Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  “Good. And if they’re not, you have my permission to push them on it,” I say. A few employees in my architect team love to ask for extensions—as if everyone didn’t have to work to meet deadlines.

  Faye nods and taps away at her laptop. Her hair is in a high ponytail today, and while it might look severe on other women, it only enhances her features. Her skin looks flawless, like smooth silk. My mind immediately wonders if it’s like that everywhere—but I can’t. She’s off-limits.

  And if there is one thing I won’t do, it’s become Elliot Ferris.

  “Your trip to Chicago on Thursday is all set and booked, as are your meetings there. I’ll prepare the travel documents and leave them in a binder on your desk Wednesday.”

  I doubt I’ve ever looked forward to a trip less, but I’d promised my dad I’d at least take a look at the project. I could ask Faye to come along. She’d be by my side, taking notes, listening intently. If she saw what I feared I would, her feedback might be invaluable.

  “I’ll be out of the office most of Thursday, but you know that,” Faye continues. “I’ll set an out-of-office message on my phone, same as on yours. I don’t think we’ll miss too much, but it’s unavoidable.”

  Ah, the pitch with Terri.

  There’s a faint flush of excitement on Faye’s cheeks. “How’s it coming along? Working with Terri?”

  “Great,” she says. “I can’t see how Kyle had a problem with her. The design they worked on is sleek and fulfills the client’s brief. I think the pitch will go very well.”

  “I have no doubt of that. You’ll do great.” Faye is competent, brave, and professional—when she wants to be. Taking Kyle off the project had been the right thing to do. The man was talented but a damn pain in the ass sometimes.

  Faye’s eyes light up at my words. Dangerous, the voice whispers inside my head again, at how beautiful it makes her look. At how good it feels to see my words having that effect on her.

  “Thank you. Is that all for this week?”

  I run my fingers along the edge of the oak table. “Is my Wednesday afternoon and evening still free?”

  It’s an unnecessary question. I know it is.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d appreciate your input on the opera house then. Pencil in an hour for us sometime that afternoon.”

  She nods and gathers her things. “Absolutely. Did the night at the museum inspire you?”

  I think of her eyes, wide with amazement as I showed her the magnifying glass on the roof. The bravery and strength with which she spoke of her time at Elliot Ferris’s. The way her body looked in the golden sheath, the way she felt against my arm, and her cheekiness when she told Avery off.

  “Greatly,” I say.

  Faye shoots me a smile. “I’ll make sure to have my notes ready for Wednesday, then.”

  I watch her leave my office and the door closing behind her. Risky, I tell myself. It’s too risky. And still, I find myself unable to stop wanting her.

  That afternoon, Faye’s voice crackles through the intercom, interrupting my reading of an investment proposal.

  “Yes?”

  “Your sister is on the phone?” It’s spoken like a question—and it’s not hard to imagine why. I’ve never mentioned my family or instructed her about who’s allowed to be patched through, because no one besides Mom is insane enough to call me at work. My sister never has. I frown, my mind running through all kinds of terrible scenarios.

  “Put her through.”

  I hear the telltale beep. “Hey, Lils.”

  “I don’t usually call you at work, I know—I’m truly very sorry. But I need to get this finished now, and I don’t want to rush you, but it’s also a bit tight on time.”

  Her cheery voice is exactly like I remember, all sunshine and scrubby knees and summers by the ocean. She might be a grown woman with her own business, but she’s still my little sister.

  “What do you need?”

  “Just some tentative information about who you’re thinking about bringing to my wedding. And before you sigh—don’t you dare, Henry Marchand—I’m not pushing like Mom is. I don’t care who you date or don’t date. You’re very welcome to go stag, or with a man if you’ve changed your preferences, or with several—no. Not several women. But you know what I mean.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s the weekend after next, and the absolute final order for the caterers goes in today. So I’m just calling to let you know that after today you can’t bring anyone who has specific dietary restrictions.”

  I snort. “What if I meet the love of my life tomorrow, and she just happens to be vegan? Or lactose intolerant?”

  “Nope, no dice. You’ll have to move on to the next one.”

  “Harsh, Lily.”

  “That’s me,” she says, a smile in her voice. “You’re staying for the full weekend, right?”

  A pang of guilt flashes through me at the question. My family is so used to me coming and going, cutting family events short for business trips and meetings, that they have to double-check.

  “Yes, I am. Absolutely.”

  “Good. I was thinking we could even take the Frida out one of the days, just us kids.”

  “Plus Hayden?” Her soon-to-be-husband had basically grown up with us, and even if he’d been gone nearly ten years before he returned, I know my brothers consider him family.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know?” Lily sighs. “This whole wedding thing is so stressful. I’m starting to appreciate Hayden’s initial idea of eloping more and more.”

  “Don’t you dare. I’ve taken two days off work for this.”

  Her pealing laughter rings out through the phone. “Don’t worry, I won’t call it off. And I can fix a last-minute name card for whoever you’re bringing, so don’t let Mom stress you out about it if she calls you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course. Do you have to get back to plotting world domination now?”

