Chapter 11 #2
She steps past, poker face back on, and we peel off in opposite directions down the glass corridor, both pretending the static didn’t follow us out. Christ. Whatever that was needs to be buried for the rest of the day.
I walk into my office, drop my brief on the credenza, and head to the conference room. It’s already loud; two of our building partners, Lang and Pierce, are tag-teaming excuses when Griffin slips into the chair at my right, sleeves rolled up. He gives me a sideways nod.
The wall screen pings and Henson pops on from Vancouver, tie loosened, hotel art behind him.
“We can’t absorb those penalties,” Lang insists. “Your revisions pushed the timeline—”
“My revisions kept your tower from shearing in high wind,” I say from the head chair. “You’re welcome.”
Pierce slides a folder across. “We’ll need W.H.M. to participate in liquidated damages—”
Griffin taps the folder back with one knuckle. “You’ll need to participate in reading. Section 12.2 excludes safety-driven changes.”
On the screen, Henson lifts a brow. “And your procurement window closed before those revisions locked. You cheaped out on glazing, gentlemen. That’s not market conditions. That’s a gamble.”
Pierce bristles. “We value-engineered per—”
“Correction,” Griffin says, calmly. “You gambled and lost.”
I look from one brother to the other. Before the skyscrapers, the suits, and the glass office with a view, I was hauling demo debris at dawn.
None of us grew up rich, but we grew up solid.
Our parents taught us to hustle and build from the ground up.
W.H.M. wasn’t born from a trust fund or a loan—it came from sweat equity, second jobs, and the kind of risk that keeps you up at night.
We built this company brick by brick. So I don’t take it lightly when people try to take me for a ride.
“You’re asking the wrong house for charity,” I finish. “Here’s what you’ll do: lock your steel order by noon, revert to the approved glazing spec, and stop pretending you can save a dime by spending a dollar.”
Henson holds up a single page to his webcam. “Your homework. Send us a revised schedule by three p.m., weekends included. If you want W.H.M. to babysit, add a zero to the retainer. Otherwise, do your jobs.”
Lang starts, “We—”
I lift a hand and tap the contract. “Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scrape, and they file out, chastened. Griffin leans back, mouth ticking. Onscreen, Henson watches them go.
“Should’ve brought cupcakes,” he says dryly. “Everyone takes bad news better with frosting.”
Griffin huffs a laugh. “Or bourbon.”
Henson’s gaze swings back to me. “So… How’s it going with the new junior designer?”
Griffin muffles another laugh into a cough.
“Good,” I snap. “Why?”
Griffin studies me like I offended him. “Only that you go taut like a tripline when she’s around.”
“I don’t.” It’s the opposite. Somehow, I’m less taut with her in the room, as if the noise drops and my breathing evens out—even if my face refuses to admit it. I won’t tell these idiots that.
“Sure,” Henson says, voice dry. “And I don’t eat carbs.”
Griffin tips his head. “She’s sharp and holds her ground. You like that.”
“I like competence,” I retort.
“Uh huh. Competence.” Henson mimes quotation marks.
I give my brother a deadly look through the screen.
He grins. “Relax. I’m kidding. But your vibe isn’t chill—at all.”
“It’s purely professional.”
It is, right? Not entirely. And last night, Mya listened like my words mattered, and that’s a drug I don’t intend to sample. Not again.
Henson leans closer to his webcam. “Listen, man. I know why you keep steel walls up. But not everyone is a breach. Some just… stand with you.”
I flick my eyes to him then Griffin. “Is this a feelings meeting now? Should I get a candle?”
Griffin lifts both hands in surrender.
I collect the folders off the table. “We done?”
Henson salutes the camera and Griffin pushes to his feet, still smirking. At the door, he pauses. “For what it’s worth, she’s good for the team. And you look… a little less miserable.”
“Get out,” I say, but there’s no heat.
The door shuts behind him and the room goes quiet.
I stack the files, trying not to think back to touching Mya’s skin in the elevator, and the way her voice threads through the static and turns it down.
Around noon, Mya steps into my doorway with a file.
“Do you have five minutes?”
I check my watch, even though I already know the answer. “Three.”
She crosses to the table, close enough that her perfume slips into the space between us, and drops a folder onto it.
I plant a hand on the hard surface and keep my voice even. “Are those the preliminary drawings for the community housing project?”
Mya nods. “That’s what I’m here to show you.”
“You know you don’t have to bring them to me, right? Griffin is your direct superior. He should approve your drawings.”
“Oh. Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She clears her throat. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just thought you’d want to see them since I came to you about this yesterday.”
She’s rambling, and it’s cute as hell. I smother the smile trying to get out.
“Relax, Mya. I’ll take a look.” Her name slips out before I can catch it. Shit. I keep my face neutral. “I meant you don’t need my sign-off. I trust your vision. If you need help, Griff is the guy.”
Her gaze lifts to mine for a moment, and then she’s laying the sheets out, talking me through the set. I try to focus on the drawings, not her mouth.
“These are strong,” I say, flipping to the last page. “Good work.”
A glint sparks in her eyes at the praise. “Thank you, sir.”
I almost groan. Every time she calls me Mr. Miller, my cock tightens in my trousers. But sir is a straight shot to the blood pressure.
“Anything else, Ms. Jones?”
“No, Mr. Miller,” Mya drawls, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, gaze locked to mine.
“Good.” I break first. “Close the door on your way out.”
She does.
When the latch clicks, I drag a hand over my face, turning toward the glass.
Fuck me.