facade. Who thought inviting your assistant as a date to a gala was a perfectly professional thing to do.

  If it is, it wasn’t included in his previous assistant’s notes. I almost laugh at the thought, sinking into my office chair.

  I open the blueprints he sent over. Scaling back the opera house layer by layer, I familiarize myself with its internal structure. It’s beautiful. Giant curving staircases that wrap around the outside of the main room, leading to the different levels. Corridors and passageways, some hidden, meant to be used by staff and actors alike.

  The seating in the opera itself is designed in layers, and the ceiling echoes the curves from the building outside—patrons will be seated beneath shimmering metal waves.

  I delve deeper still; the foundation work, the blueprints for the piping and electrical work. It feels personal, looking at his work, knowing he’s the only one who’s worked on it. Personal in a way that it never has before.

  Maybe it’s because I know I’m the first one that he’s shown it to. Or because it’s clear that he cares about architecture more than the basic numbers and figures, beyond even the prestige. And he asked for my input.

  I make notes on the structure and don’t hold back. The backstage layout feels off. Is there enough space for 50+ people here during showtime?

  I critique the seating arrangement on level four and the sculpture he designed for the vestibule. The wall lights feel dated. No detail is too small; I try to think like a jury might.

  Steps approach down our corridor and I quickly minimize Henry’s blueprints.

  It’s Kyle Renner, head architect extraordinaire, and resident asshole. He doesn’t have an appointment. I square my shoulders and brace myself for conflict. If there’s one person who’s made it clear he doesn’t think I’ll last, it’s Kyle.

  He stops by my desk and looks down his nose at me. “Hello, Faye.”

  “Hi. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Marchand.”

  “I see. Is he expecting you?”

  Kyle smiles at me, but it’s not a kind expression. My skin crawls at the clear patronization in his gaze. “Yes, he is. He was the one who emailed me to come over.”

  I give him an equally bland smile back and press the intercom. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kyle Renner is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  The door opens automatically and Kyle saunters forward, an eyebrow raised at me as if to say see? Told you!

  The door shuts behind him and I roll my eyes at it. He’s obnoxious, but nothing I’m not used to. Elliot Ferris’s firm was bigger than this, and with even bigger personalities. Builders, developers, architects… all of them, insufferable egos. When I’d been an architect myself, it had been easy to give as good as I got.

  But as an assistant… people like Kyle enjoy asserting the little dominance they have.

  Ten minutes later the door swings open again. Kyle’s face is red with anger—actually red—and I can see Henry by his desk. He looks the picture of calm.

  What the hell happened?

  Kyle stops beside my desk, out of view from the open door. His voice is furious. “I can see that you’re taking a different approach than your predecessors. I clearly underestimated you, Faye.”

  I blink after him, storming off down the corridor. Anger of my own makes my cheeks flush. How dare he speak to me like that?

  “Miss Alvarez? Please join me in here for a moment,” Henry calls.

  I rise and lean against the door frame, still shaken from the exchange. “Well, you certainly look calmer than he did.”

  His lips curve slightly again, like he can’t stop himself. “He didn’t take the news particularly well.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s off the Priority Media project with Terri.”

  It’s my time to be surprised. “But the pitch is next week.”

  “So it is.” Henry taps his knuckles against the desk. “How well do you know the project?”

  “It’s the renovation of a mid-century building in downtown Manhattan. Could provide a lot of visibility for the firm. It’s a big pitch.” And one that Terri probably can’t handle alone, I think. Pitching to a board is a scary experience, and it’s nearly impossible to cover all the potential bases alone.

  “I want you to take Kyle’s place.”

  My eyebrows shoot high. “Work alongside Terri?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t hire me for architectural work,” I say lamely, echoing his prior words, even as excitement floods through me. His project, and now this…

  “I’m aware. But Kyle has proven himself unable to work effectively with Terri, and we have no one else.”

