Chapter 19 Aidan
AIDAN
The next two weeks pass uneventfully, with work starting on the Bushwick site to keep me busy.
Between paperwork, site visits, and finalizing minor design details, Iris is the epitome of professionalism.
She doesn’t mention what happened between us in my office.
Doesn’t push the boundaries like usual, and even manages to order lunch on time most days.
It’s exactly what I need. What I wanted from the start.
And I can’t stand it.
My gaze drifts from my laptop, through the open door to where Iris sits at her desk, diligently answering emails.
I’ve noticed she prefers to do that in batches rather than one on one as they come in.
She seems to be better at most tasks this way, as if it’s easier when she can focus on one thing and block out the rest, like when she drafted the Bushwick studios at my table for four hours straight.
An array of Post-it notes still covers her desk, but I’ve learned there’s a system.
Soph was right, it might not make sense to me, but it works for her.
It’s the same with her notebook. She’s gotten better at using the online calendar, but she still writes everything down in her notebook.
I think it helps her to have it in black and white where she can see it easily.
My eyes map her face, taking in the concentrated little frown between her brows, the teeth digging into her full bottom lip as she types, those breathtakingly blue eyes.
I can’t stop my gaze from straying along the loose neckline of her blouse, past the soft creamy skin of her collarbone, stealing a peek at her cleavage. God, she’s beautiful.
She wears the same few items of clothing to work, rotating them over the week, and when I picture her tiny apartment, it makes sense.
She doesn’t have room for a huge closet—though I’m still intrigued by the closet near the front door she wouldn’t let me open—but I sense it’s also for financial reasons.
I think of John taking half her paycheck, and scowl.
It’s such a shitty thing to do, and I’m struck by the sudden urge to do the complete opposite and get her a bigger apartment, take her shopping, buy her everything she could possibly want.
I make good money, and I’m sitting on a sizable nest egg left by my father when he died.
Once I make partner, I’ll make more than I need for my lifestyle, and the thought of spending it on Iris is too tempting.
With great effort, I wrench my gaze away. Because I won’t fucking make partner if I continue this line of thought, will I? There’s no way I can have both.
A notification from John pops up on my screen, almost as if he knows what I’ve been thinking, and I inhale slowly. He wants me in his office, now.
Pushing away from the desk, I exit the room. Iris glances up as I pass, gaze locked on mine, then slowly slipping down the length of my body. I feel it everywhere, and it’s an effort not to turn back, not to pull her into my office and touch her everywhere in return.
Focus, Brooks. For fuck’s sake.
I nod at Tash as I pass her desk, then knock lightly on John’s door, stepping inside.
“There you are,” John mutters, not looking up from his screen. “I need you to head out to East Hampton tomorrow to check out a potential project.”
I frown. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
John’s sharp gaze meets mine. “And?”
I flex my fingers at my side, biting my tongue. While I normally work weekends by choice, and it’s expected we’ll work overtime when necessary to meet deadlines for clients, John’s never directly assigned me work on a weekend like this. I’m not sure I like it.
“Who’s the client?”
“Waterman.” John’s gaze returns to his laptop, typing as he speaks. “You met him last week. He’s an old friend. Wants us to look at a decommissioned lighthouse out that way in Wetherly Cove.”
Wetherly Cove? Never heard of it. More importantly, a lighthouse? That’s so far beyond the scope of my work it’s almost laughable. First the Bushwick studios, now this?
“Why me?”
John stills, and when his eyes return to mine, they’re steely.
“You’ve been off your game, Brooks. Distracted.
Maybe a change of scenery will clear your head.
The Wetherly lighthouse project needs someone who’s not afraid to get their hands dirty.
” He pauses, gaze flicking to his keyboard as he adds, “If you still want to prove you’ve got what it takes to make partner. ”
My pulse jumps. He hasn’t mentioned partnership directly to me for months, but if he’s bringing it up now, it must be on his mind.
“Besides,” John adds, typing again, as if the conversation is already over, “you’re getting a free night in the Hamptons on the company’s dime. Nothing to complain about.”
I suppress a snort. He makes it sound like a summer vacation, but it’s fucking February with a nor’easter on the way. My brow furrows at the thought, but there’s no point in arguing. Not with the mention of partnership again. Not when he’s right about me being distracted.
Maybe this is what I need. A chance to get away from the office. From Iris. To get back on track.
But there’s no denying it feels like another slap on the wrist.
My neck burns with humiliation, but I straighten my tie, ignoring it. My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a calendar invite from John. Site visit: Wetherly Lighthouse, Saturday 3:00 p.m. / Follow-up meeting 7:00 p.m.
Two meetings. Fan-fucking-tastic.
I pocket my phone, jaw tight. “Fine,” I grit out, turning to go.
“Take Iris,” John adds.
I freeze, slowly glancing back. “Is that necessary?”
“Probably not,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s at the end of his rope. “But I need her out of my hair.”
The words grate at something inside me, and I fight to keep my expression neutral.
Why does he have to be so callous? I draw breath to speak, then catch myself.
It will only make things worse, and besides, if her options are sticking around here with John or coming with me, she’s better off with me.
At least with me, she won’t be subjected to her father’s casual cruelty.
I just have to remain professional for twenty-four hours while we’re away from the office. Together. Alone.
Totally doable.
We have two meetings, and they’ll eat up most of the time.
The last meeting is at seven, and if the weather holds, we won’t have to stay out there.
I pull up the weather app on my phone, and grimace.
As I thought, there’s a huge front moving in, and I don’t fancy driving in it.
With a quick Google, I find a motel in Wetherly by the sea.
I’ll get Iris to book us in, just in case.
I head to Iris’s desk, hating that I have to tell her she now has to work this weekend.
