Chapter 11 Aidan
AIDAN
The work is a good distraction, though. Iris spent the rest of Friday afternoon working quietly at her desk, giving me space to breathe.
I half wondered if she would even come back to the office after the way I spoke to her in the Uber, so it was a surprise to look up and find her in my doorway, holding a cup of coffee.
And even more of a surprise to find I felt awful.
Because I shouldn’t, right? She had it coming. She’s supposed to be my assistant—as in assisting me, making my job easier. Instead, she’s nothing but a walking temptation. As if that’s not enough, I’m now saddled with a project I don’t want, while she promises miracles to my clients.
But that didn’t stop guilt from eating at me all weekend, despite the headache these studios are turning out to be.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’m in a shitty mood.
I bet my father never had to work on projects like this.
As a prominent New York architect, his mark is across the city.
Not in inconsequential shoebox apartments, but in grand structures that make people stop and look up, not duck their heads to squeeze inside.
The scale of them—the prestige—is thrilling, even if they feel a little impersonal and removed from everyday life.
It’s snowing when I pull my Mercedes into my usual parking space outside our offices on Fruit Street, and I heave a sigh as I step from the car.
I can’t tell John I don’t want the project, not when I’m on the cusp of making partner.
That will make me look ungrateful at best, unprofessional and incompetent at worst. I just need to suck it up and get the damn thing over with.
Hope John will reward me when it’s done.
Given the early hour, I expect to have the offices to myself when I arrive, but my office door is ajar. I pause in the doorway when I spot Iris, standing at my drafting table with her back to me, humming quietly to herself.
My mouth goes dry. Caramel waves spill down her back, that same indigo wool dress she wore in Marco’s clinging indecently to her ass, black heels making her legs unimaginably long.
For a second, my irritation is eclipsed by the primal urge to cross the room and sweep her hair to one side, to sink my teeth into the soft skin of her neck before bending her roughly over my desk.
My dick twitches in my slacks, and I snap myself out of it by dumping my briefcase on the desk.
Iris jumps, spinning around to look at me.
Color stains her cheeks as she hastily snatches something off my desk.
I lift my brows, holding out my hand, and she reluctantly passes me the item.
It’s a small, neatly-constructed model of one of the studio apartments, with the bed on a raised platform.
Shit, that’s clever. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Did you make this?” I ask in surprise.
Iris nods, holding her breath. I examine it more closely, realizing it’s not only well made, it’s well thought out. The layout is functional, achieving a lot in the small space, maximizing the light, and adding additional storage.
“It’s not half bad,” I admit.
Her breath rushes out in relief. I glance up to find her lips curled in a tentative smile, and it hits me hard in the chest. We’ve done nothing but argue since she arrived, and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to make her smile.
Like the day we met.
I think of the first time she smiled in Marco’s—really smiled, not the fake one she put on after returning from the restroom, after she’d obviously been crying. No, the first time she smiled was when I ordered her a drink. Something so small that seemed to make her entire day better.
That smile made my day better.
A rough breath escapes me as I set the model down on my desk.
Why do I keep doing this? Thinking of Marco’s?
The circumstances were entirely different then.
For one, I thought she was at least five years older than she actually is.
And two, she wasn’t my boss’s daughter. She wasn’t nearly as off-limits as she is now.
Even if I could get past her age, even if my career wasn’t at stake, I could never do that to John.
He’s been my mentor for years, a friend of my father’s even longer.
He doesn’t deserve me going behind his back and making a move on his daughter, even if we’ve already crossed that line.
Even if it’s all I can think about.
I glance around the room, desperately grasping for a way to take back control of the situation. That’s when I notice she’s been working on my drafting table. It’s covered in papers and not where it usually is. I pounce on the distraction.
“What have you done to my office?” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but I let them hang. I’d planned on a quiet morning to make headway on the Bushwick plans, and instead I arrive to find her taunting me in that dress, holding a model of the studios that’s annoyingly good.
Messing with my careful sense of order and control.
She flinches at my sudden change in tone. “Sorry,” she says, flustered. “The light is better by the window. I… I just moved the drafting table a little.”
“A little?” I echo. “It’s on the other side of the room.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles again. She snatches the model off my desk, hastily shoving it under one arm as she turns back to the drafting table.
I study her, thrown. What happened to the woman who snapped at me in the car on Friday? I was expecting a snarky comeback, more of her bratty attitude. As irritating as it is, I’d take that any day over the woman cowering in front of me. Especially when I suspect I’m the reason.
“I’ll put this back and get out of your way,” she mutters. She tugs on the table, the legs screeching against the floorboards as she attempts to return it to its original position, and I sigh in frustration, though I’m not sure if it’s with her or myself.
