2. Chapter Two
chapter two
. . .
Carter
I fired my assistant today. No hesitation, no second thoughts. A swift severance, like amputating a gangrenous limb. Incompetence was a cancer. I wouldn't tolerate it.
Emmett was looking at me like I'd kicked his puppy. He shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the sleek conference table. For the president of a multi-billion-dollar company, he was incredibly soft.
“Carter, man, don't you think that's a bit harsh? Jenna's only been on the job for a month. I’m sure with some more training?—”
I shot him a look that said it all. I didn't get to the top by coddling mediocrity. He sighed. After months of working together on the latest Price Industries project—a community development that served an underprivileged population—he knew better than to push.
The meeting wrapped up soon after, everyone scattering to their respective corners of the building. I retreated to the temporary office Callie had set up for me. She was the Head of Special Projects, and I met with her frequently enough that it was convenient to have a space to call my own in the building. I also suspected it was a bribe. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sprawling view of downtown Columbus. The city stretched out before me, a glittering patchwork of progress and potential. Still, I preferred the quiet solitude of my home office. Most projects kept me from home for months at a time, so when I had the chance to be in Columbus, I’d rather be at home.
I rolled up my shirt sleeves and sank into the buttery leather of my desk chair. Jenna had left a handwritten note on my desk. I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash can. Another one bites the dust. I’d had four assistants in the last year alone. Pathetic.
A knock at the door jolted me from my brooding. Wick poked his head in, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Got a minute?”
I waved him in, curious. Wick rarely sought me out one-on-one unless it was important. Like that time he told me he’d fucked Emmett’s sister and Callie’s best friend at the same time. Not something I expected, but they’ve certainly made it work.
He shut the door behind him and crossed to the bar cart in the corner, pouring us each a finger of bourbon. I raised an eyebrow. Liquid courage? Now I’m intrigued.
Wick handed me a glass and took a seat across from my desk. He studied the amber liquid for a long moment before meeting my gaze.
“I need a favor.”
I took a sip of bourbon, letting it burn a slow trail down my throat. “I'm listening.”
He exhaled heavily. “It's my sister, Olivia. She's going through a rough time right now. Her husband left her, and she's been struggling to find work. I was hoping... shit, I was hoping you’d give her a shot. At the assistant job.”
I blinked. Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't that. “Your sister. The one who likes to bake?”
“Yeah. She's got a degree in business. Graduated top of her class. She's smart as hell. And organized. Practically ran the whole damn Humane Society a few years ago.”
I leaned back in my chair, considering. I didn’t know Wick well, but I knew that he was shrewd, and he wasn't one for nepotism. If he said she could handle it, I was inclined to believe him.
“Fine. I’ll interview her Friday morning. You can ask my assistant for the details.”
“Dude, you don’t have an assistant. That’s the whole point.”
A chuckle burst from my lips. “Fuck. Okay, how about this: I’ll text you my address. Have your sister be there at 10 a.m. sharp on Friday for a formal interview.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded.
“I really appreciate it, man.” Wick threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the coffee table for the office cleaning staff to take care of. “Truly.”
With all the travel I had done over the years, it’d been a long time since I had a true friend. But Wick was closer than anyone to attaining friend status, despite the fifty-foot walls I had built around myself. Truthfully, it was easier to keep people out. Can’t lose something you never had.
“No promises that it will work out. ”
“Of course. I appreciate you giving her a shot.” Wick was unfazed by my gruffness—probably because his demeanor wasn’t much different from mine. Though he had softened in the last few months since his relationship with Marco and Meghan had found more solid footing. I didn’t know how he did it. I’d never even managed to make it to the third date with a woman, let alone handled two partners for months on end.
Wick left my temporary office with a mock salute, letting the heavy door click shut behind him.
I swiveled my chair to face the window. What the hell did I just agree to? Taking on a new assistant was one thing. Taking on a friend's sister, a woman in the midst of a personal crisis? That was a whole different ball game.
I rubbed the tense knot at the back of my neck. I was already picturing the potential headaches. But I'd given Wick my word. And if there was one thing I prided myself on, it was following through.
After a few more hours of work, I left the Price Industries tower, my mind already racing ahead to Friday's interview with Wick’s sister. Christ. The revolving door of incompetence was giving me whiplash. But if Wick vouched for her... well, the man had good instincts.
The late afternoon sun beat down on the roof of the parking garage as I strode to my car. I always parked up here—less chance of some shitbag dinging my car with their doors. A group of interns scurried out of my path, their wide-eyed looks a mix of awe and terror. Good. Fear bred respect, and respect got shit done.
