Chapter 13 Aidan #2
There’s a tug in my chest as I think about my sister.
She struggled in college too. Soph is a brilliant artist and got into Rhode Island School of Design on pure talent, but between the pressure of performing, missed deadlines, and the constant grind of critiques, she burned out and left early.
It took her a while to find her footing again, and now she paints on her own terms.
I remember suddenly what I said to Iris last week before we met with David Lancaster, You’ve got a degree in architecture, do you? The way she shrank, how her face turned scarlet. Shit. I’m an asshole.
“What happened?” I ask gently.
She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just… couldn’t keep up.” She stares into her coffee, acting indifferent, but a tiny tremble in her bottom lip gives her away. “Guess I’m not as smart as everyone else.”
I’m reminded of Soph again, the trouble she had at school, in college.
It was never for lack of trying, for lack of intelligence.
As for Iris… she’s been a whirlwind, that’s for sure, but she’s never given me reason to believe she’s not intelligent.
I’d assumed she was difficult on purpose, willful and defiant, because she could be. Because her father runs the place.
But her words from the day we met come back to me, making me pause. It feels like everyone manages things so effortlessly, but for me, no matter how hard I try, I can’t get anything right.
For the first time, I see it differently. I see a woman thrown in at the deep end, overwhelmed, trying to find her way in a job she’s not trained for.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m at the firm,” she mumbles. “I have to pay Dad back for my loans before he’ll let me go.”
“Wait.” I lean forward, wanting to make sure I understand this correctly. “He’s making you work for him?”
She winces, nodding. “I know, it’s pathetic, right? Dad taking half my paycheck like I’m a teenager who crashed their car, or something.”
I stare at her, chest growing tight and hot. John’s forcing her to work for him and taking half her wages? He made it sound like he was the one helping her. Doing her a favor.
But he’s not.
The full picture forms, softening a place deep inside me. I think of the way he spoke to her this morning, how much she shrank. The way he responded when I told him I couldn’t work with her, asking me What has she done now? Almost as if he’d been waiting for her to screw up before she even began.
And what she said to me in the Uber when I told her to quit.
How sad and hopeless she looked when she murmured, It’s not that simple.
God, the things I said to her. Guilt swamps me as I mentally replay our interactions, my cutting words.
I’d had an image of her as entitled, maybe a little spoiled, but she’s in a situation she didn’t ask for. Forced into it by her father.
“Dad’s right,” she mumbles, cutting into my thoughts. “All I do is fuck everything up.”
Something protective surges through me, sharp and sudden. “That’s not true,” I say, and she gives me a look that makes me cringe. “Okay, things haven’t been running as smoothly as I’d like,” I admit, “but you haven’t brought nothing to the table, Iris.”
She lifts her brows, waiting. Her expression is one of amusement, but underneath I sense real vulnerability, as if she wants someone to tell her she’s done something right.
“If it wasn’t for you, David Lancaster would have walked out of that meeting,” I say.
“You rescued what could have been an awkward situation, all because I was being an ass.” I sense she’s going to rescue the situation in more ways than one, now that I’ve seen her apartment, seen what she can do with a small space in that model, but I don’t say this yet.
I want to look over her plans before I jump the gun.
She snorts. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“And you found the good coffee near the office,” I say, setting my half-drunk mug aside.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s Joe’s,” she murmurs. “Near Clark Street. They have the best cupcakes too.”
Our eyes meet. The mention of cupcakes takes me right back to Marco’s, and I can tell from the way she bites her bottom lip as she gazes at me that she’s back there too.
“The day we met… that’s when I learned I’d flunked out. When Dad told me I’d be working for him.” She looks at her hands. “It’s why… why I wasn’t at my best.”
Her voice cracks, and there’s a pull behind my ribs, a sensation I can’t name, because I knew this all along. Not the details—about college, or John—but I’d seen how defeated and hurt she was that day at the bar, miserable with her cupcakes, her makeup smeared.
“I’m sorry I lied,” she whispers, eyes coming back to mine.
“About my age, about college… I wasn’t trying to deceive you.
I was…” She looks away again with a shake of her head.
“I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to look at me and see some kid who flunked out before she even got her degree.