  “Yes. Somehow, I have to work for it. You’d think the world would want to be dominated, with the mess it’s in.”

  Lily laughs again. “All right, I’ll let you go, then.”

  “Take care, Lily. Try not to stress too much.”

  “I won’t.” There’s a faint pause. “You sound happy, Henry. Keep it up.”

  I blink in surprise at the phone in my hand. She’s hung up, so there’s no need to respond, but still… Lily is outspoken, but I can’t remember her ever commenting on my mood like that.

  At least she didn’t press me on who I was bringing. Before she called, I’d decided to go without a date—I had introduced very few women to my family, and my mom’s badgering wouldn’t change that—but the call had sparked an idea.

  The opera house is due the week after the wedding. I’d be short on time as it was, without taking four days off. I’d have to work on it while I was there. And Faye had already proven herself to be a great date. How efficient would it be to combine the two?

  Dangerous, my mind warns. It wouldn’t be wise considering my attraction to her. It would be risky. Potentially stupid. At the same time… the more I think about it, the more fun the idea sounds.

  Faye knocks on my door late on Wednesday to work on the opera project. She’s tucked her laptop under her arm, holding both drafting and tracing paper. Everything about her screams professionalism; the tailored pants, the blazer, the set look on her features.

  She starts laying her things out on the conference table. “Now, I was thinking we could go straight in with—” She pauses when she sees my expression. “Is everything all right?”

  “Is it too late to cancel Chicago?”

  “No. We might not get refunds, but that shouldn’t be a problem.” She shrugs. “You definitely won’t be popular with the company you’re meeting with, though.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You don’t want to go? I thought the project could be big for the firm.”

  I tap my fingers along the ar
m of my chair. “Massive.”

  “I don’t know much about it. There aren’t any files in the system. I checked,” she adds sheepishly. “Who are you really meeting with?”

  It’s nice, talking with her like this. Sharing these things. I haven’t done this with assistants before, but then again, none of them were quite like Faye.

  “I’m meeting with investors attempting to buy up a large swath of property on the East Side of Chicago.”

  Dark eyes meet mine. “Ah.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re going to force out tenants and demolish the properties after the acquisition, I’m guessing.” Her voice has turned hard—harder than I’ve heard it before. She knows this process better than I expected, and she’s reached the same conclusion I have.

  “I expect so, yes. Forced gentrification.”

  “What are they planning to build there instead?”

  “Apartment buildings, a mall, and a small park.”

  “Hmm.” Faye is looking at the tracing paper, but there’s tension in her shoulders. “It doesn’t seem like a project that Marchand & Rykers usually takes on.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m taking the meeting with the investor as a favor to a friend.”

  She nods, and her eyes find mine again. “And what do you think? Do you think it’s a good opportunity?”

  “It’s clear that you don’t.”

  “Well, financially I’m sure it would be a great opportunity. But I think this firm should focus on… other projects. Like the ones we’re already doing.”

  Prestige projects, she means. The ones where we design skyscrapers and office buildings, parks and sculptures. Choosing our projects wisely had been the only rule Rykers and I had set when we joined our names and capital for the firm.

  I sigh. “I don’t disagree with you. The project feels… unsavory at best, and amoral at worst.”

  Her eyes lighten. I’ve said something that she approves of again. I hate how alluring that is, how it makes me want to test it, to see what she wants to hear.

  “Do you think you’ll go through with it?”

  “No. I can’t see myself signing on to this project, for exactly the reasons you’ve outlined. But walking away will make a few people upset with the firm.”

  And with me.

  “So you’re going there to make it look like you’ve at least properly considered it. Very smart.” She shoots me a smile. “You’re turning them down gently. I wouldn’t have expected it from you.”

  “No?”

  Faye looks a bit sheepish again, like she’s said too much. “It’s just, in business, you have a certain… reputation.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “I have a reputation?”

  “Yes, and you know you do.”

  It takes effort to stop myself from smiling at the consternation in her voice. She crosses her legs, the light in the office reflecting off her dark hair. It’s pulled into a low bun today, but I know what it looks like falling down her shoulders. How would it look spread out on my pillow?

  I decide to play along. “Let’s say I don’t. Enlighten me.”

  Faye huffs a sigh. “All right. I’m requesting permission to speak off the record here, though.”

  “Permission granted.”

  She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “You can be bullish. You don’t say thank you or please. Whenever someone is off deadline, you scold them, like you would a child. When you walk through the office everyone sits up a bit straighter. You don’t come to any social events with the company.”

  “Of course not. They wouldn’t want me there.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That might be true, but it’s beside the point. It’s just… you’re known for being hard on people. On my first day here, I was basically told that the odds weren’t in my favor—I wasn’t going to last.”

  I frown. “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says with a small, triumphant smile. “And have I now destroyed my shot at a career by answering honestly?”

  “No. Part of what I’m paying you for is your honesty.”

  She taps the design in front of her. “Even if it’s hard to hear? I know you hated my suggestion of adding wood.”