I slid into the driver's seat of my car, relishing the cool leather against my back. The engine purred to life, and I pulled out of the garage, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar Columbus streets. As I navigated through the rush hour traffic, my thoughts drifted back to the interview. What kind of woman was Olivia, really? Wick had mentioned she'd practically run the Humane Society. That took organizational skills. And a stomach for cleaning up other people's messes. Both vital qualities in an assistant.
But there was more to it. A niggling sense of... something. Intuition, perhaps. The same gut instinct that had guided me through countless successful projects.
I pulled onto the cobblestone streets of German Village, and neighbors waved as I passed. I managed a curt nod in return. After five years, they'd finally stopped trying to invite me to block parties and potlucks. Thank fuck for small mercies.
My house came into view. From the outside, it maintained its nineteenth-century charm. Inside, it was all me. I needed space. Light. Room to breathe. That’s why I’d gutted the place when I bought it, much to the horror of the historical society.
I parked in the garage and made my way inside. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the central air. Exactly how I liked it. No roommates, no pets, no distractions.
I poured myself a drink and headed to my home office. The wall of windows overlooked a small courtyard, lush with greenery. It was my own private oasis in the middle of the city. A place to think. To create .
To brood, as Wick would say. Asshole.
I settled into my chair. My gaze fell on the framed blueprints adorning the walls. A legacy etched in steel and glass.
But lately, it felt… hollow. I was going through the motions, churning out cookie-cutter designs for soulless corporations. Where was the passion? The fire that had driven me to the top of my field?
I stretched, muscles crunching in my shoulders. Maybe I needed a vacation. A chance to recharge, find some new inspiration. But the thought of being idle made my skin crawl.
No. What I needed was a challenge. Something to sink my teeth into. To prove to myself—and everyone else—that I was still at the top of my game.
My phone buzzed, jerking me from my musing.
WICK FRIEDMAN
Thanks again for giving Liv a shot. She won't let you down.
I snorted, taking a swig of bourbon. We'll see about that. I'd lost count of the number of assistants who'd sworn up and down they could handle the job, only to crack under the pressure within weeks.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. A quick Google search would probably turn up some basic information. But no. I wanted to go into this interview with fresh eyes. No preconceived notions.
Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to. The community development project for Price Industries was in its early stages, but I could already see the potential. A chance to create something meaningful. Something that would make a difference in people's lives.
It was the kind of project that had drawn me to architecture in the first place. The ability to shape the world around us, to create spaces that inspired and uplifted.
I pulled up the preliminary sketches on my computer, losing myself in the lines and angles. Time slipped away as I tweaked and refined, my mind buzzing with possibilities.
My phone vibrated again. I blinked, realizing the room had grown dark. Shit. How long have I been working?
I glanced down to see Emmett Price’s name lighting up the screen. What the hell does he want at this hour?
“Cassidy,” I answered, my voice gruff from disuse.
“Carter! Hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Emmett's voice was far too chipper for—I glanced at my watch—10:30 p.m. Jesus.
“What do you need, Emmett?”
“Right to the point. I like that about you, Carter.” He chuckled, and I resisted the urge to hang up. “Listen, I was hoping we could meet tomorrow to go over some changes to the community center plans. The board had some... concerns.”
I gritted my teeth. “Concerns.”
“Nothing major! A few tweaks here and there. You know how it is with these things. Politics, budgets. It's all a delicate balance.”
I did know. All too well. It was why I preferred to work alone, answering to no one but myself.
But this project was different. Special. Worth the headache of dealing with bureaucrats and penny-pinching board members.
“Fine.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Tomorrow afternoon. My office. ”
“Great! I'll bring lunch. How do you feel about sushi?”
I hung up without bothering to answer. Emmett was a good guy, but his relentless cheer grated on my nerves. I'd never understand how Callie put up with it.
I slumped in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The community center plans glowed on my computer screen, a reminder of all the work still to be done.
A delicate balance, indeed. Creating something beautiful and functional while working within the constraints of budget and bureaucracy. But that was the challenge, wasn't it? Anyone could design a masterpiece with unlimited resources. The true test of skill was making something extraordinary out of the ordinary.
My gaze drifted to the blueprints on the wall again—each one evidence of that skill. Of the countless hours of work, the sleepless nights, the relentless drive for perfection.
But at what cost?
