by Olivia Hayle
Not to mention a great architect—the opera house had been impressive. My hands had itched to get closer, to see the blueprints and bring it to life on my screen. It was exactly what I’d worked on at Elliot Ferris, the large, grand-scale projects. He competed in every possible design competition worldwide, which was exactly how we’d gotten the Century Dome project.
Just thinking about the Dome brings tightness to my chest. For five years I’d poured everything I’d had into that project, and Elliot Ferris had taken all the credit. All of it—and let me go without so much as a recommendation.
Damn it. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not about past mistakes, nor about Henry and his stern gaze and eye for design.
The bartender nods at me. “Waiting for someone?”
“Yes,” I say. “Must be late.”
“No worries. If he’s not here when you’re done with your drink, the next one’s on the house,” he says with a wink.
I can’t help but grin back. At least someone is here to appreciate the effort I put in with my dress and makeup tonight. “Thanks.”
The minutes inch forward and no Travis in sight. He hasn’t even texted to let me know he’ll be late.
Henry would never be late. No doubt, he’d been bang on time tonight for his date. My mind drifts to what he would wear—how his suit would hug his wide shoulders and strong arms—before I shut it down.
I’m not on a date with Henry Marchand, and I never will be.
Travis shows up nearly half an hour late. He smiles crookedly when he sees me, looking exactly like the picture Jessie had sent me. About my height, with brown hair and lanky limbs. Cute, in a boyish kind of way.
“Faye?”
“That’s me.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek, smelling like smoke. “Glad you could make it tonight.”
“Likewise,” I say dryly.
Travis doesn’t apologize for his lateness and the rest of the evening follows suit. I’m bored out of my skull an hour later, trying and failing to follow a story about his roommate’s poor taste in video games.
I clear my throat. “Do you enjoy bartending?”
“Nah. It’s all right, you know. Pays the bills.” He grins, cheekily. “But I definitely feel like I have a future elsewhere.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“I’m not sure you’d understand.”
“No, try me,” I say, intrigued for the first time in over an hour. “What do you want to do instead?”
He leans in, smiling at me like he’s about to tell me a secret. “I saw this great documentary last week about Neil Armstrong. It was so cool. I mean, he was so cool. What he did, you know? Man, that guy really did something with his life, you know. And the documentary really showed that, like, in-depth.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “So you want to become a documentary filmmaker?”
He laughs. “No. An astronaut.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I figured it’s a lot of work, but you have to start somewhere. I know I just made the decision, but I’m really committed.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ve already ordered a few books about it. Well, one. Introduction to physics. Seemed a good place to start.”
Oh, god.
What the hell had Jessie been thinking, setting me up with this guy? We couldn’t be more different if we tried. He was a blank canvas and still trying to figure out what to become. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t someone I was interested in dating.
And when he asked me what I did for a living—the first question he’d asked me all night—and promptly confused an architect with an archeologist…
Travis raises an eyebrow when I call it a night. “Already? It’s not even ten.”
“I’m an early riser,” I say, putting down two twenties for my own drinks. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Sure you have to go? Jessie said a lot of nice things about you, but she didn’t do you justice.” His smile turns flirtatious, eyes glittering. “I live close by, you know.”
Yeah… it’s definitely time to go.
“I have to. Thanks for tonight.”
“I enjoyed myself,” he says. “See you around.”
Despite the stifling New York air, I breathe in deep gulps as I leave the bar. Jessie, my kind, crazy, impulsive friend. She’d been wild when she suggested this. An astronaut. He wanted to become an astronaut based on one week of knowledge.
I walk down the street and watch people mill about around me. New York is always a bustle of people, never asleep, never quiet. When I first said I wanted to move here, my parents had been confused. Why? It’s all money and work and people who don’t smile at one another on the street. It had been difficult to describe it to them. I loved my parents. I loved the small town in Ohio where I grew up. But it hadn’t felt big enough for my dreams, or for the person I grew into as soon as I left for college.
My phone rings, an insistent vibration in my pocket. Probably Jessie, calling to check in on the date, unable to stop herself. I consider letting it go to voice mail—she’ll be disappointed that I didn’t like Travis.
But eventually I fish it out of my pocket, and when I see the caller ID, it isn’t Jessie at all.
It’s Henry.
9
Henry
“It’s hard, you know, to travel so much,” Chelsea says. “It gets lonely to be on the road all the time. And I never really feel like I’m home when I’m home either, you know? But of course you know. You work a lot yourself.”
“I do, yes.”
She flicks a strand of curled hair over her shoulder. “I like men who work a lot. Who have ambition. And I’m sure you do.”
“I enjoy my work, yes.” Watching paint dry would have been more fun than this discussion. For over an hour, Chelsea had been running the conversation, avoiding all my attempts to talk about something even remotely interesting.
“I read up on you before this. I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, and bats expertly elongated eyelashes, “but I’m too honest. I have to confess.”
God help me. “And what did you find?”
