9. Ours to Build
9
OURS TO BUILD
brOOKS
Archer paced the floor when I walked into the office. His tie undone, espresso in one hand, and thumb flying across his phone in the other, he acted like a caffeine-fueled CEO on fire.
“We’re spread too thin,” he said without preamble. “I’ve got our next project stuck in zoning hell, the team needs a decision on that Midtown high-rise facade by Friday, and now—get this—Orion wants us to add a brand-new pilot project into the first phase of the new wing, shifting a few offices around to make room for it.”
“He realizes the first phase is almost complete, doesn’t he?” I asked and dropped into the chair across from him, stretching my arms overhead, then hooking them behind my head. But then I caught Lacey side eyeing my abs that must have peeked from under my sweater when I lifted my arms; I dropped them.
Archer scowled. “Patterson said, and I quote, ‘make it happen and spare no expense. The Buchanans have agreed to back it.’ I have half a mind to call Rex myself and threaten to tell Chelsea about some of his wild playboy days, unless he backs out of supporting this.”
“You can’t do that, you know it.”
“What are we going to do?”
“ We? Might I remind you, Arch, you wanted to become a one-stop service from architecture to construction? These are the kinds of problems you’ll have to deal with.”
“You mean we will have to with, don’t you?” He stared me down. Now wasn’t the time to admit my heart wasn’t in this, not yet. Even though a friend at Barnard College recently filled me in on an upcoming position teaching architecture at the private institution.
“Right. So tell me what Orion wants.” I leaned forward and put an arm on his desk.
“It’s a sensory wellness initiative. One of their employees won an internal idea contest. Something to do with neuroscience-meets-design to alter environments, type of thing. The point is, I don’t have time to babysit an idea that may or may not involve mood lighting and essential oils for the next eight weeks.”
“Okay, Arch. What can I do to help?”
He blinked. “Take it off my plate. Obviously.”
Lacey piped up, flipping her laptop around to show us something. “We could assign Nico from the Orion construction crew to handle it. He’s familiar with the specs, and his resume shows he has a design background.”
“I’m aware,” Archer said, mildly annoyed, “but I trust Brooks to handle this one.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since this thing became a PR priority. Patterson wants media-ready regular updates plus a public reveal at an event in eight weeks. You know him and his penchant for going big. We need someone who understands both the construction side, who can handle Patterson’s demands and PR, not to mention how to deal with, you know, scientists—” Archer shifted in his seat. “Unless you think you can’t handle seeing Maisy again.”
I blinked and stared. “Why would that come up?”
Archer glanced at me over his espresso. “Because she’s the one who submitted the idea. She won the initiative.”
The room tilted. Not alarmedly—more like the universe nudged everything off course. Or righted the course to how things should have been in the first place.
Maisy. Me. Together.
Of course, she won. A burst of pride threatened to swallow me whole.
“Interesting,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Lacey cleared her throat. “Do you want me to schedule an internal meeting to scope it out before you commit? This could take up a lot of your time, and I’m not sure your schedule can deal?—”
“Nope. I’ll handle it,” I assured both of them.
Because if there was even the slightest chance I could help Maisy shine, then I would.
Two days later, I stepped into the construction zone of the Buchanan-sponsored Horizon Wing—Orion’s gleaming new addition to their already-elite facility. Hard hats were required; caution tape fluttered like flags. Bits of dust flew wildly through the sunlight streaming in from the newly installed skylights.
I spotted Maisy at the entrance of what would become her sensory room. She hadn’t seen me yet, mid-conversation with one of the site coordinators, bent over the floor plan. Her hair was drawn up into a bun held in place by a pencil. She pointed at the plans with one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.
All business. She was a far cry from the younger woman I first met. Still as stunning, more confident. Out to make her mark on the world. Sexy.
When she finally turned—and saw me—the effect was immediate.
Her whole body tensed, eyes widening slightly, as if I’d just materialized out of nowhere like a ghost from a chapter she thought was closed. I hated having that effect on her.
