by Olivia Hayle
6
Faye
“One week done,” Jessie says and raises her glass to mine. “Only five more to go.”
“Before I’m fully employed, yes. Can you picture it? A full-time contract… I think I’ll frame it. Hang it on my wall at home.”
Rey grins at me. “Get it tattooed.”
“Forever the property of Henry Marchand.” I roll my eyes. “No thank you. I’ll gladly take the salary and the workload—but I don’t need more of the man.”
“Is he really that bad?”
I look over at my friend, who handles creeps regularly in her job as a bartender. “No,” I say honestly. “It’s not that he’s bad, exactly. He’s more… unnerving. He has high standards, and they’re difficult to live up to. Plus, the man never smiles.”
Rey nods. “So he’s like the male version of you.”
“What!”
“Come on, Faye,” she laughs. “You’re the most ambitious person I know.”
“Well, sure, we have that in common. But that’s the only thing. I smile.”
“You both love architecture, and you both have high standards.”
“But I don’t have unreasonably high standards for people around me. Don’t look at me like that, Jess. I don’t.”
“Remember the last guy you went on a date with? You complained about his table manners. Not to mention your last boyfriend.”
I don’t want to be reminded of Aiden. “Yes, well, I guess we’re similar in some ways. But Henry’s scary, and I’m not. I can tell that others at work are afraid of him.”
“Afraid?”
“Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. They’re not cowering in the corners or anything. But I’ve noticed that they push themselves very hard to meet his deadlines. And no one shows up to a meeting with him without being very prepared.”
“But you’re scared of him?”
I think of the staring contest we had in his office, or when he called and introduced himself as the old stooge. “No. He’s intimidating sometimes, but never scary.”
“Well, I think he’s scary,” Jessie says. “Hiring you based on that cover letter means he’s clearly a psychopath.”
I laugh at her, and she joins in. “You’re probably right about that, actually. I still can’t believe he did.”
“Me neither, but whatever works, honey.” She pushes her red hair up higher into a ponytail. “Have you thought more about my text?”
I bury my head in my hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”
“Oh, no I haven’t. What do you think? Do you want to have drinks next week with Travis? It would be good for you. Just a little drink, with a cute and interesting guy.”
I resist the impulse to roll my eyes. “If he’s that amazing, why haven’t you snatched him up for yourself?”
“Me?” Jessie puts a hand to her chest, the picture of innocence. “You know I would never date a co-worker. It’s unethical.”
“Sure.”
“Plus, I’ve already called dibs on Steve, our delivery guy. He has bulging arms, just my type. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you—and Travis.”
”Fine, fine. You’re probably right, anyway.” I take another sip of my wine. “I’ve been out of the game for too long.”
“Yes! I’ll set it up. Next week, all right?”
“I’ll be there. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my work for Mr. Hardass, that is.”
“No, God forbid. You have to make it five more weeks.”
“I will.” His face rises in my mind, unbidden. Not the indifferent mask he wore at work, but the way he’d smirked when we had the staring contest, bragging that he didn’t know what losing was. “I’ll make sure I last.”
Henry has rolled up his sleeves again, and it’s only ten a.m. on a Monday morning. He’s not wearing a tie, hair perfectly pushed back, but those arms… I shake my head at myself. I’ve never been a forearm person. The sight of his tan skin, strong muscles and wide hands shouldn’t affect me, and for more reasons than one. I need the date with Jessie’s friend, if this is how I’m reacting to my own boss.
Henry sits down at the large conference table in his office. “All right. You have your Monday meeting. Let’s go through the week ahead.”
I open my laptop and work through the questions I’ve listed one by one. He has a busy schedule this week, filled to the brim with client meetings, investors and contractors.
Henry listens to everything, giving me short, factual responses. Yes. No. Push that back. Email Rykers and ask if she can go instead.
His eyes are unwavering; the same clinical, assessing manner he always adopts with work. I can see how it would unnerve some, but it clarifies everything for me. Me, assistant. Him, boss.
It takes balls to treat people like that, I think. Without small talk or pleasantries. He might be insufferable, but the man’s effective.
“I have some final questions. I’m finalizing the last things for your trip to Chicago in a few weeks. Do you want me to book airport transport from your apartment or from the office?”
“What time’s the flight?”
“Ten a.m.”
“Book it from the office. I’ll come in early.”
“The Founders’ Association has asked for a follow-up on your invitation to the Founders’ Gala in two weeks. We need to make a decision, preferably sooner than later.”
He taps his fingers against the table. “Tell them yes. Tell them I’ll have a plus-one, too.”
“I will.” I stave off my curiosity, noting down the response. “You have a four-day weekend blocked off for personal time next month. You haven’t mentioned anything regarding that, but do you need anything booked? Prepared?”
“No.”
“Alrighty, then. Last point: Kyle Renner from the architect team wants to have a private chat with you about one of his designs. It seemed… important to him.”
Henry gives a low groan. “Yes, I know. He’s been trying for weeks. See if you can pencil him in this week. No more than fifteen minutes.”
