Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  I clear my throat. “Yes. Regarding that, though…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you feel up to the challenge of playing my date again?”

  Faye’s eyebrows rise. Her eyes gleam with light again, the same competitive flare we share. She’ll never say no to a challenge I give her.

  “I take it you were pleased with my performance at the gala, then.”

  I nod, remembering her dry commentary. “Yes. I’m going to a wedding next weekend and I’m expected to bring a date. We’d be gone three nights, and we’d be able to use most of the time during the days to work on the project.”

  “A wedding,” she repeats slowly.

  “Yes. You’d be paid for the overtime, of course. Handsomely.”

  She clears her throat, a flush rising on her cheeks. “Would we have our own quarters?”

  “Yes. Separate bedrooms.”

  “This is…”

  “Unorthodox? Yes. Take some time to think about it. We can discuss it when I get back from Chicago.”

  Faye swings her bag over her shoulder. “All right, I will.”

  “And take a taxi home.”

  She nods and heads out, but pauses by the door to my office. Her eyes flit back to mine. “One final question. Whose wedding is it?”

  “My sister’s,” I reply. Her eyebrows shoot high, and I have to work to keep my face impassive. She’ll have more questions for me before the week is out, that’s for sure. “Good night, Miss Alvarez, and good luck on your pitch tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, the door closing behind her with a soft snick.

  I release a breath, unsure if what I’ve just set in motion is unbelievably stupid, outrageously reckless, or the best thing I’ve done in years.

  14

  Faye

  I reach for my phone and deactivate my useless alarm. The time is barely six a.m., but I’m wide awake, and I know I won’t be getting any more sleep. Might as well get up. I swing my legs out of bed and walk the few steps to my kitchen. Make coffee. Say hello to my palm tree.

  God, the night had been such an exercise in patience. Tossing and turning, my mind racing from one thought to the other. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than a few hours of sleep.

  I’m pitching today. It’s my first chance in months to be a genuine architect, to represent the firm next to Terri. For Elliot Ferris, I pitched regularly, but that doesn’t stop the nerves in my stomach.

  Terri had been professional about the whole thing after Kyle was taken off the project, and I’d been nothing but efficient back. It didn’t exactly surprise me that the bad apple in that collaboration had been Kyle. There were plenty of people like him in this industry, who were quietly competitive in every interaction, every discussion. It was draining.

  But that wasn’t the only reason I had trouble sleeping. Be my date.

  Oh, to what, Henry?

  My sister’s wedding.

  The man had lost his damn mind.

  I try to blink the tiredness out of my eyes in the shower, letting the warm water wash away my qualms and fears. He was asking it as a favor, as my boss, as a someone with a crucial deadline only a few weeks after the wedding. We’d handled the Founders’ Gala admirably. Why wouldn’t we be able to handle a weekend away?

  The woman I see in my bathroom mirror is determined—and very obviously tired—but definitely determined. Somehow, I managed to get this job. I’m not going to risk un-getting it just because my boss happens to be handsome as sin and can command a room like some ancient, conquering hero.

  If there’s one thing I’ve always been good at it, it’s planning. Strategy. It’s how I got through years of college with extra jobs, how I’m managing to pay off my student debt aggressively each month. It’s the hours I spent in the library studying elevation and structure.

  If Henry Marchand wants a date for his family wedding, I’d be the epitome of a perfect date. And whenever I could, I’d work on his opera house, helping him improve the beautiful structure. I’d just have to make sure I got something in return for it—something that would help me career-wise.

  And keep my pointless attraction to him hidden.

  Easy, peasy.

  My mom calls as I’m on my way to work. As always, my chest warms when I hear her familiar voice. Neither she nor my dad understands the business I’m in all that well, but they’ve never been anything but supportive.

  “Good luck today, sweetie,” she tells me. “We have complete confidence in you.”

  My dad pops on the phone. “Knock them dead, mija.”

  My heart is full when we hang up. It’s been too long since I went back home to visit, and talking to them again has reminded me of that.

  New York is a beat under my feet. In the summer sun, the city is on fire, music drifting from open windows and the smell of sun lotion on hot skin. On days like this, it’s easy to remember why I came here. Why I was drawn to the pace, the people, the power of this city. It’s a place that has seen things, and when I was twenty-two, I’d seen nothing at all.

  Around me, skyscrapers rise like giants, reaching for the sky. Immovable, innumerable, they’re testaments to the vision of architects and builders. If they’re well-constructed, they’ll be here after I’m gone. The brick-stone buildings that are intermingled with them definitely will be.

  Terri is waiting for me when I arrive at work. Her blonde bob is perfectly straight, a severe cut that makes her look even more professional. She’s printed out our material, and our slideshow is ready on not one but two separate USBs.

  “You can never be too careful.”

  “Definitely not.” I skim through the printed material, counting the copies once, then twice.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s enough for every board member we’re pitching to, with five extra copies just in case.”

  A woman of my own heart. Terri doesn’t seem like someone who takes any crap, and it’s not hard to imagine why Kyle had a problem with her. She’s not someone you intimidate.