  “Especially if it’s hard to hear.” I rise from my desk and head to the model in the corner. Sweeping the cover off, I’m struck again by the feeling that something’s missing. It’s something we’re fixing now in the blueprints, with Faye’s additions, but we have to be finished quickly enough that I can commission another model before it’s due for submission.

  “Why did your previous assistants end up quitting? Or were they let go?” Faye’s tone is teasing, and curious, sounding just like she did at the gala. It had been intoxicating to have her by my side the whole evening. When I’d dropped her off at her apartment much later, I hadn’t wanted to let her go, to relinquish the intimacy between us.

  “Are you asking so you can avoid making their mistakes?”

  Faye’s gaze turns amused. “Maybe. Do I need pointers?”

  “No. You’re doing better than all of them,” I say. It’s true—and it’s not. Rina had been professional and highly efficient. Never spoke a word to me outside of talking shop, and I hadn’t been surprised when she was head-hunted to a larger firm. Felicity had been good at her job, too. But none of them had been Faye—and none of them had understood architecture.

  She smiles again. It’s not her practiced, megawatt smile, the one that shows off her perfect teeth. This is a small curve of her lips. It sets her features alight.

  God, but she’s beautiful.

  “How did you get into this?” I ask. “Architecture?”

  She shrugs, the smile faltering slightly. “I don’t know, exactly. I always enjoyed building and creating as a kid. I had a great teacher at school. She saw my interest in history, particularly in old buildings, and suggested architecture. It stuck.”

  My mind paints the images for me. A younger version of Faye with her dark hair unbound, bent over architecture books in a large library, studying angles and structuralism and urban planning.

  “And you were good at it.”

  “Yes.” Another elegant shrug. There’s no false modesty in her gaze, but no bragging, either. “Like I’m sure you were. Now, should we get started? The deadline is only a few weeks away.”

  I tear my gaze away from hers toward the model. The opera house. Deadlines. It feels harder than ever to lock myself away, to become professional with her again. I don’t know how she does it so easily—switches between friendly banter and work. With her around I feel like I’m constantly slipping.

  “Yes. You said you had some notes?”

  She nods. We dive straight into the restructuring of the opera house. Most of her suggestions are good—some I’ll have to think about. It’s cute, too, how she tries to be encouraging.

  “This backstage area is too small, I think. If you make the outer staircases two feet narrower, you’d be able to expand the area without sacrificing any structural features.” She looks up at me, as if worried she’s offended me. “But it’s really smart. Very well-executed.”

  I smile wryly. “I can handle criticism, Miss Alvarez.”

  “All right.” Faye really works down the list, then. She comments on nearly every part of the structure. I make a few notes of the things that stand out to me. She has a good eye, and she hasn’t commented on things that are clearly stylistic—a good editor, too.

  It’s nearly nine in the evening when I notice that she’s discreetly covering a yawn. I close my laptop. “I think we’ve gotten far enough today. The project will keep.”

  Faye stands and stretches fluidly from side to side, her body sinuous. “Will you order a new model when we’re done?”

  “Yes.”

  She comes to my side and we gaze down at the model in silence. It’s a requirement for the submission—juries of these kinds of things like big, flashy showmanship. Of the eight members of the jury, four
have no architectural knowledge at all. To win them you have to impress them on first sight.

  “Who did you use?” she asks, bending closer to see the details. This close, the scent of her strikes me again, just as strong as it had at the gala. Clean soap and shampoo, and something faint and floral. My eyes find the back of her neck. Left bare beneath the low bun, it looks vulnerable, the skin soft. How easy it would be to pull her close and trace the area with my lips.

  She looks back at me. There’s a question in her eyes—what did she ask me again?—but it dies as she sees the expression in mine. There’s not a professional thought in my head.

  Faye’s mouth opens slightly. I should speak and put an end to this unexpected intimacy between us, but I find myself unable to.

  A smile ghosts across her lips. “Another staring contest, sir?”

  The sir is teasing, and I can’t help the twitch of my own lips. “No. I was just wondering how you get home when you work late at the office.”

  I hadn’t been wondering that at all, but now that I’ve said it, it rings true.

  “The subway,” she breathes. “We can’t all be old, rich stooges.”

  “Taxis are on the firm after eight p.m.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a new rule?”

  “No, we’ve had it forever.”

  “Liar.”

  I step away from the model, putting my hands in my pockets. The space feels good—my head already clearer. “Whenever you work late for me, taxis are on the firm. Doesn’t matter when the rule was made.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  I frown. Does everything have to be an argument? “It’s a perk. Take it.”

  She rolls her eyes at me—again!—and starts packing up her things. “We’ll have to work on this a lot next week, after you get back from Chicago. The deadline is in July?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowns. “Your time off is next week, right? Thursday and Friday?”

  “Yes,” I say again. She’s speaking to me like we’re a team. Like we’re friends, like she enjoys the battle of wits. It’s been a long time since I had that kind of connection with someone.

  “We’ll have to work a few nights next week too, don’t you think?”