Chapter 9 Aidan
AIDAN
It’s her fault. It’s all her damn fault.
John’s been trying to get one of us to take on the Bushwick studios for weeks, a project he only accepted as a favor for a friend, but my name was never on the table.
Four tiny studios in a building in Bushwick that are barely big enough to meet code, let alone leave any space to design with intention.
He knows they’re not my area of interest or expertise and something one of the junior architects should take.
But now they’re my problem.
I shake my head as I wait outside the Bushwick building, the freezing January weather doing nothing to help my mood.
I was in line to take the Whitmore Museum expansion, the kind of project that makes or breaks careers.
Instead, John gives me this. After years of proving myself, it’s like a demotion. A punishment.
I get it. John’s making a point. Missing meetings makes it seem like I’m not taking the job seriously. Like I’m not responsible enough to be a partner, even if I’ve shown him time and again that I am.
Even if his daughter is the reason I’m in this mess.
But he’s hardly going to blame her, is he? Not when he’s the one who brought her in. Not when she gives him that look of wide-eyed innocence.
I curse under my breath, and it forms a white mist in the cold air. If Iris had just used the damn online calendar like she’s supposed to, this never would have happened. But no, she wanted to write things in her notebook, like she’s in high school. How the fuck is that supposed to help me?
I glance at my watch, impatience gnawing at me.
She’s supposed to be here for our meeting with the client in three minutes, but I’m not expecting her.
Time management doesn’t seem to be her strength.
First, the issues with my calendar, then she didn’t order lunch until after two yesterday, and only because I reminded her.
She seems to run on her own schedule, her own internal laws.
“Hi.”
I glance to my left, surprised to find Iris, clutching three to-go cups.
She holds one out with a hopeful smile that makes me pause.
My gaze sweeps over her before I can stop it, taking in her navy wool coat, the same heels she wore yesterday, emphasizing her long legs.
She’s got a baby-blue beanie on her head with a fuzzy pompom at the tip, and it’s infuriatingly adorable.
The cold has made her cheeks flush pink, her blue eyes bright, lips as full and plump as they were wrapped around my cock four days ago.
The memory sends a flash of heat through me, even in the frigid air, and I find myself wishing we weren’t going upstairs to meet with a client.
I tear my gaze away with a curse. She’s twenty-six, I remind myself. John’s daughter.
And a pain in my ass.
“Thanks,” I mutter, begrudgingly taking a coffee from her. “Who’s the other one for?” I ask, motioning to the third cup.
“David Lancaster,” she replies with a shrug. Our client.
I frown. “You don’t even know if the guy drinks coffee.”
She gives me an odd look. “This is New York. Everyone drinks coffee. Besides, it seemed rude to show up without one for him.”
I shake my head, looking away. She can’t get her shit together when I have an important meeting, but goes out of her way to grab coffee for someone she’s never met. In what universe does that make sense?
“Let’s go,” I mutter, pressing the buzzer until the front door pops open.
We enter the building—an old walk-up that’s seen better days—and climb to the top floor, where the client’s waiting.
The stairs are narrow and uneven, lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs, and with each step, my resentment grows.
I’ve worked on luxury penthouses and million-dollar brownstone remodels.
Sure, they’re more polish that substance, but that’s not the point.
How am I supposed to prove myself and make partner if John sticks me with busywork like this?
“I shouldn’t be here,” I mutter under my breath.
“I don’t mind it,” Iris says behind me, voice chipper. “The building has character.”
“I have to squeeze four apartments onto the top floor,” I remind her, watching as my polished loafers leave footprints on the filthy stairs. “They’re barely over the minimum to meet code. I’ve worked on closets bigger than that.”
“Small doesn’t necessarily mean bad,” she quips, and something about her flippant, bubbly tone makes anger boil inside me.
We reach the landing at the top, and I spin to face her, jaw hard. I don’t even know why she’s here. It’s not like I need the distraction, and what can she possibly contribute?
“Don’t pretend this isn’t your fault, Cupcake,” I bite out.
Shit. Didn’t mean to call her that again. Every time I’m around her that damn word slips out, that’s how much she gets under my skin.
And I don’t like it.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “You’re the reason I’m wasting my time on a project like this.”
Her cheeks color as I glare at her, and a flicker of remorse passes through me. But she lifts her chin, gaze burning with defiance, and any guilt I feel dies away.