  She gestures for me to take a seat next to her desk. “Now, we’ve gone through this pitch backwards and forwards. Do you feel like you know what you’re going to say?”

  I nod. She’s being heavy-handed, but I don’t mind. The woman was handed a personal assistant, told she had an architecture degree, and one week to complete a months-long project. “I do. When you’re done with the main pitch, I’ll break down the financials. We have all the numbers and slides for that.” I put a hand on the booklets she’s prepared. “And don’t worry, I’ll highlight the final cost for them. And re-highlight it.”

  “Good.” She sinks into the chair opposite me, her fingers fiddling with one of the USBs. “That’s the one thing we have going for us. It’s going to come in significantly under budget compared to our competitors. At least, I think it will.”

  “It’s a good project. You and Kyle came up with something truly beautiful.”

  Terri half-smiles. “In the end we did, yes. We’d better get this project, Faye.”

  “I know,” I say, because I do. We’ll have to answer to both Rykers and Henry if we don’t—that’s the way firms of this caliber operate. Take no prisoners and make no mistakes.

  Perfection isn’t applauded, it’s expected.

  She rolls her neck. “Let’s get going. I want to get a coffee on the way, and I’d rather be early than late. Rykers will meet us there.”

  “She’s joining?”

  “Yes, she just texted me to let me know she’s sitting in.” Her voice is tight. If one of the partners wants to supervise our pitch… this must be an even bigger deal than I’d realized.

  We head out of the office in silence, our heels clicking in unison on the marble floor. A few of the other architects watch us go. Dean pops up from his cubicle to wish us good luck, but he’s one of the few. In the back of the office, I see Kyle by his desk, staunchly ignoring us.

  I check my phone in the elevator, double-checking arrivals at Chica
go O’Hare airport. Henry’s flight landed on time, forty minutes ago. Excellent.

  I prepped everything in his calendar—the names of the people he’s meeting, the location, the damn lunch order—but I still have my phone on vibrate in my pocket. The assistant’s creed has become my own, trying to anticipate his every need.

  Terri clears her throat. “You know, you surprised me, Faye.”

  “Oh?”

  “A degree in architecture, and you’re working as an assistant. I didn’t know that when you started here.”

  She doesn’t say it with any malice, but there’s an edge to her voice. It’s the same quiet competitiveness that permeates the entire office.

  I shrug. “I wanted a change of scenery, and I’d been looking for a way into Marchand & Rykers for a while. You learn a lot from working with the best.”

  “Hmm. Yes, it’s a great firm.”

  I resist the urge to smile. Of course she liked an explanation that made her job seem even harder to get. “Definitely.”

  “Has Marchand mentioned anything about shifting you permanently to the architecture team?” Her eyes are intelligent, narrowed, giving nothing away. I’ve heard the ruthless office politics played out over coffee in the break room, and I have no intention of becoming one of the topics.

  “No, he hasn’t,” I say carefully. “I’ve only been working for the firm for a month, after all. I’m still in the trial period.”

  “I’m sure you’ll pass it with flying colors.” Terri nods to the receptionist. “Call us a taxi?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The car ride is silent. I imagine Terri’s working through her words the same way I am. I know I’m the weak link in this whole situation; the only person who vouched for me is Henry. He might have cracked the door for me, but I’m the one who needs to shoulder it open.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Henry Marchand. He usually emails or calls; texts are reserved for quick communication.

  Henry Marchand: Good luck with your pitch. Kill it.

  It’s a small text, but I read it twice. I can’t imagine that he texted any of his other assistants—or employees—with encouragement. Can you be friends with your boss?

  You can, I decide, but only a friend. I’ve been ignoring the butterflies that go wild in my stomach around him sometimes. And I’ve definitely not thought about the night on the roof at the museum—when it felt like we were the same person. My response is quick.

  Faye Alvarez: Thanks. Enjoy Chicago, the city that invented spray paint.

  Three dots appear; he’s typing. What did I just send?

  Henry Marchand: I can’t possibly imagine why you’d remember something like that. Do you spend your evenings memorizing facts?

  My smile is half amusement, half relief at his response. I’d sent something stupid, but he’d played right along with it.

  Faye Alvarez: I’m deadly at trivia games and pub quizzes.

  Henry Marchand: Tell me another one.

  I try to think of something that might amuse him. It’s not hard, given our mutual interest, although it’s not Chicago-related.

  Faye Alvarez: Architecture was once an Olympic sport.

  It’s something I read in school, and it always stuck with me, for some reason. There’s a faint pause before his response, though I see him typing. Is he walking to a meeting? Sitting in a car, like I am?

  Henry Marchand: I knew that. The Empire State Building makes more money from the observation deck than from all the floors of office space. Combined.

  Damn. I didn’t know that. A slow smile spreads on my face, staring down at his words. Are we competing with facts now? This is silly, and childish, and amazing.

  How can I top that? I rack my brain for information. Things he might not know, facts regarding building, structures… architectural history.

  Faye Alvarez: The Inca civilization considered bridges to be so sacred that anyone who tried to sabotage them was immediately put to death.