“Hey.” I gently and waved. As she stepped nearer, I said, “I’m here for the design team meeting. I didn’t realize I’d be such a surprise.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re the design team?” Her voice was steady, but her hands curled tighter around her cup.
“I’m overseeing the project. Archer handed it off to me.”
She nodded once. Then again. As if trying to convince herself this was fine. Everything was fine.
“I’ll be honest,” she drawled. “My first instinct is to ask Patterson to assign someone else.”
Ouch. That stung.
“Why? I’m perfectly capable of helping you create your vision,” I retorted.
“I’m sure you are, but it’s more than that, Brooks. I don’t know if we could keep things professional between us. And this project means everything to me and my career right now.”
“Understandable. Congratulations, by the way. I was pleased to hear you’d won.” I smiled, genuinely happy for her.
“Thanks.”
“And I can keep things professional if you can,” I challenged back.
“Of course I can, when situations are optimal.” Her cheeks turned rosy, as if flustered. “But we have history. Don’t you think that’d be too much of a distraction?”
“For you or for me?”
“Both of us,” she whispered, tilting her head and softening her eyes. “You know our past. I’d hate for any lingering disappointments to get in the way.”
Why did a pattern suddenly emerge? I could see it so clearly now. Maisy always chased her career—me and any kind of relationship between us were always in the way and got left behind.
When would she ever admit that she could have both me and a career if she’d only give it a chance?
The situation was risky, that if I stayed and tried again with her, I could lose, but a decision had to be made right now. I either cut ties and left and put her behind me or I tried again… Fuck. The way her eyes said one thing—staring deeply into mine like she wanted me so badly—while her mouth said another, pushing me away, I couldn’t walk away from her if I tried.
“Maisy, I have no disappointments, okay? We can’t change the past. But we can focus on the here and now. We’re both professionals. I think we can make this work.”
She folded her arms, still holding the coffee cup, gaze unreadable. “You sure about that?”
“No,” I admitted and grinned. “But I’m willing to try if you are.”
She studied me for a beat too long, then finally let out a breath. “Eight weeks is a long time, Brooks.”
“Not long enough, if you ask me.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
I cleared my throat. “I meant—for the scope of the project. It’s ambitious. But I think what you’re trying to do here is important. I’ve reviewed your proposal, and it would be my honor to help you create the ideal setup here.”
The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. “You read my work?”
“In order to design a space for you, what kind of architect would I be if I didn’t care about my client’s desires? And you know I’ve always been one to satisfy yours.” I licked my lips. If she took that with double meaning, she should. Her needs always came first for me.
She chuckled. “I hope I don’t regret this,” she said, chewing her cheek. “What I need is someone on my side who is as passionate as I am about this. And I know I can trust you. So, let’s do this.”
“Good choice. Now, let’s get to work.” Ignoring all bodily and internal celebrations for jumping over this minor hurdle, I handed her a yellow hard hat. She took the pencil out of hair and let her golden locks fall, shaking it out. So pretty. I had to quickly look away—as the professional thing to do.
When I turned back, with the hat in place, it couldn’t contain some of the loose golden strands falling around her face. Her hand swiped up to push them back. God help me, I had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from doing it for her.
If this was how things started, I hoped it wasn’t a mistake.
“So give me the overall scope of the project and timeline,” I suggested as we walked through the dusty build site and taped out the location of the sensory recovery room she’d proposed.
“The first four weeks will be focused on designing completing the space with the latest technology and materials to evoke the stress-free environment we’re going for. The final four weeks will involve bringing in different groups of people to experience the room and testing their response to it. I’ll analyze the data along the way, and present it at a public event here at the end of that time.” She nodded once, like that’d be efficient enough. Then she gestured toward what would be the corners of the room, explaining her ideas, suggesting the stations that might be in each—calming lighting, curved acoustics, soft sensory inputs and much more, each one linked to separate parts of her research.
I diligently took notes on my phone and asked plenty of questions—and quietly wondered what perfume she was wearing. Because the fragrance drove me insane in a very good way. Talk about environmental stimulus.
