by Olivia Hayle
Ah, and the send-off. He’s still pissed all right.
“I will.”
The silence is tense as we wait for the check. My father signs it with a flurry—I know better than to offer my own credit card and be called ungrateful again—and we stand. I’m a head taller than him, having grown past him when I was sixteen. It’s ever stopped bothering him.
“You’re bringing a girl to the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Your mom is worried. It’s not natural when your youngest child is the one to get married first.”
“I’ve always told her not to get her hopes up regarding me,” I caution.
Dad waves a hand. “That’s what she does. Now, I have more business to attend to tonight.”
It’s hard to keep my face impassive at that, but I manage. “Fine. Until next weekend.”
We shake hands. The emotions flowing out of him are clear, from the hard set of his shoulders to the disapproving look in his eyes. Ungrateful, it says. Not good enough.
I ignore it on the ride to the airport. I ignore it in the lounge, focusing on the glass of whiskey in my hand instead. The decision is sound. I have no qualms about that. The stubborn, impossible, insufferable man just needs to get that through his head. But despite my conviction, the flight back to New York is as miserable as the trip had been.
In the car back to the office, I read through emails on my phone. A new one is resting right at the top from Marlena Rykers. She’s forwarded a much longer email from Priority Media, adding only two lines of her own to the top.
The pitch was successful. The Priority Media build is ours!
I grin at the two short lines, and before I think it through, I call Faye’s work phone.
16
Faye
My computer dings with a notification. There’s an email from Terri, and there’s only one thing in the subject line. WE GOT THE PROJECT! KEEP IT UNDER WRAPS. SEE YOU MONDAY.
My smile feels massive. We got it. Not my design, and I was a last-minute stand-in, but still. We got the project.
As I’m reading her email, my phone starts to ring. It’s Henry. I answer it with a smile still etched on my face. “Hello, sir.”
“I just heard the good news,” he says. “Well done, Miss Alvarez. The project was awarded Marchand & Rykers.”
“The project was practically finished when I joined.”
His voice darkens. “You were given one week to prepare, and then you performed. Accept the compliment.”
I feel flushed, both with joy at the project and his words. “Thanks for putting me on the assignment.”
“It wasn’t a favor. I knew you were capable.” His words are kind, but there is something else hiding in his tone. It’s too sharp.
“Did you just land at JFK?”
“Yes.”
“How was Chicago?”
The pause is infinitesimal, but it’s there. “Over with.”
Ah. So he turned the development offer down, then.
I shouldn’t push, but I think about what he told me the other day, about the weight that obviously rested on his shoulders. Not knowing everything wasn’t an excuse for not caring.
“How did your friend take it?”
There’s another pause. “Not particularly well.”
The silence between us stretches on. I know what I would say to a friend—easy. But not to my boss, who is sometimes so professional it borders on rude, and sometimes so familiar I think we’re friends.
“You had to follow your intuition,” I finally say. “That’s all anyone can do. And for the record, I think the decision was sound.”
He harrumphs, a masculine sound, low in his throat. It’s easy to imagine that his lips are right by my ear, the deep voice like coarse silk. “I’ll be at the office soon.”
“All right.”
And then he hangs up, and I slump back at my chair, glancing at the time. I’ll have to work late today as well, it seems. Only this time it’s by choice. I focus on expense reports. On the agenda for a meeting with the in-house architects next week. On Henry’s calendar. But when the elevator finally dings, and he walks down the corridor to me, my heart is a beating drum in my chest.
To anyone else I’m sure he’d look his perfect self. Not a hair out of place, his suit immaculate even after the flight. Broad shoulders speak of strength—capable of carrying the world.
But when his eyes meet mine, the communication is instantaneous between us. Something is wrong.
“Sir?”
He closes his eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of his nose. I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to tell me to leave, to enjoy my Friday night, and then he’s going to shut himself into his office like he so often does. Away from life, from food and laughter and conversation. Does he have friends? If so, I haven’t seen any of them.
He nods to his office door. “Join me.”
“Sure.”
I stand on shaky legs and follow him in. He goes straight to his bookcases, opens one of the smaller cabinets and pulls out a bottle half-filled with amber-colored liquor.
“The trip was that bad?”
Henry looks over his shoulder at me. The crease on his brow looks etched into his skin. “You were right.”
“I was?”
“About the project. It was immoral.”
I sink into one of the chairs around his conference table. I’ve never seen it full before—he mostly has one-on-one visitors. “I don’t remember expressing that strong of an opinion.”
“Hmm,” he hums, “but you did. It was clear in your eyes when we spoke about it.”
“You already knew it was.”
Henry pours himself a knuckle’s worth of whiskey. I can’t quite place the emotion coming off him. “Do you want one too?”
“I’m on the clock.”
The glance he shoots me is disbelieving. “It’s a Friday evening. You should have gone home already.”
I wet my lips. This is a side of him I’ve never seen. It’s slightly unhinged, the cracks in the armor hinting at depths of emotion and passion.