  There. Not a lot of people knew that—fingers crossed he wasn’t one of them. A voice breaks me out of my texting.

  “You’re never off the clock, are you, even when he’s out of town?” Terri glances at me and my thumbs moving across the screen. “Does Marchand run you ragged?”

  I put my phone down. “He’s a good boss.”

  “He’s direct, yes.” Her gaze turns curious. “A lot of us were surprised when he decided to put you on this project.”

  I could only imagine, having seen the glances the other architects shot me well enough. “He knows about my background.”

  Terri nods again and turns to face the window. I can tell there’s more on her tongue, but she mercifully doesn’t press.

  Henry’s responded, this time with a fact of his own.

  Henry Marchand: Cincinnati has an entire subway system underground, complete with tunnels and stations, that’s never been used.

  That’s news to me. I’ll have to Google that later and find out more. Our cab comes to a stop, and Terri leads the way, shaking hands, introducing me as her associate. Together, we make pleasant small talk with the other architects in the lobby.

  “Rykers just arrived,” she whispers under her breath to me. “Our turn to pitch is next.”

  I straighten my shoulders and run through the numbers I’m to present in my head again. I got this. “We’re ready,” I whisper back. “Let’s kick some ass.”

  Her eyes widen in amusement, but she nods. “Let’s.”

  We walk side by side into the boardroom, following Marlena Rykers, ready to put it all on the line.

  15

  Henry

  Chicago is miserable.

  It’s miserable the first day, when I see the project my father wants me to invest in. It’s miserable the day after, when I tell his partners that I’m not going to invest or accept the project.

  And it’s miserable now, having to explain the reason to a man who can’t fathom why I’d turn my back on what he considers generosity.

  “Henry, you can’t be serious.” The look my father shoots me is scathing. It’s one I recognize well; he reserves it for people he doesn’t respect. I’ve seen it turned on waitstaff, on my aunt, on my little sister when she was a teenager watching reality TV.

  “I am. I came here, as you asked, and I’ve seen the project with my own eyes. It’s not something I’m interested in.”

  He braces his hands on the table. The plate in front of him remains untouched, has been since we started this conversation. “I did you a favor here, son. Piers and Rolfe took my word when I vouched for you.”

  “I understand that. But I never once said that this was a done deal for me. I told you that I wanted to see it myself before making a decision.”

  His scowl deepens. “You could at least have been civil about it. I raised you better than that.”

  I put my own fork and knife down, the flavors in my mouth turning to ash. “I was civil. I listened to their presentations. I looked at the development. I went over the financials. I did my due diligence before I told them—politely, out of respect for you—that the project wasn’t for me or my firm.”

  “The New York scene has twisted your head. You’re a small firm. These prestige projects of yours—they’re excellent when you have a base to stand on.” He shakes his head. “But it’s projects like these that make you money. Enough money to fund a thousand of your parks. You think you’re above things like this?”

  This conversation is going nowhere.

  “My firm, my decisions,” I say, knowing it will annoy him. He was the one who had told me once that I would have to work my way up before he would even consider partnering with me on a project.

  He brings his hand down hard on the table. Our wineglasses shake, drawing curious looks from the other tables. “Damn it, Henry. You’re not a child anymore, playing with architectural models. It’s time to step into the big leagues. We build for profit.”

  I think of Elliot Ross and his conqueror’s grin.
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  I think of Faye and her beautiful eyes, lit up with excitement over a new design element.

  “I’ll reach the big leagues in my own way. If you think I act like projects like this are beneath me, let me make something perfectly clear to you. It’s because they are.” I take a breath, watching as his eyes grow steely and distant, ignoring my own response to his disapproval. “We both know Piers and Rolfe’s business practices are distasteful, even if you won’t admit it. Pushing out people who have lived there for decades—it’s disgusting. The city zoning laws are set to be reformed in a few months, and if it’s not in their favor, the project is dead in the water anyway. I think you should walk away too, Dad.”

  “Then how come my own people found no fault in this, huh? Why are you the only one?”

  I highly doubt that—the people he surrounds himself with have a talent for making money, not making good decisions—but I can’t say that.

  “Why did Piers and Rolfe only ask you?” I counter. “They’re not looking for other investors, are they?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest and says nothing, just stares at me, gray eyes narrowed. The anger rolls off him in waves, thunderous and black. We might not be finished with our meals but it’s very clear that dinner is over.

  “You’re coming to Lily’s wedding next weekend.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, but I give a nod regardless. “Of course I am.”

  “She’d be heartbroken if you weren’t there.”

  “I’m going.” The absolute last thing I need is to be lectured about how to handle my younger siblings, especially Lily, whose wedding I wouldn’t miss for the world.

  His frown is still in place. “Rhys hasn’t been in touch for a while.”

  “He’s good. He’s coming as well, of course.”

  Dad gives a curt nod. His relationship with his middle son has never been good, and I often serve as a mediator. One of the many perks of being the eldest.

  “Fine.” He motions for the waitress and gives her the universal signal for the check. “You should head to the airport.”