“A good architect can make any space work,” she counters.
“Right,” I say dryly. “And you’ve got a degree in architecture, do you?”
The flush on her face deepens, gaze faltering, and I smirk.
“Exactly. So let me do the talking, okay?” I straighten my tie. “The sooner this is over, the sooner we can get back to work that actually matters.”
Iris’s gaze darts over my shoulder, her brow knitting. I turn to find a guy waiting with folded arms and a frown. Our client, I presume.
Fuck.
Iris clears her throat, stepping past me. “Mr. Lancaster,” she says, smiling broadly. “I’m Iris Prescott, Mr. Brooks’s assistant.”
I watch the guy, a slim, thirty-something man with blond hair, a tan-colored peacoat, and beady eyes, as he contemplates me for a beat longer, then looks at Iris.
“I, uh, hope you take milk in your coffee?” she says hopefully, holding out one of the cups.
He hesitates for a moment, then takes it from her, sharp features softening with a smile. “I do, Miss Prescott,” he says, in a crisp British accent. “Thank you.”
She beams, glancing back at me. There’s a twinkle in her eye, almost as if to say You’re welcome, but I ignore it.
“Aidan Brooks,” I say, extending a hand.
The guy looks at me warily, taking my hand in his. “David Lancaster.” We shake for one, two, three beats, tension brewing between us.
It’s my fault. I should never have criticized the project on site, regardless of my personal feelings. That’s the height of unprofessionalism.
But with Iris hovering beside me, I can’t bring myself to apologize. As much as it might be the right thing to do, I can’t stand the thought of losing face in front of her.
I’m not sure I want to know why.
Instead, I take a deep breath, force a tight smile, and motion to the doorway behind him. “Ready to show us the space?”
David nods, leading us into what can only be described as an architect’s nightmare: low ceilings, old pipes, angles that make no sense. The lack of natural light is astounding, and the space somehow seems smaller than I imagined. How on earth will we fit four entire apartments up here?
David talks us through his vision, outlining the budget and timeline, while I stare at him in disbelief. “Make it rentable,” he says as he wraps up. “I don’t care how small, as long as it’s legal.”
I stifle a snort. It might be legal, but that doesn’t make it right.
No one should have to cram their life into a space this small.
I glance at Iris, hoping for some sign of agreement, like a wince to acknowledge she sees it too, but she’s got her notebook open, pen moving quickly across the page.
Her nose is scrunched in concentration, and I pretend not to notice how cute it is.
I glance away with a sigh, rubbing my temple.
In all my years in this job, I’ve never once told a client they were asking for the impossible.
Marble foyers, wine cellars, rooftop terraces, you name it.
But as I gaze at this space and think of what he’s asking, four apartments with a minimum of 150 square feet of living space, plus a kitchen and bathroom in each, I realize there’s a first time for everything.
I draw breath to speak, but David turns to Iris.
“What do you think, Iris?” he asks, then backtracks, “Can I call you Iris?”
A light blush stains her cheeks. “Of course.”
He gives her a confident grin, and it sets my teeth on edge. I narrow my eyes as he continues, “Well, Iris, I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
She taps her pen to her lips, tilting her head to one side. “I think it’s great. There’s so much you can do with this space.”
I scoff. “You can’t be serious,” I say without thinking, and David bristles beside me. I turn to him with an apologetic expression. “Forgive me, but you’re asking a lot. Do people really want to live somewhere they can barely fit a mattress?”
“People want to live somewhere affordable in a highly sought-after neighborhood,” David replies coolly. “That’s what I’m giving them.”
Iris’s brow knits with worry. “I think what Mr. Brooks means,” she begins, giving him a placating smile, “is that there will be challenges with the space. There’s no denying that, but we can easily make these feel twice the size they are. People are going to love living here.”
I glare at her. I know she thinks she’s saying the right thing, but she’s doing so at my expense. I’m the one who has to turn these shoeboxes into livable space, regardless of her casual use of “we.”
“Excellent.” David grins. His gaze moves to me, his smile dimming somewhat, and something about that riles me.
“Let’s not make promises until we’ve run the numbers,” I mutter.
“Right!” Iris says quickly. “Sorry. We’ll look into it, but I’m sure we can blow you away.”
Her choice of words makes me freeze. Blow you away.