The thought crept in, unbidden and unwelcome. I shoved it aside, focusing on the tasks at hand. The community center. The upcoming meeting with Emmett. And beyond that, the interview with Olivia.
I pulled up her resume, scanning the details Wick had sent over. Impressive credentials. Top of her class at Ohio State. Rapid advancement at the humane society. Glowing recommendations from former colleagues.
But it was the gap in her employment history that caught my eye. Three years. A significant chunk of time to be out of the workforce. What had she been doing during that period? And more importantly, why was she looking to re-enter now ?
The questions nagged at me as I shut down my computer and made my way to my bedroom.
The master suite was a work of art—a design I had been dreaming up since I was a teenager, sketching shitty ideas in my notebook late into the night. Over the years, as my skills improved, the plans became more intricate and polished.
Now, it was my sanctuary—the one place where I could truly unwind and be myself. I had invested heavily in creating the ideal personal retreat, a space that perfectly blended form and function.
It was a study in contrasts—sleek, contemporary lines against the historic bones of the house. The original exposed brick wall behind the bed, with its rough texture, served as a reminder of the home's rich history. But rather than looking old or mismatched, it provided the ideal counterpoint to the modern elements I had incorporated.
It was expansive but not overwhelming, with tall ceilings and a wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. I had optimized the layout to let in abundant natural light, positioning a seating area to bask in the morning sun and tucking a workspace into a nook for those late-night bursts of inspiration.
But it was the finer points that made the space truly exceptional. Rich, dark hardwood floors were complemented by a luxurious area rug in a geometric pattern of grays and blues. The walls were painted in a soothing, neutral hue, the perfect canvas for the meticulously curated art pieces adorning them. A large abstract expressionist canvas by a local artist commanded attention above the minimalist, low-profile bed. The bed frame itself was a bespoke creation, made from responsibly sourced walnut .
I trudged through my nightly routine, the repetitive steps a cold comfort after the shitstorm of my day. In the bathroom, I cranked the shower until the water was nearly hot enough to take off a layer of skin. Steam billowed out, fogging up the mirror as I stripped down and chucked my clothes in the hamper.
The scalding water hammered at the ever-present knots in my shoulders and neck. I scrubbed myself raw with my fancy sandalwood soap, the smell sharp and earthy. Say what you will, but a good bar of soap is one of life's simple pleasures—it makes you feel clean deep down.
I finally stepped out onto a plush bath mat that cushioned my aching feet.
Towel slung around my hips, I sauntered over to the black granite vanity, a beast of a countertop that gleamed dully under the lights. I swiped a hand across the fogged-up mirror and stared at the sorry son of a bitch looking back at me.
I looked like shit. Exhausted and miserable as hell. But that was par for the course these days. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I felt any different.
I grabbed my phone from where it sat on the counter, mindlessly scrolling through emails to avoid staring at my own reflection any longer. Impulse got the better of me, and I pulled up a Google search and typed in the name “Olivia Friedman.”
Not much.
I glanced back down at her resume. Olivia Friedman Parker.
I adjusted my search to her married name, and dozens of photos from her years at the humane society appeared.
Her smile lit up her entire face, eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and joy. She exuded a natural grace and elegance, even in candid shots where she was kneeling to cuddle a rescue dog or laughing with colleagues.
I zoomed in on one photo in particular, taking in her fine-boned features. Sky-high cheekbones, cute freckled nose, bee-stung lips curled in a knockout grin. Shiny chestnut waves tumbled around her face. But damn, those eyes. Big, soulful, framed by mile-long lashes.
My pulse quickened as I continued scrolling, taking in photo after photo. Olivia in a simple black cocktail dress, the fabric clinging to her petite yet curvaceous frame. Olivia with her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a few wispy tendrils escaping to frame her face. Olivia in a button-down shirt and slacks, looking both professional and approachable.
Fuck. I tossed my phone aside, scrubbing a hand over my face. This was a terrible idea. The absolute last thing I needed was to develop some kind of weird infatuation with my potential assistant. Especially when said assistant was the beloved baby sister of someone I was beginning to consider a friend.
I climbed into bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets soft on my skin. The mattress was memory foam, molded perfectly to my body. No expense had been spared in creating this oasis of relaxation.
But it seemed relaxation wasn’t in the cards. My brain pinballed between thoughts of Olivia and the community development project. The two were connected. Olivia's experience at the humane society, her clear passion for making a difference—she could really be an asset.
Of course, that was assuming she even wanted the job after meeting me.