“Will do.” I jot it down. “Do you have anything you want to add? Perhaps feedback on my performance from last week?”
“No feedback. Please book a table somewhere nice on Friday. Seven p.m. for two.”
“Sure thing. Who are you wining and dining?” I ask, already creating a post in his calendar. He regularly takes clients out, like most builders and developers. It makes sense, but still, I would love to see his version of schmoozing. The man never smiles.
“It’s a personal dinner.”
“Ah,” I say delicately, avoiding his gaze. Maybe a date, then. As much as I would like to see Henry schmoozing, I want to see his version of dating more. What kind of women does he go out with? Blonde models looking for someone willing to spend money? College architecture professors?
Henry clears his throat, almost like he’s uncomfortable, but his gaze is as steely as always. “Choose one of my regular places—they should be in the notes from your predecessor. Needs to be walking distance from my apartment.”
I look down to hide my surprise. “Will do. I’ll email you the details when it’s all booked.”
Wow. He’s hoping to score, then. Maybe he always does. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy you’d say no to, after a full meal and drinks, with his demanding eyes and demanding questions. I could almost picture it—teasing him for a full evening, drawing out those elusive smiles, and knowing that he would be just as exacting in the bedroom. That he would—
What? No. Head in the game, Faye.
I close my laptop. “Is that all, Mr. Marchand?”
“Yes.” He taps his fingers against the table in that infuriating manner. “Actually, no. I’d like you to accompany me to the Rexfield build-site tomorrow for the inspection.”
“Really?”
My surprise must be evident, because amusement flickers in his green eyes. “Yes, really. And bring another pair of shoes. Those heels are a
safety hazard.”
I have to swallow down my excitement. “I will. And… thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re there to work—I’ll be asking you to take notes.” He rises from the table himself. “Now we’re done with the meeting.”
Despite the dismissal, I’m excited the rest of the day. I haven’t been to a building site in months, not since Elliot Ferris and the Century Dome. They’re rough places, but there’s something about the potential—knowing you’re walking into a space that will one day house people, with their lives and work and hopes and dreams.
The next day, I come to work in a pair of suit trousers, a pair of loafers tucked into my bag. Let it never be said that I don’t listen to instructions. Henry steps out of his office thirty minutes before the meeting. He’s wearing Timberland boots, but other than that, he looks impeccable, dressed in a navy-blue suit.
He looks me over, his gaze snagging on my footwear.
“No heels,” I say, “per your specifications.”
“Those are boat shoes.”
I look down at the navy loafers I’d gotten at a bargain price at the outlet outside of town. “They are?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I’ve never been on a boat in my life.”
He gives me a look I can’t decipher. Without my heels, I feel small next to him, more than a head taller than me and powerfully built. I still don’t understand how he maintains a physique like that when all he does is spend time in the office.
Henry breaks the eye contact. “Let’s go.”
We walk through the office in silence, and ride the elevator in silence. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s not tense, either. The company’s car is waiting for us by the curb.
Henry opens the door for me. His expression looks wry, like he’s warning me not to get used to it. Don’t worry, buddy, I think and shoot him a blazing smile.
He doesn’t return it, getting into the seat next to me. “I trust you’ve read up on the Rexfield project.”
“I have, yes.”
He runs a hand over the smooth leather finish of the door, watching as the city passes us by outside. The project is uptown, so it shouldn’t take us long. “Tell me about it.”
So I do. I run through all the stats I can remember.
“It’s a fifteen-story building. Set to be completed by the end of the year. Developed by us but commissioned by the Rexfield corporation. Work is contracted out to Sanders & Sons. It’s a standard, run-of-the-mill New York office building,” I add, thoughtlessly.
Henry’s eyes narrow. “Run-of-the-mill?”
Damn. But I won’t lie. “Yes. It’s designed to fit into the neighborhood it’s located in. Similar colors and structure to the other buildings on the street. It needed to fit zoning regulations. For the interior, Rexfield wanted something functional. They’re a medicine company,” I say, making my voice slightly apologetic. “They’re not interested in a building fit for Architectural Digest.”
He nods slowly. “You’re not wrong. But I would caution you to call any of our developments standard or run-of-the-mill around clients. Or around anyone else at the office, for that matter.”
“I won’t.” I consider apologizing, but then decide against it. Nothing I’d said had been incorrect.
“We’re here.” He gets out first, opening the door for me again. The chivalrous gesture must be ingrained. Outside, the sun is high in the sky. It’s unusually warm for May.
Martin from Sanders & Sons is waiting at the build. He gives Henry a thorough handshake.
“So glad you could make it, Mr. Marchand. We have a lot to show you today.”
“I’m looking forward to it. This is my new assistant, Miss Alvarez.”
Martin shakes my hand. “A pleasure. And as you’ll both see, we’re bang on time on schedule, as well.”
Henry nods—as if he expected nothing less—and we begin our tour through the skeleton-like building. Martin’s knowledge is near encyclopedic. He can answer every question Henry throws his way, even the curveballs.
