Chapter 3
WORTH
Istep off the elevator and my phone vibrates in my hand.
A name flashes across the screen—one I recognize immediately and wish I didn’t.
Morgan:
Last night was fun. When can I see you again?
I close my eyes for a brief, long-suffering second.
I have a rule. A very clear one. No woman more than twice. This one clearly didn’t get the message—or chose to ignore it.
I don’t respond. Instead, I slide the phone into my pocket. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, and I refuse to clean up confusion I never invited.
I barely have time to breathe before I’m immediately ambushed.
“Mr. Miller!”
Francine, one of our interns, comes jogging towards me with a stack of documents. I can already feel the migraine forming. Andrée—my assistant and the office manager—must be triaging fires again.
“Andrée said to give you these right away. It’s the Lau Construction agreement,” she blurts. “Apparently, it needed your signature yesterday.”
“Everything needs my signature yesterday,” I mutter with a sigh.
I grab the papers from her hands as I swipe my badge at my office door. “Next time, don’t rush me before I’ve had coffee.”
She stammers something apologetic, but I’m already inside, gesturing at her to follow me.
I sit at my desk, rub my temple, and scan the agreement.
“Legal’s looked this over?” I ask without glancing up.
“Yes, sir,” Francine says from the doorway.
“And the board?”
“Reviewed late last night.”
I sign the pages and push them towards her. “Take them.”
She grabs the documents and scurries off like her shoes are on fire.
I glance at the stack of interview folders in front of me. Meetings start in ten minutes, but I haven’t bothered to check the order. Doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out on the fly like I always do.
Seconds later, Andrée steps in with her clipboard in hand, and gives me her classic no-bullshit look, bringing me back to the present. “It’s time, boss. The first candidate is waiting.”
I follow Dre into the boardroom, head down, distracted by a message from Henson finally confirming we received the building permits we’d been waiting for. The other board members greet me but I barely acknowledge them as I sit at the head of the table.
Then I look up.
And everything fucking shifts.
Familiar, piercing brown eyes are watching me, posture perfect, nerves radiating from every angle.
It’s the barista from Willow’s. The one I didn’t even thank for my drink. Here. Interviewing for a job at my company.
My lips quirk at the memory of her shouting at me only a few days ago.
I had stopped in for caffeine while waiting on an update from Henson about zoning permits for a project. The place was loud, cramped, and smelled like lavender.
I used to take Brianna to that cafe all the time when she was little on Saturday mornings.
Hot chocolate with extra whipped cream for her, black coffee for me.
She’d sit on my lap and sip her drink, leaving foam on her upper lip and giggling when I’d wipe it off with a napkin.
Now, between school and my schedule, and Brianna becoming a teenager, those mornings are long gone.
Which explains why I’d never seen that barista before.
Now that I’m getting a real look at her, without the distractions, I realize why she stuck in my head in the first place. She’s stunning. Striking, even. Beautiful curls, curves to die for, dark doe eyes.
“Mr. Miller?” someone says. “Sir?”
I feel a light kick under the table. “Worth,” Dre hisses.
I snap out of it. “Yes. Sorry.” I reach for my water bottle, twist the cap too hard, and take a giant gulp to hide my own reaction.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Dre begins her intro, outlining the interview format, introducing everyone on the panel.
I can’t hear a word.
All I can see is the woman sitting in front of me. Her lips. Her eyes. Her tight pencil skirt and the way she’s biting her bottom lip like it’s a nervous habit. I shouldn’t be noticing that. I really, really shouldn’t.
My gaze lingers too long on her mouth. Our eyes meet. Her pupils dilate and her chest rises like she’s holding her breath.
I am too. This is bad.
“And this is Mr. Miller,” Dre finishes. “He’ll be leading the interview.”
I clear my throat. “Right. Thank you, Andrée.”
I lift the papers in front of me to break eye contact and buy myself a second to get it the fuck together.
“Name?”
“Mya,” she replies, her voice a little shaky. “Mya Dessen-Jones.”
The same name I saw on that résumé two nights ago.
“Mya,” I repeat, letting it settle on my tongue. “Tell me about yourself.”
Mya shifts in her seat. “Um, I’m a senior in the Graphic and Architectural Design program at U of W.”
Young. Too young.
“I’m graduating with my master’s with high honors in Sustainable Architecture,” she continues, finding her footing. “I’m driven, detail-oriented, and passionate about design—”
“I read your file,” I cut in. “You don’t have field experience. This is a multi-billion dollar firm, Ms. Jones. We don’t hire just anybody. So, what makes you special enough to be an exception?”
Mya goes still.
Then, slowly, she exhales. I can feel Andrée looking at me, probably scolding me telepathically for my tone.
“My father—” Mya starts. “He worked in construction. He’d come home with blueprints in his hands, and he’d light up when he talked about what he was designing. He loved his job. He loved design. When I was little, he’d explain site plans to me like they were bedtime stories.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop.
“He died in a fall on-site. I was just a kid. But I remember how proud he was of what he did. I fell in love with design, and I made a promise that I’d carry that pride forward.
That I’d finish what he started. It’s why I'm relentless about succeeding. If you put me on a project, I’ll give it everything I have. ”
Something in my chest tightens at the obvious grief she’s feeling, but my gaze keeps betraying me, sliding to the curve of her mouth, the shine of her brown eyes under the harsh fluorescence, the way her blouse stretches just enough when she breathes in.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t get flustered, but this woman’s presence is like a live wire buzzing under my skin, and it’s scrambling every logical thought I’ve got.
I grip my pen tighter, forcing my focus back to the page in front of me. Ask a question. Any question. But when I open my mouth, the words dry up, and all I can think about is how her voice tickles places in me that haven’t woken in years.
If I don’t dismiss her now, I’ll say something I can’t take back or worse, and everyone in this room will know exactly what I’m thinking.
I nod once. “Thank you, Ms. Jones. That’ll be all.”
She blinks. “I didn’t show you my portfolio.”
“You can leave it on the table. We’ll review it.”
She straightens. “With respect, the work reads better when I can walk you through the constraints, budgets, and sustainability targets I met—”
“And with respect,” I interrupt, eyes still on the page, “out there, you won’t have time to narrate competence. It should be obvious on the paper.”
“It is obvious if you’ll just look.”
My eyes lift, meeting hers. A challenge. Heat climbs my collar.
Mya slides the folio closer. “If you’re going to pass on me, pass on the work, not the assumption you made thirty seconds into meeting me.”
The room thins to the two of us. I hold the silence until it bends.
“Noted,” I say at last. “You’re dismissed.”
Mya sets her jaw. “Thank you for your time.”
She adjusts her blouse, and walks out with her head high.
As soon as she steps out, I turn to Dre.
“We can’t hire her.”