Chapter 13 Aidan
AIDAN
“Shit.” Iris steps back from me with wide, surprised eyes. “What are you doing here?”
I open my mouth to answer when I notice what she’s wearing.
Or rather, not wearing.
She’s wrapped in a towel, creamy skin glistening with droplets of water, hair spilling across her shoulders.
Her face is bare, cheeks flushed and dewy, blue eyes searing into mine.
I can feel the heat emanating from her in the small space, my breath catching as I inhale her sweet orange blossom scent.
For a moment I forget everything that’s happened between us at work, consumed by the need to press my lips to hers, to back her up against the wall and touch every inch of her soft, moist skin.
I wrench my gaze away, feeling like a creep. She’s gorgeous, but I seem to keep forgetting she’s twenty-six. John’s daughter.
And, from the frown on her face, clearly not in the mood to see me.
She sighs, motioning to the door behind me. “Just… give me a minute, okay?”
I nod mutely, afraid to speak. The last thing I expected when I located her address on file and drove to Queens was to find her practically naked, looking up at me from under those lashes.
I wonder briefly what she’s doing in the hallway undressed, then push the thought away. I’m not sure I want to know.
The door closes behind her, and I breathe out in relief.
I drag a hand down my face, wondering if I should go.
She clearly doesn’t want me here, and that’s understandable after I snapped at her about the drafting table.
I glance along the hall, contemplating leaving, when the door swings open again.
Iris appears, dressed in leggings and a loose sweater hanging off one shoulder, fluffy pink socks on her feet.
She looks different than she does at work, softer without the heels, her makeup.
I’m reminded of the woman I met at the bar, and something loosens in my chest. Something I don’t want to acknowledge.
“Hi,” she says, a little less irritated than before. “So, why are you here?”
“I… I don’t know.” I rake a hand through my hair, shifting my weight.
I have no rational reason for showing up at her apartment unannounced, only that I’ve felt a nagging sense of unease since she walked out this morning.
The same feeling I had after our moment together in the restroom.
“Debbie told me you’d taken a personal day. ”
“Shit,” she mutters, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I should have CC’d you, sorry.” She brings her gaze to mine, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your coffee. I’ll have it on your desk first thing tomorrow.”
I give her an incredulous look. That’s why she thinks I’m here?
“I don’t care about the coffee, Iris.”
Her brow dips, as if in confusion. “Then why…”
I shake my head, motioning behind her. “Can we not do this in your hallway?”
She hesitates, regarding me warily, then steps aside for me to enter, and the moment I cross the threshold, I realize why.
Her apartment is tiny.
Actually, I’m not sure apartment is even the right word. It’s more like a single dorm room.
Iris watches with wry amusement as I take in the space that’s little more than a kitchenette, with a chair and dresser by a window, and a ladder which I can only assume leads to her bed.
I don’t know what I pictured when I imagined Iris’s apartment, but it wasn’t this.
I’d assumed John had set her up somewhere, that he’d covered her rent while she was—how did he put it?
—in a bit of a bind. No wonder she was so enthusiastic about the Bushwick studios.
They’re positively palatial compared to this. How can John let her live here?
I can’t stop myself from reaching for the door beside me, wanting to peek into the bathroom, but Iris cries out, “Don’t open that!” and I quickly withdraw my hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble, surprised by her outburst. “Just wanted to see if the bathroom was as small as the rest of it.”
She scrunches her nose. “That’s not the bathroom.”
I glance around the room again, not seeing another door, when it hits me. Her bathroom is outside the apartment? That explains why she was out there in a towel. I’m surprised to find relief trickle through me at that explanation.
I look back at the door beside me, and she adds, “It’s a closet.”
My brows lift. “Have you got a body in there?”
She smirks. “No. Just…” Her cheeks color. “It’s a mess.”
I give a slow nod, absorbing this. That makes sense, because the only thing more shocking than the size of this place is how tidy it is. Given the state of Iris’s desk, I’d expected her apartment to be equally chaotic, but it’s not. It’s almost like an entirely different person lives here.
I blow out a breath, glancing back at her. “What’s the square footage of this place?”
She rolls her eyes. “Trust you to ask that.”
“Seriously, Iris.” I’m not being critical. More than anything, I’m concerned. “Does John know about this? It can’t be legal.”