She leans in across the table. “Well, I knew you were impressive before, but the search confirmed it. Started your own firm at just twenty-seven, quickly became one of the biggest names in Manhattan. You won the Hugh D. Lehn award. Your father is a developer, too, right?”
“Yes.” I scan the restaurant for the waiter. I need to pay this bill and end this.
“Is that why you got into the business?”
“I didn’t—”
“Because that’s why I love fashion. My mother was a famous model, you know. Very beautiful. People say I look like her, but I don’t see it.” Chelsea smiles. It looks sickly sweet. “Do you think I do? My mom is Cindy White.”
The name barely rings a bell. “I’m sure the resemblance is striking.”
Her smile falters, but only slightly. “Let me just tell you how excited I was when you asked me out for dinner.”
She had looked vaguely bored when I’d offered. What had brought about this change? The google search of my net worth and history?
“I’m glad you accepted.”
Chelsea shoots me another practiced smile and starts to complain about something so inane that I do my best to tune it out, my features impassive. She’s taken pictures of the place, of the food, and of our drinks. At least she didn’t try to take a picture with me.
I glance down at my watch. It’s half-past nine. Faye is out on her date as well. Her blind date. It’s far too easy to imagine her sitting on a barstool, her eyes teasing as she challenges the poor guy she’s been paired with.
What kind of men does she like? In my mind, the guy she’s smiling at shifts from muscly jock to a tall investment banker. Neither feels right. Faye’s too… she’s too much for that. For single-minded men who can’t keep up with her intelligence.
Or they’re hitting if off and she’s blushing for him, like she
did for me when I asked her about the date. The low lights of the bar setting off her olive-toned skin perfectly.
Chelsea is still droning on. Just a few months ago she would have been exactly the kind of date I’d enjoy wining, dining, and bedding. A companion for events. She’d know what was expected and anticipated; it was a comfortable sort of arrangement, always unspoken. Enjoyable conversation, if not particularly deep. Both parties aware it’s casual.
Now, the thought of spending another hour pretending to be interested in the newest Birkin bag feels like torture, not to mention spending an entire evening with her at the Founders’ ball. No, she’s not a prospective candidate at all.
It’s not hard to picture Faye opposite me instead, tonight at Salt. She’d say something outrageous, and I’d get to surprise her right back by not reacting like she’d expect at all.
I finally get eye contact with a waiter. Chelsea smirks at me when I settle the bill, going out of her way to point out to the waiter that the vegan option she ordered wasn’t quite to her satisfaction.
She threads her arm through mine as we walk back to our street. Clearly, dating someone I lived next to had been a mistake. I should have known, but I’d done it anyway, driven by the pressure to find someone for the ball—not to mention my little sister’s wedding in a few short weeks.
“You’re very fit,” she says, running her hand up my arm. I resist the urge to draw away from her and look down at where her eyes are flirtatiously narrowing at me. “I didn’t know architects were this buff. You don’t do any of that construction work yourself, do you?”
“Not generally, no. But I stay active.” I have the gym, every morning, not to mention the long hours spent sailing. Hauling ropes isn’t for the weak. “Here’s where I have to leave you, Chelsea.”
Her face drops, but she quickly composes it into something that looks like a smirk. It’s clear she’s used to using her charms and having them work. “You’re not going home?”
“I have to go to the office.”
“On a Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“I do love that you work so much,” she says, but the attempt is half-hearted. “Thanks for tonight, Henry.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes ultimately hold nothing but calculation. I’m one of many, and we both know it’s not a genuine connection. “While I’m sure we both had a good evening, I’m not going to call you, and I don’t think you’ll call me either.”
Her face drops entirely. “Wow. I… all right. That’s rude.”
“No, it’s honest.”
She shakes her head. “Fine. Do you know how many men want to go out with me?”
“Many, I’m sure.” But I am definitely not one of them. “Good night, Chelsea. Take care.”
She shoots me a look that’s more offended than hurt and heads inside.
I take a deep breath for the first time in a couple of hours and start walking toward the office. I know I’m not going to be able to sleep for hours, and my fingers are itching to try out some changes to the opera house. This entire evening reminded me why I hate New York’s dating scene. No doubt she’d be dating ten guys at the same time and had expected me to do the same.
Everything is complicated—absolutely everything—when the only thing I want is simplicity.
My mind drifts to Faye and her date again, like a dog with a bone. Is she like Chelsea too, playing the field? I can’t imagine that. But I can imagine her infatuated, her cheeks flushing beautifully again. She might still be on her date. If it’s going well, he could be kissing her right now.
I dial her number.
I know I shouldn’t call. I have no legitimate reason to do so. She’s organized my calendar to perfection, and everything I need for the weekend is done.
Faye answers on the second signal. “Mr. Marchand? Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Did your reservation work out?”
“Yes, it did.”
A faint pause. “So, what’s the matter?”
“Did you book the airport transportation for my Chicago trip?”
“I did, yes.”
“I didn’t receive the details.”
“No, I was planning on going over it on Monday, during our meeting.” Another pause. “Do you need them earlier?”