“Maybe. But I had work to do.”
“Hmm,” he says again, the sound low in his throat. I watch as he pours another glass of whiskey. “You’re one of the most efficient assistants I’ve had. Somehow I doubt that.”
I lean back in the chair and watch as he casually, carefully, starts rolling up his sleeves. Inch by inch of tan, muscled forearm is revealed.
I ignore the implication in his words, slightly embarrassed that he guessed I stayed late for him. “But efficiency isn’t good enough, if you keep firing them.”
He looks at me, but says nothing, just puts the glass in front of me. There’s challenge in his eyes again. I meet them head-on as I take a sip. It burns, but I don’t let any of that show on my face. His eyes darken. Poker face, meet Henry Marchand.
“You didn’t think I was a pink drink kind of girl, did you?”
He leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. It’s impossible to forget his physique—he’s so much taller, bigger than I am. “I think you are, but you’re much too competitive to admit it.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“You’re good at facts,” he says. “Give me another one.”
I wet my lips and let my eyes wander from his intimidating form to the books on his shelves, across the room, to the model in the corner that he so lovingly labors over.
“You could bring any girl at all to your sister’s wedding next weekend,” I say. “That’s a fact.”
“Debatable.”
“My question is: why me?”
“I told you. The deadline for the opera house is in less than three weeks. We need uninterrupted time to work on it.”
I tut and look at the drink in my hand instead of his face. On the inside, my heart is beating fast. “And you want me to play your date.”
His voice is a slow drawl. “Yes.”
“And what do I get out o
f it?”
A pause. “Miss Alvarez?”
“I agreed to work as your personal assistant. Accompanying you to the Founders’ Gala was already a favor on my part. Why should I work so hard to help finish your project that I give up my weekend for it? I’m going to have to deceive your friends and family, you know.” I raise my glass at him, my voice picking up steam even as his eyes narrow. Good. I want him on the defensive. It makes it easier to ignore my attraction to him. “As far as I see it, this is beyond the usual rules of my position.”
There’s complete silence from him. His arms are still crossed, and as I watch, his eyes narrow even further. I should look away from the intensity in his gaze, but I can’t. I’m like a deer in the headlights.
“Good,” he says finally.
“Good?”
“You’re standing up for yourself, as well you should. Very well. Tell me what you want.”
A negotiation.
I get up from my chair and head toward his copier. I’m buying for time, but I need it, my thoughts racing. He watches in silence as I grab a single sheet of paper.
And then I do the unthinkable. I take a seat at his desk, in his chair. I don’t even look to see if he objects, reaching for one of his pens and beginning to write.
I hear him walk around the desk. He leans over my shoulder, watching as I scribble. The smell of him—aftershave, man, and leather—nearly throws me off. Head in the game, Faye.
“Very official,” he comments.
“Why not?” I draw a line under the title. A full-drawn contract, that’s what I’m setting up, one where I’m not going to be taken advantage of again.
“Excellent penmanship.”
I hide my smile and keep going. Under parties involved, I list my full name. Faye Lucinda Alvarez.
I hesitate after writing Henry. I should know if he has a middle name, shouldn’t I?
Henry knows what I’m pausing for. “Skip it.”
“You don’t have one, or you don’t want me to know it?”
“That’s beside the point.”
I nod to myself and keep writing. “So you don’t want me to know it. I’m picturing the worst now, you know.”
His voice is dry. “I can imagine.”
I lean back in the chair and look up to meet his gaze. It’s steely, staring down into mine, his hand knuckled around the back of the chair. “My terms, then. I want my name on the opera house.”
There’s immediate refusal in his eyes.
I raise my hand. “Before you say no, I’m not trying to usurp anything. It’s your project. But I have made a few changes, and I want that reflected. You can list me as a junior architect. Assistant architect. But my name is going into the submission.”
The fire in his eyes softens and shutters. “I’m not Elliot Ferris.”
“I know you’re not.” There was nothing remotely similar about the two men. “But I want to make it clear. No ambiguity.”
“Your name will be in the proposal, including your middle name,” he says. “Junior architect, assisting function. Is that acceptable?”
“It is.” I tap my pen against the desk. He had been willing to give that up far too easily.
“If you need incentive to finish the project, is that enough?”
“Yes.” I frown, thinking of the future, of my unstable position here. I can’t be a personal assistant forever. “No. If you do win the project, I want you to consider hiring me as one of the junior architects managing the build.”
He nods slowly, the light catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. There’s just a faint hint of a five o’clock shadow. “I’ll consider you.”
“A fair consideration.”
Whatever flashes in his eyes, it isn’t pleasant. Have I impugned his honor somehow? But I need to cover all my bases, and knowing how this industry works…
“Yes, a fair consideration. I’m not Elliot Ferris,” he repeats.
“And as for being your date to the wedding…”
“So that we don’t lose several days of work on the project.”
“…yes, that.” I let my hand hover above the contract, looking up at him. He’s so close. The hand on the back of my chair is just inches from my face. Broad and tan, big and strong.