  “Will Rykers be all right with this?”

  Henry’s eyes flash momentarily. “Yes, I’ll make sure of it.”

  I think of all the others at the firm. This won’t go down well, not with a team of twenty architects who up until now have only thought of me as one of Henry’s many assistants, nameless and interchangeable. I don’t think any of them actually know about my background. No one has bothered to ask.

  But I have survived far worse, and would go through worse again, to get to work with things I love. A chance to pitch… If I do this well, maybe I could get promoted when a spot opens up on the architectural team and graduate entirely from making restaurant reservations.

  “Well?” Henry asks. “I had thought you would jump at this chance.”

  I smile at him, slow and true. “Oh, I’m jumping on the inside, sir.”

  His lips curve again, amusement flashing in those dark green eyes. “Set up a meeting with Terri.”

  “I will. And… this won’t interfere with my regular duties.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” he says, the smile still lurking around the corners of his mouth.

  11

  Henry

  I run my hand along the smooth leather interior of the Town Car. We’ve been in traffic for over half an hour, trying to get to the address Faye sent me. It’s given me ample time to think, specifically about whether it was clever or terribly stupid of me to ask her to join me.

  A date isn’t necessary, strictly speaking. I’ve gone stag to plenty of these events. At the same time, it’s expected, not to mention it makes networking easier and more enjoyable when you can work as a team. Several of the women I’ve dated in the past go to many of these events and understand the codes, the cues.

  I have no idea if Faye does. It’s a complete shot in the dark.

  I tug at the sleeve of my dinner jacket and frown at the building site I see outside the car window. I know who’s developing them, and it’s not someone I have a lot of respect for. Elliot Ferris.

  He’s well-known for shady business practices, particularly in the suburbs and further afield. He regularly develops low-income housing and then profits enormously through increasing rents, often with stringent policies on his tenants regarding missing a day or two on rent. Builders like him didn’t deserve the name. Not to mention that he had, in one way or another, hurt Faye by letting her go without a recommendation.

  In her initial letter, she had clearly thought it was a mark against her, when her lack of a recommendation from Elliot was practically an endorsemen
t in itself. She’d called out the elitism of this industry perfectly.

  My phone rings and any mirth disappears as I read the name on the caller ID.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Henry,” he begins, voice businesslike. “Have you read the files I sent you about the Chicago project?”

  “I have, yes.” I considered it to be a spectacularly stupid deal.

  “And? You haven’t gotten back to me about it, son. It’s almost like you don’t want to partner with my firm.” He laughs, like the thought is outrageous.

  “I have some reservations,” I say carefully. “I’m flying there next week, to meet with your partners and get answers to my questions.”

  “Good, good. Nothing like eyes on the ground.” He pauses, and I imagine him gearing up, sitting in his study in the family house in Paradise Shores. Large bookshelves behind him filled to the brim with political biographies and Sun Tzu. “It’s a guaranteed return on investment. I’m doing you a favor by offering you an in on this, you know.”

  Of course that’s the way he sees it. My father, with his capital, doesn’t need Marchand & Rykers’ financial backing.

  But the project is dated, it’s not in the right neighborhood, and more than that… it feels unethical. That argument won’t work on him, though.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “I’ll get back to you after I’ve visited it next week and spoken to the team.”

  “Good, good. I might even fly out and join you.” A brief pause. “It’s time for you to level up now, son. You’ve done well so far but I want to see you in the big leagues. And come home some time, all right? It’d make your mother happy.”

  I grit my teeth. “I’ll be home for Lily’s wedding in a few weeks.”

  He sighs, as if he’d forgotten all about his youngest child. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had. “Don’t remind me. I know I’m expected to make some kind of toast, and she’ll skewer me if I screw it up.”

  That does make me grin. My little sister is fierce, and she had gone eye to eye with my father about her decision to be with Hayden—who hadn’t exactly been what Michael Marchand would call respectable growing up.