“Yes, I need the details right away,” I say, hand clenched at my side. I know I’m acting like an asshole.
“I’ll forward them to your email right away.”
“Good.” I force my hand to relax. I want to keep her talking. “Hopefully it won’t interrupt your evening too much.”
“Oh, you’re not interrupting,” Faye says with a sigh, the disappointment in her voice loosening something in me. “I think that was the first and last time I’ll ever attempt a blind date.”
Something in me relaxes. “That bad?”
“Yes, dear God. What about you? Are you already finished with yours, sir?”
I can’t help but smile at the sir added at the end of a question she shouldn’t be asking. “Yes.”
“Huh.”
Her curiosity is palpable, even through the phone. “It wasn’t good either,” I say. “I’m at the office.”
“Working on your project?”
“Yes.”
Faye is quiet for a beat. “I’m nearby. Do you need anything? Take-out, perhaps? I’m sure I could find a kebab shop for you.”
I just ate a dinner at Salt, something she knows full well, too. The answer is clearly no.
But still.
“Get enough for two.”
By the time the elevator dings, I’ve sketched out the adjustments to the digital model that Faye suggested. The wood feels basic—too simple a material—but the more I look at it, the less of an eyesore it becomes. I’m still not sure if it’s right. But she was correct about one aspect, at least. The building needs more natural aspects to ground the design.
I left my office door open and Faye walks in, a large paper bag in hand.
“Hey,” she says, half-smiling. Her hair is down, falling in tumbling black waves around her face and shoulders. Her features look softer, somehow, than at work. Rosy lips and long eyelashes.
And she’s in a dress.
Not one of the work dresses—no, this dress hugs her chest, showing off her waist and then flaring out over curved hips. Little strappy heels on her feet, too. I force my gaze toward the brown takeout bag before she sees me staring.
“What did you end up getting?”
“Burgers.” She puts the food down on the conference table. The smell of fries and grilled meat hits me, and damn if it doesn’t make my mouth water. Salt has great food, but the dishes are tiny. “This one is yours.”
I accept the burger she hands me. There are little scribblings on the top of the wrapper. Faye sees me looking. “Oh, I got one with bacon, which I know you like, but without sesame seeds, which you don’t.”
“I don’t like sesame seeds?”
She shrugs, looking apologetic. “It was in the notes I got from your last assistant.”
“Well, that’s news to me.” I frown down at my burger, thinking about Sara. She’d been too attentive toward the end. I must have complained about sesame seeds getting everywhere.
“I’ll unlearn that piece of information then. Here, have some fries.” Faye pushes the bag toward me. I watch in amusement as she sinks into one of the conference chairs with a pleased sigh. Her off-duty self feels relaxed… open. No assistant has ever been that way with me before.
Mercenary bastard that I am, I exploit it immediately.
“So the blind date was that bad?”
“Terrible. He was nearly half an hour late. And then he only spoke about himself, just pausing to drink or to give me sleazy compliments.”
“Unsmooth.”
“Yes.” She pushes her thick hair behind an ear, bending to take a bite of her burger. “And when I mentioned I was an architect, he made a reference to Indiana Jones.”
> I grit my teeth at that one. “You’re joking.”
“No. He legitimately thought I was an archeologist for half of the evening.”
“Who set you up with him?”
“My best friend. She’s great, but doesn’t have the greatest judgement in guys sometimes.”
“Clearly.” Anyone with half a brain could see that Faye wouldn’t be satisfied with a man like that. She must have been running circles around him all night.
Faye narrows her eyes at me, and the fire is back in them. “You look pleased.”
There’s no point in denying it. “I am.”
“Why?”
“I can’t have my assistant’s focus divided, can I?”
Faye rolls her eyes and heads to the trash can to throw out the wrapping paper. Rolling her eyes at me seems to be her thing. No one has done that to me for years, not since my youngest sibling turned fifteen. “How about your date?” she asks. “Not good?”
“No.”
Faye nods encouragingly, clearly wanting me to continue. I run my fingers along the edge of the table and consider. This relaxed air between us… I like it entirely too much for my own good, not to mention hers.
“I would rather have spent the evening watching paint dry.”
She winces. “Ouch. Poor girl, to be described that way.”
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sure she has dozens of men waiting to take my place. She said so herself.”
“She didn’t.”
I nod grimly. “Indeed she did.”
Faye heads to the model in the corner, her gaze thoughtful. “So you came back here.”
“Evidently.”
She leans in for a closer look of the opera house, her long hair shielding her face entirely from view. It’s unsettling to see her study it so closely. Something I’ve worked on for nearly a year, and her eyes are the first to see it. I’m still not sure if it was a mistake to involve her.
But she had good ideas, and the deadline is looming.
“What else would you change?”
Faye sweeps her hair back and looks up at me. “With the design?”
“Yes.”
She bites her lip slightly, watching the model with glazed eyes. It’s a look I recognize. She loves the design process just as much as I do.