Focus.
“What do you want, exactly? For me to act like we’re a couple?”
“You want ground rules?”
“Yes.”
He huffs. “We’re seeing each other, my sister’s wedding came around, and I invited you.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like he would bring anyone he was seeing to meet his entire family on a whim. Am I crazy for feeling like that’s such a big thing? I know it doesn’t mean anything, but the idea of it still makes me nervous.
“So I’m playing a part.”
“If you want to see it like that, yes.”
“We can’t mention that we work together.”
“No.”
“And you’re really okay with that? Deceiving your family just so we get more hours to work on the model?” There’s no censure in my tone, just surprise. I think of my own mom and dad, working so hard to send me to college, to their happy smiles. They’ve never met a single one of my boyfriends. What kind of relationship does Henry have with his parents?
His eyes stare into mine. I can tell that my words have hit home—his face is almost aggressive in its professionalism.
“Do you think me immoral again?”
I want to shrink under that gaze, to twist or turn, to hide. I don’t.
“No, but I think I’m missing the full story.”
He nods once, a dip of his chin that sends thick hair cascading over his forehead. My hand aches to push it back, to see if it’s as soft as I imagine.
“You’re perceptive.”
“That’s the third compliment you’ve given me tonight. Are you sure you’re all right?”
His eyes lighten, and some of the tension eases between us. He looks from me to the contract on the desk. “Finish the contract, Miss Alvarez.”
I write down the terms and conditions we’ve discussed. It’s hard to focus on the paper with his presence, larger than life, looming behind me.
“And compensation,” he points out. “You’ll be paid for the weekend, in overtime.”
I note it down. “We’ll bring our work laptops?”
“Yes. Do you need something to wear?”
The question makes me pause. “For the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know the dress code, or the location. Or anything at all, for that matter. Will we be staying within the continental US?”
His lips twitch with a smile. “Yes. The ceremony is inside, reception outside. Black tie. You’re doing me a favor here, so if you need a dress for the occasion, you charge it to my account.”
I swallow. This is spinning out of control faster than I’d imagined, and this whole contract thing had been my idea to begin with.
Beneath my name, my hand hovers, not quite ready to sign. “One last thing.”
“Name it.”
“Whatever happens that weekend, I don’t want it included in your evaluation of my job performance, when you consider hiring me after my first six trial weeks.”
There’s complete silence. My words have gone off like a nuclear bomb, and it isn’t until I see the heated surprise in his eyes that I realize exactly what could be implied.
“What I mean is—”
“I understand. Granted.” He nods to the paper. “Time to sign, Miss Alvarez.”
I lick my lips. There are a million things I could throw in, just to see if he would give them to me. It’s a good opportunity for me. It’s also reckless and unprofessional and wild. And somehow, I have a niggling suspicion that even if he said no to my demands, I would still want to go to his sister’s wedding, just to catch a glimpse of Henry without his facade.
“Having second thoughts?”
I sign in a flourish and push the paper his wa
y. “Never.”
His lips are curled as he bends over to sign, putting his face so close to mine that I can feel the heat from his skin. His hand moves in quick strokes as he initials the contract.
“There,” he murmurs. “We have a deal.”
“Mmm.”
“Wasn’t so hard to negotiate, now was it?”
This close, his eyes are startlingly green, lightly flecked with hazel. He glances down at my lips, and my face moves of its own accord, turning up to his like a sunflower to sunlight.
He bends closer still, the heat of his breath ghosting against my lips. Adrenaline, present in my veins from our negotiation, makes my blood boil in anticipation. We’re too close. We’re not close enough.
And then our lips meet.
It’s like water breaking through a dam, a force stronger than both of us, my self-control melting and dissolving like mist. There is no hesitation at all from Henry’s side. His lips press against mine insistently, demanding, and my mouth obliges. I raise the stakes and run my tongue lightly over his lower lip.
He groans against my mouth, and as the kiss deepens, I unravel, slipping into a place where nothing matters but him and me and this connection. He tastes faintly like whiskey and heat, kissing me as fiercely as I’m kissing him. Callused fingers tip my head back further before sliding softly over my cheek. It’s unexpectedly gentle, a cool touch against my burning skin.
Henry ends the kiss, straightening with a sudden movement.
I stare up at him and he stares down at me.
“Damn,” he says softly. The hand on the desk curls into a fist. His jaw is working, the professional armor cracking at the seams. “This is… inconvenient.”
My throat feels dry. The skin of my cheek is hot where he touched it. Inconvenient is a mild word for the attraction I feel, pounding through my body. “It certainly is.”
His eyes snap back to mine. There’s no way I can look away, not when they blaze like that. “This wasn’t planned. I didn’t hire you for this.”
“I know,” I say, although I didn’t, not until he said it. Something in me relaxes.
“Faye,” he says, and I shiver at the pleasure of hearing him say my name, “I crossed the line. I’m sorry for that. Whatever course of action you want, I’ll support. But I want you to know that it will never happen again.”