Maybe she had plans. A date, even. I picture her dressed up, climbing into some guy’s car.
Laughing over dinner. Kissing him. A faceless blur of a man, but I want to punch him all the same.
Grinding my molars, I shove the thought away. It’s not my business.
She glances up when I approach, brow dipping as she takes in my face. “Everything okay?”
At her question, I realize I’m scowling. Shit.
I smooth my expression, nodding. “John’s sending me to East Hampton this weekend to look into a lighthouse restoration project.
” A lighthouse. God, I still can’t believe it.
It’s so out of left field, I don’t even know what to make of it.
There’s no doubt this is an assignment one of the juniors should take, but if the guy wasn’t a friend of John’s, we wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea.
It doesn’t align with the firm’s urban portfolio. Now it’s my damn problem.
But Iris sees none of that.
“A lighthouse?” she asks, face brightening with interest. “That’s so cool.”
I force my breath out through my nose. I wonder how cool she’ll find it once I tell her she has to join me.
“I’m glad you think so, because John wants you to tag along.”
She shrugs. “Okay. Sounds fun.”
I hesitate, straightening a pencil on her desk. Don’t ask. Don’t do it. “You didn’t… have plans this weekend?”
She shakes her head, and relief grips me. The sensation is so intense it knocks the air from my lungs, and I steer myself back into cold professionalism.
“The last meeting is late in the day,” I say matter-of-factly. “The forecast isn’t good. You’ll need to book us into the Wetherly Motel in case the weather turns.”
“Of course.” She smiles, already turning to her keyboard. She’s being so accommodating, so nice despite me ruining her weekend, and I want to kiss her.
So, I force myself to add, more for my own sake than hers, “Two rooms.”
Her fingers still on the keys, her gaze flicking to mine, swirling with a cocktail of annoyance and something else.
Heat. My heart punches my ribs. I’m very aware of our colleagues nearby, the low drone of John’s voice as he takes a phone call in his office, the way my breathing has turned shallow.
The moment stretches out between us, pulling taut like a piece of gum, and I wonder how long until I snap.
Then Iris drops her gaze back to her keyboard. The ring of her desk phone stops her again, and she answers, her eyes sparkling as they return to mine.
“Okay, I’ll be right down.” She ends the call, rising from her desk. “That was reception. Your new drafting table has finally arrived.”
Oh, fuck. I’d forgotten all about that. The eight hundred bucks she spent.
Guilt claws at me, and I motion for her to sit. “I’ll get it.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I wave her away and take the steps two at a time, needing space.
It’s not until I reach reception that I realize what a bad idea it is.
The drafting table stands beside the reception desk, cocooned in bubble wrap with FRAGILE tape crisscrossed over it.
I peel some back to inspect it—oak, probably, like mine—and it must be close to two hundred pounds.
I lift most days at the gym, but not that much.
Cursing under my breath, I get a handle on it and start dragging it toward the stairs. I’d be better off calling the delivery guys back, but this is a good distraction. It’s either this, or I go back upstairs and stare at Iris, willing myself not to tell her to only book one room.
She appears at my side a moment later as I’m wrestling it up the first few steps. “Want some help?”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, trying to get a better grip. The wood slips under the bubble wrap, and I have to tilt it to clear the step. The awkward angle makes it harder to hold.
“Are you sure?” Iris asks, hovering behind me.
“I’m sure,” I grate out. She’s too close, too willing, and it’s too much. I haul with brute force, the leg of the table banging the wall. “Fuck,” I mutter, breathless and sweating through my shirt.
Wordlessly, Iris catches the other end, meeting my gaze. “It’ll be easier if we do it together.”
God, I can’t explain why, but those words hit somewhere they shouldn’t. I drop my gaze, pretending I’m still catching my breath. I am, but not from the stairs.
Finally, we get the wretched thing into my office, and Iris sets about peeling the bubble wrap off with glee. It’s sturdier than mine, but wholly unnecessary since I repaired mine just fine. As I watch her, smiling over it, an idea comes to me. I don’t have a use for it, but she might.
She turns back to me, beaming, and it hits me right in the chest. “Pretty good, huh?”
“It’s great,” I murmur, voice coming out rough. I tell myself it’s from the stairs. “And I’m going to reimburse you.”
She shakes her head. “No way.”
“Iris—” I begin, but she puts her hands on her hips, chin lifting.
“I won’t take your money.”
My jaw works as I study her, so stubborn.
There’s no denying I love this fire inside her, the way she grows defiant and bratty when pushed, even if it makes my life harder.
She’s been so compliant these past two weeks, so professional, and I’ve missed that side to her.
I’ve missed the push and pull between us.
But what did I expect? I’m the one who told her we needed boundaries, that nothing more could happen between us. She’s doing exactly what I asked.
And the more she does, the more I want to close my office door, swipe everything off my desk, and bury myself inside her.
I swallow, pushing the image away. Satisfied that the drafting table is in the right spot next to mine, Iris steps back to admire it.
She’s not looking as she does, and her shoulder bumps my arm, sending a jolt of awareness through me.
She’s closer than I think she intended, but she doesn’t move away.
I can feel the heat of her through my shirt, and I glance down to find her looking at me with those vivid blue eyes.
Her breath falters, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
I could kiss her. She’d let me. Fuck, I think she’d welcome it. I could close the inches between us and capture her mouth, part her lips with mine and slide my tongue over hers. The thought sends heat searing through me, and I curl my hands into fists at my side.
I want it more than anything. More than air itself.
But Iris steps back, letting her gaze fall. “I should go prep for tomorrow,” she murmurs, leaving my office. I watch her go, groin heavy, chest aching, wondering how the fuck I’m going to survive this weekend.