“Leave it,” I mutter. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I can do it,” she grits through the effort of moving it. But the foot of the table catches on the edge of the rug, sending her stumbling onto her ass, the table landing at an awkward angle beside her, the model under her arm collapsing with a crunch.
“Shit, Iris.” I’m at her side in an instant. “Are you okay?” Concern lances through me as I reach for her, fingers brushing her arm. She’s breathless as our eyes lock, her skin heating under my touch. It sends a shock of awareness through me, and I yank my hand away, cursing myself.
“I’m fine,” she says, dropping her gaze. She pulls the crumpled remains of her model from under her arm and inspects them with a sigh. “Damn. This took me hours.”
My gaze snags on the drafting table, and that’s when I notice one leg has snapped clean off. I pick the piece of wood up with shaking hands, swallowing hard. This table was my father’s, and one of my most prized possessions. The table where he designed some of the city’s most impressive buildings.
Iris notices the broken leg and cringes. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are wide when they come to mine. “I’ll replace the table, okay?”
My lips press into a thin line. “You can’t.”
“I’m sure I can,” she tries to assure me. “You can find anything online.”
I glare at her, and she shrinks, beginning to ramble.
“They have these new drafting tables now with light boxes, have you seen them? Oh, of course you have. Dad has one.” A laugh squeaks out of her. “Well, I’m sure we could get one of those, and they’re actually better because—”
“I don’t want one of those!” I snap, startling us both.
She blanches, curling into herself. I press my fingers to my temple, inhaling slowly.
My mind flashes back to Sophie, aged eight, when she built a fort in our living room.
She draped a blanket over the back of the sofa, securing it under one corner of our father’s record player, but she tripped while pretending to be a mermaid, pulling the blanket and record player to the floor.
By some stroke of luck, nothing broke, but with the way our father exploded, you’d think she’d burned the house to the ground.
I tried to tell Dad it was an accident, but he didn’t care, and I resented the way he made Sophie cry. The way he always made her cry.
Especially after Mom left.
Blowing out a breath, I push to my feet, telling myself this is the same. An accident. I’m annoyed about the table, but if I’m honest, I’m more annoyed by the woman herself. By the things she’s making me feel.
I look down at the piece of wood in my hand. The break is clean enough that I can probably repair it.
“Here,” I say, extending a hand to help Iris to her feet, but a sound at the door makes me turn.
“Iris.” John’s voice is dry as he surveys the scene: my table tipped on its side, papers scattered across the rug, his daughter on the floor with her crumpled model.
I wait for him to ask if she’s okay, but it doesn’t come.
His expression shifts to one of impatience as he demands, “What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles, not meeting his gaze as she gathers her papers from the rug.
John sighs. “You know, when I said you’d be assisting Brooks, I didn’t mean literally getting on your knees for him.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I turn away. Thank God he doesn’t know how close to home his words have hit. Iris keeps her head down, but I can see the scarlet on her face from here.
“I was just…” Her voice comes out small. “I thought I’d draft a few layout options to help visualize—”
John cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Iris, for God’s sake. You’re wasting your time, and his. You don’t need to play architect. Leave it to the people who know what they’re doing.”
The words hang there, crueler than I think John intended, and I cringe. It’s exactly the way I spoke to her on Friday, but hearing the words from her father cuts differently. Or maybe it’s because I’m reminded of my own father.
Hurt flashes across Iris’s face before she can hide it. She rises on wobbly legs, clutching the papers and crushed model to her chest. Her chin lifts in defiance for the briefest moment, but John’s brows rise, unimpressed, as if already anticipating what she’s going to say.
She falters, color staining her cheeks. “I’ll…” She swallows, as if struggling to get the words out. “I’ll get your coffee, Mr. Brooks.” Then she hurries from the room, head down.
“Kids,” John mutters once she’s gone. “You give them an inch, they take a mile.” He rolls his eyes, turning to his own office.
I stare after him, unsettled in a way I can’t quite name.
Iris has made things harder for me since day one.
She’s messy, inefficient, and combative.
That’s before we get to the way I’m continually distracted by her, the way I keep imagining doing inappropriate things to her at inappropriate moments.
If anything, I’d be better off without an assistant. John’s right. She is wasting my time, and in more ways than one.
But that doesn’t explain why my sister pops into my head again, the way she’d shrink into herself when teachers would yell at her in front of the class. Why, every time I replay John’s words, I see the hurt on Iris’s face and feel an uneasy twist in my gut.
Why guilt hangs over me like a cloud when Iris doesn’t return for the rest of the day.