Maisy paused near one of the window openings and peeked out. “Like a window to the future,” she mused.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, just something my friend Sophie said to me. This feels different from before,” she said. “Working with you, I mean.”
“A lot of time has passed. We’ve both changed.”
She glanced at me. “Maybe. Or perhaps we’re both works in progress.”
We stood there, in the half-constructed space, surrounded by exposed beams and the low hum of drills outside. I wasn’t sure which of us was under renovation more.
She gazed off into the distance at Manhattan, her voice softer now. “This will not be easy—the most challenging work of my life so far.”
“But the best things in life never are easy,” I said. “I like what we have, though, a great idea and a blank slate to make it what you want. My job is to make you look good. But you have no problem doing that yourself.”
“You’re so confident I can pull this off?”
“Zero doubts.”
She studied me for a minute. “Brooks?”
“Maisy?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” Before I did something unprofessional, like grabbing her and enveloping her in my arms, I said, “You’ve given me a lot to go on, so I should head to the office and get to work on the plans. We’ll check in soon?”
“Absolutely. I think we should have regular updates twice a week.”
“At least. Call or text me the dates and times. My number is the same, by the way. Use it.” I winked.
“Good to know.” She smiled slyly at me as she walked away. And for now, that was enough. I shouldn’t rush things, can’t afford to make a mistake. I’ll take my time with her because she’s worth it.
Later that afternoon at the Bellamy office, Lacey knocked on the door of the conference room, where I reviewed some revisions for Maisy’s project and had the blueprints spread on the table.
She stepped inside, heels sharp against the wood floor, hugging her laptop to her chest. “How was the meeting at Orion?”
“Good. Plenty of work ahead. A job I can handle, though. Might be a few detours along the way, but I’ll manage.”
She gave me a look. “A detour with golden hair?”
I didn’t bite, but warned her off with my eyes.
“Um, sorry. Don’t know where that came from,” she was quick to dismiss.
“Lacey, listen. Archer and I need everyone on the team to be performing their best, okay? If there is any reason you cannot do the job we’ve hired you for, speak now,” my voice landed on the harsh side as I intended it to be. But it was time I set things straight with her.
“I can handle it. I’ll be coordinating the press coverage on the back end. Let me know if you want me to handle anything directly with Orion’s PR,” her professional tone returned.
“Thanks. I will.”
She lingered, her gaze falling toward the plans.
“And I’ll make sure your schedule stays clear on project days,” she said. “Wouldn’t want any conflicts.”
“Appreciated.”
She gave a tight smile, then turned and walked out.
Hoping that accomplished what it needed, I dropped my pencil on the table and ran both hands through hair with a sigh. I stared down at the blueprints in front of me—a mix of Maisy’s ideas, my ideas, now ours to bring to life.
When my phone chirped with a notification, overconfidence shot through me, certain who it was. I grinned at Maisy’s name on my phone screen; it’d been a long time since she graced it.
I’d had a florist send over an arrangement to say thanks for doing business with the Bellamy’s. Nothing I wouldn’t do for any other client as a small token of our appreciation. Completely above board, in keeping with our promise of professionalism. Although her bouquet might have been double the usual size.
Maisy: Hi, Brooks. Thanks for the flowers. Very thoughtful. Professional though?
Brooks: With mixed flowers, yes. Unprofessional would have been red roses, don’t you think?
Maisy: Fair enough. Unnecessary, but nice to see the pop of colors on my desk.
Brooks: I’d read somewhere that looking at flowers can help reduce stress levels—oh wait, I think a brilliant scientist named Maisy Calhoun did a study on that.
Maisy: I did, in fact.
Brooks: Is it working?
I smiled at myself and waited while she typed something back. The three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then a minute later, appeared again.
Maisy: I’ll get back to you on that after I study the data.
With a chuckle, I fired off an email to our florist, making sure they delivered a variety of fresh flowers daily to Maisy at Orion indefinitely.
I refocused on the plans laid out before me, only I knew this was more than a design brief. More than a project. But a second chance.
And I wasn’t about to waste it. I’d do anything to make Maisy mine.