Lying felt easier than admitting how badly I messed up. ”
Compassion rushes through me, and I fight the urge to reach for her. “It’s okay.” The hoarseness in my voice makes her look up.
“You’re not still angry?”
I shake my head. Any anger I felt toward Iris was unjustified.
Even when I missed the meeting about the Whitmore Museum and tried to blame her, deep down I knew it was John’s fault.
Iris should have put the meeting in the online calendar, but it was a dick move on John’s part to give me a project he knew was below my pay grade. To punish me for not showing up.
That’s what he’s doing to Iris, isn’t it? Punishing her. He doesn’t need the money. He’s doing it to show his disapproval of her not completing her degree. Being punitive. Petty. Anger licks hot through me, thinking of what he’s doing to her after all she’s been through.
It’s a strange thing, realizing your mentor might be a bully. The thought clashes against years of respect, against everything I’ve worked for, because I do respect him as an architect, a boss, a friend of my late father’s. And I still want that partnership. I’ve earned it.
If anything, it’s easier to be angry with myself. For wanting John’s daughter. For wanting the distraction from my work.
“No, Cupcake,” I say, and this time I use her nickname softly, like I did when we met. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.”
“Why?”
God, why did I say that? I can’t be honest. Not with everything she’s just told me.
She’s vulnerable, and even though that should change what I feel for her, it only deepens it.
It was easy to compartmentalize when she showed up in my office behaving like a brat, but now I see that for what it was.
Not a woman trying to get her way, but a woman trapped.
Afraid. Beaten down by the world, and trying to take back some control.
And now, I can’t unsee it. I can’t compartmentalize anymore. Iris isn’t just a gorgeous temptation, she’s human, and she’s struggling. Seeing her so soft, so exposed, doesn’t make me want her less. It makes me want her differently. Tenderly.
And that’s worse.
“I’m a jerk,” I say at last. “I’m sorry. I’ve been hard on you.”
She looks down, lifting a shoulder. “I’ve been screwing up.”
This time I lose the battle, sliding a finger under her chin to tilt her face up. Her eyes are wide when they come back to mine.
“You’ve been trying your best,” I murmur, knowing it’s the truth.
Something softens in her eyes then, and they move between mine, searching for a long moment. I wonder briefly if she’s going to kiss me, and even though it would be wrong, anticipation zips through me all the same.
“Do you ever think about it?” she whispers.
My heartbeat quickens. I know exactly what she means. Us. That moment we shared at Marco’s. And fuck, I want to be honest. I want to tell her it’s on my mind every waking second, that I can’t focus at work, that all I want is to pull her close and press my mouth to hers.
That it’s more than simply physical, what I feel for her, and I don’t know what to do with it.
But I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell my boss’s daughter, my assistant, how much I want her. Not if I want to keep my job. It’s about more than what John would do if we acted on this. It’s about knowing that love and work can’t co-exist. I’ve never seen it end well.
And I’m not prepared to lose my career for anything.
I gaze into Iris’s piercing blue eyes, heart hammering against my ribs. Her breathing turns shallow, gaze falling to my mouth, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. It takes all my strength not to lean forward and capture her mouth with mine.
I withdraw my hand, swallowing hard. I shouldn’t be here. I wanted to make sure she was okay after she walked out today, I can admit that much, but that’s no excuse for chatting with her over coffee. Touching her, for God’s sake.
“I should go,” I mutter, pushing to my feet.
I don’t want to be rude, but I need to draw a line in the sand.
Knowing what I do about college and her father changes things.
I won’t be so hard on her now. She doesn’t need another man telling her what to do.
She needs someone who sees her and guides her toward her own power.
And that won’t come through me making a move on her.
She stands too, confusion creasing her brow. I want so badly to reassure her, to stay in this moment with her, but I bite my tongue. It has to be this way.
I cross the room, but when I reach her doorstep, I hesitate. “You’ll be in tomorrow?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods. “Of course.”
“Good.” I gaze at her for a moment longer, so sweet and soft in her sweater and socks, in this tiny apartment that I feel oddly comfortable in, then force my feet out the door, reminding myself there’s a reason I’m pushing her away. Because if I don’t, I’ll pull her close.
And if I do that, I have a feeling there will be more than just my career at stake.