She looks at her hands, as if she’s embarrassed.
“It’s not legal, not as an apartment. Technically, it’s part of a suite, since the bathroom’s shared.
They get around the minimum-square-footage law that way.
” Then she lifts her chin, meeting my gaze head-on.
“But I don’t care. What I care is that I can afford it.
That it’s mine.” She holds my gaze for a long moment, arms folded, then exhales, letting her shoulders drop. “Do you want a drink, or something?”
I glance at her kitchenette beside me, wondering if she even has a fridge, and spot a small dorm fridge under the counter.
“Sure.”
She wavers for a moment, then says, “I can make coffee, but I only have instant. I ran out of filters.”
“That’s fine.”
She fills the small electric kettle, switching it on.
I stand awkwardly in her room, hands in the pockets of my slacks as I wait for it to boil.
Part of me knows I should leave, but another part is fascinated by this look into her world outside the office, and even though I shouldn’t, I want to see more.
Iris stirs the coffee, then hands me a chipped mug, motioning to the chair in the corner. I shake my head, refusing to take the only chair in the place, and she huffs in exasperation.
“You’re a guest. Take the damn chair.” Then she sinks onto the matching ottoman, stretching her long legs onto the bottom rung of the ladder, using it as a footstool. I settle into the worn blue wingback armchair, cradling my coffee.
“I’m sorry about your drafting table,” she murmurs, blue eyes finding mine over her mug. “I found a similar one online. It should arrive at the office in a couple weeks.”
I frown. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“No, it’s not about the table. It’s…” I shake my head, looking down into my mug. “The table was my father’s. I inherited it when he died.”
Her mouth falls open. “Oh. Shit. I’m so sorry. No wonder you were so angry.”
I decide to let her believe this is the reason for my outburst today. It’s a hell of a lot easier than explaining that, more than anything, the thing that’s getting under my skin is her.
“I think it can be repaired,” I add. “Can you cancel yours?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think so.”
I glance around her apartment, remembering her words about how it’s all she can afford. “What did it cost?”
She winces. “You don’t want to know.”
Guilt tunnels through me. I should never have let her walk out this morning like that. Fuck.
“I’ll reimburse you,” I say, setting my coffee on the windowsill to reach for my wallet, and amusement colors her features.
“You’ve got eight hundred bucks in cash on you?”
“Jesus,” I mutter. She spent $800? That’s outrageous. “No. But I’ll get it.”
A long breath gusts out of her. “It’s fine. I broke yours. I know it’s not the same, but…” She shrugs. “Now you’ve got a spare.”
I study her, taken aback. She wasted all that money on a new table for me, money she clearly doesn’t have, and she’s prepared to let it go? The thought doesn’t sit right in my head, and I try to make sense of it as I pick up my coffee again. Taking a sip, I wince at the bitter taste.
Iris watches me with amusement. “Told you you’d get your coffee. Bet you didn’t think it would taste this good, though.”
I smile wryly. It’s possibly the worst cup of coffee I’ve had in my life, but sitting beside Iris in her tiny apartment, I’m surprised to find I don’t mind.
I let my gaze wander around the room, thinking back to the model she made.
Now I see where she got her inspiration. Why she could use the space so well.
“I meant it this morning,” I tell her. “When I said your model was good.”
There’s a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, but she quickly hides it. “I believe what you said was, It’s not half bad.”
I chuff a laugh, nodding. “And I meant every word.”
She snorts. “Maybe college wasn’t a total waste then.”
I glance up. “You actually went to Columbia?”
She regards me carefully over her mug, as if trying to read something. “You really don’t know? I figured my father would have told you.”
“He hasn’t told me anything.”
She twists her lips to one side, then looks down at her mug. “Yes, I went to Columbia. Studied architecture.”
My mouth pops open in surprise. No wonder the model showed such a clear grasp of design principles. I assumed she’d picked that up from John.
“But…” I rub a hand over my beard, baffled. “Why are you working as my assistant, then?”
“Ah.” She grimaces. “I didn’t quite graduate.” She pauses here, tapping her finger against her mug, then amends, “No. That’s a lie.” The air trickles from her lungs. “I totally flunked out.”
Oh. Shit.