I wonder if that’s a requirement for working with Marchand & Rykers.
I take notes on everything. Henry doesn’t use any props at all. No paper or blueprints. Does he remember it all? It seems implausible, but then again, knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise me.
Martin takes us through the different levels of rough concrete, saving the view from the top floor for last. I think back to the original sketches for the building—this was to be made into the executive management’s offices.
The meeting runs much later than I anticipated in Henry’s schedule. He’s deep in conversation with Martin, and I don’t want to interrupt, but there’s no chance he’ll be in time for his lunch meeting with a few of the architects at the firm.
“Thank you,” he says finally to Martin. “You’ve been running point with Rhett from my office on this project. Has he been to your satisfaction?”
Martin’s eyes widen. “Yes. Yes, absolutely, sir. He’s very involved.”
I resist the urge to grimace. Involved, yikes. Not usually a contractor’s wet dream.
Henry nods. “Please ensure the project continues to run on schedule.”
It’s past one p.m. when we finally leave the building site. Henry sighs, brushing off dust from the sleeve of his suit jacket. The sun hits him directly, and in the light his brown hair gleams with auburn notes. His square jaw has faint hints of a stubble, as if it’s already started to grow from his morning shave. I try to look away, but it’s hard. He really is a very impressive specimen of a man.
A date, I tell myself. You need to get back out there. Travis.
“What did you think?”
I blink once, drawn out of my musings. “Of the building project?”
“No, of Martin’s beautiful blue eyes,” he deadpans.
I blink at him. He jokes. “Oh. Well, it’s unusual that the project is on track to meet the original, unrevised schedule. You have great contractors.”
“Or great incentives,” he says.
“Yes. But… the design of the top floor bothered me slightly.”
He turns to face me entirely. I thought I was used to the clinical way he looks at me, but now it feels like far too much to be the recipient of all that attention.
“Tell me,” he orders.
“The view is terrific. It’s the most valuable per-square-feet of the entire property. Using it only for executive offices feels like a waste.”
“What would you suggest instead?”
“A boardroom that can double as a conference room. Not something boring, but a place where they can pitch to investors. A place to present new medication. To use that natural light somehow—a beautiful space, like a showroom.”
“Atrium-like?”
“Yes.”
“They could hold functions there, too,” Henry adds. “It’s a good idea. It’s something Rhett should have thought about. It’s not surprising that the company pushed for offices for the executives—themselves, basically—but it’s an architect’s job to give suggestions. To be better than the client.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me for a long beat. “Good catch.”
To my horror, I find myself blushing from the praise like a schoolgirl. To hide it, I open my bag and dig out my phone, finding his calendar. “This meeting ran later than expected.”
“It did.”
“You only have twenty minutes until your next meeting, and no time to get your regular lunch.”
“You didn’t prepare a plan B? Come on, Miss Alvarez.” Henry shakes his head, eyes clearly disapproving. “My leniency has boundaries.”
My mouth hangs open. “Sorry? But that’s not… how could I have known this meeting would run late?”
Only then do I catch the amusement in his expression. He’s so good at hiding it on his face—but his eyes give him away. “It was just a joke,” he says. “Let’s get something on the way. I’m in the mood for kebab.”
There’s absolutely nothing I can say in response to that, apart from the obvious. “No, but now I’m curious to see it. Lead the way, sir.”
7
Henry
I choose the seediest place I can find, just to see the expression on her face.
“Let’s eat here,” I say, stopping in front of a hole-in-the-wall kebab shop. There are a few chairs outside, directly on the sidewalk, but no tables. The place smells like fries and grilled meat.
There’s a faint furrow on her brow. “Here?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering if she’ll call the bluff.
She doesn’t, of course—not Faye Alvarez. She’s as competitive as me.
“I love kebab,” she says smoothly, stepping up to order. I watch in amused silence as she gets the biggest kebab on the menu, including fries.
“The same,” I say, paying for us both in cash. “We’ll eat here.”
Faye frowns at me. “But your meeting? We need to get going.”
“It’s with the architects at the firm, and it’s in-house. We can take ten minutes to eat our lunch.”
She nods, but her eyes are wide. I’ve surprised her several times in the past few minutes, and despite myself, I find that I enjoy it. She’s always so sure of herself—of her opinion of me—that it’s impossible to avoid needling her. We’re sitting right on a bustling New York street, and it’s not even tree lined. It’s not my usual place, sure, but it’s worth it to unsettle the unsettlable Faye.
She crosses shapely legs, visible even through her smart trousers, and frowns at me. “You made your point,” she says. “You eat takeout. I underestimated you.”
I run my fingers along the steel table. “You loved that building project.”
“I did? I thought I upset you by saying it was run-of-the-mill.”
“No, not the outcome. You love being at a building site.” It had been clear in her dark eyes when we followed Martin. I’d seen the excitement, even if she tried to hide it behind a cool mask and diligent notetaking. But she wasn’t as good at hiding her emotions as me.
