Chapter 4
Chapter four
Sam
Sterile.
That is the word the partners used on Friday. Just one word, dropped casually across a mahogany conference table, but it is enough to ruin my entire weekend.
At 6:15 AM on Monday morning, my laptop glows aggressively in the dim light of my kitchen.
I stare at the new image of the Harbor District pedestrian bridge.
Over the weekend, I added warmer lighting.
I photoshopped in a family walking a golden retriever.
I did everything short of animating a rainbow over the steel suspension cables, all to prove my design has a soul.
I grab my cold coffee and down it standing up.
My phone buzzes. Boss Babes group text.
Priya
Everyone still on for 7:30?
Liv
Already there.
Nadia
I'll be there.
I glance at the clock. I don’t have time for this. I have physical copies to print, an opening argument to memorize, and a presentation that decides the trajectory of my entire career at nine o'clock sharp.
But my brain is a tangled knot of second-guessing. I need my friends to look at my deck, tell me it isn't sterile, and push me out the door.
I shove my laptop into my bag, grab my portfolio, and hit the streets.
The morning air is sharp, the sidewalks crowded with commuters moving with synchronized, caffeinated purpose. I fall into step, muttering my pitch as I navigate the concrete maze.
"Lead with connectivity. Economic impact first. Safety second." The red awning of the Donut comes into view. I check my watch. Two minutes late.
I shift my architectural portfolio under my left arm and pick up my pace, dodging a bike courier who blows through the crosswalk without a glance. The woman ahead of me yanks her dog sideways. The dog yelps. I step around them both.
Lead with connectivity. Economic impact first. Safety second. Sustainability third.
"Connectivity is the foundation of sustainable growth," I whisper, reaching for the heavy glass door of the cafe. "Without reliable access between the Harbor District and downtown—"
I grab the handle of the glass door just as it forcefully swings outward.
I don’t even have time to brace myself. A man steps out. He is turned backward, tossing a laughing comment to someone inside, a large coffee cup balanced in his right hand.
I plow directly into him.
The impact knocks the breath out of me. Time seems to fracture. I watch the plastic lid of his cup pop free. I watch the dark, steaming liquid arc up into the morning air in a spectacular, terrible spray.
It hits his shirt. It cascades down the thick black strap of a camera. It soaks directly into the canvas bag slung at his hip.
"Oh my—"
He twists away but it's already too late. The coffee is everywhere. His dark sunglasses slip off the top of his head and clatter onto the concrete between my boots.
"Are you kidding me?"
I look up, my apologies dying in my throat. Green eyes. Sharp, furious, and framed by wavy blonde hair that falls across his forehead in the chaos. He is tall, his broad shoulders currently bearing the brunt of my absolute clumsiness.
"I'm so sorry," I gasp, my hands hovering uselessly in the air. "I didn't see you—"
"Clearly," he snaps, his voice a low, rough rumble of pure irritation.
He wrenches the camera bag off his shoulder, setting it carefully on the metal bistro table next to us. His hands move with frantic speed, unzipping the main compartment to check inside.
I drop to a crouch, snatching his sunglasses off the pavement, before lunging for the napkin dispenser on the table. I yank out a thick fistful of cheap brown paper. "Here—I can wipe them off. I can—"
I look down at the glasses in my hand. They're nice. The kind that come with a little cloth pouch and a hard case. Not the kind you clean with a paper napkin from a sidewalk dispenser.
"It's fine." He reaches for them without looking up, still checking the camera.
I thrust some napkins toward him instead.
He looks at them. Then at the glasses still in my hand. He wipes his hands. Then the strap. Coffee drips off his elbow onto the concrete.
He's soaked through on one side. His shirt. His jeans. Dark stains spreading across both.
My hands move before my brain does.
I start blotting. His sleeve first, then his shirt where the worst of it hit. Short, efficient little dabs — the same way I've been cleaning up after my brothers since I was twelve.
He goes very still.
"What are you—"
My hands freeze against his chest.
He's looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"I—" I pull back. "Sorry. I have younger siblings. I just automatically—"
I stop talking.
He's still staring. Those eyes are still furious, still devastatingly green, and that jawline is still—
"I'm babbling." I press my lips together. "I'm sorry. About the coffee. About the glasses. About—" I gesture vaguely at all of him. "All of this."
He looks at the glasses still in my hand, takes them and puts them on. Then he pulls them back off, turns them over. There's a coffee smear across the left lens.
He pushes them up onto his head instead, which pushes his hair off his face.
Wow those eyes.
"Maybe next time watch where you're going."
"Right." I take a step back. "Yes. Absolutely. Sorry."
I'm still holding the napkins.
I look down at them — a fistful of thin paper squares, slightly damp, completely useless — and shove them into my pocket.
"I'm sorry," I say again. Quieter this time.
He doesn't respond. Just turns and walks down the block.
I stand there on the sidewalk, napkins still clutched in my hand, watching him go.
His gait is stiff. Annoyed.
The back of his shirt has a coffee stain the size of my hand.
Perfect. I turn and reach for the door, again.
Inside, the Donut smells like cinnamon and espresso. The usual morning crowd fills the tables, laptops open, headphones in, the low hum of focused work.
The Boss Babes are waiting in the corner booth.
I slide in and drop my bag with more force than I intend. The portfolio smacks against the table.
"Please tell me that's not an omen."
Liv looks up from her tablet. She's wearing her courtroom blazer. Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat bun, not a strand out of place.
Nadia and Priya exchange a glance.
"An omen?" Priya's trying not to smile. "You mean that you just crashed into a guy who looks like he walked off a beach volleyball court?"
My face goes hot. "He was a jerk."
"A jerk with excellent bone structure," Nadia clarifies, taking a sip of her latte.
She's in her usual workday uniform black merino crewneck, sleeves pushed neatly to mid-forearm, tucked into tailored cigarette trousers that skim clean to the ankle. A sleek black watch circles her wrist. Sapphire studs, nearly the exact shade of her eyes, glint beneath her shoulder-length curls.
Nadia slides her untouched latte across the table. "You forgot to get coffee, didn't you?"
I stare at the cup. I was so rattled by the heat of his chest and the sheer fury in his eyes that I completely bypassed the counter.
"I don't get flustered. I don't lose control of a morning. And I definitely don't stand on a sidewalk wiping a gorgeous stranger's chest with cheap napkins."
"Sam." Liv sets her tablet down, her voice gentle but firm. "You had a thirty-second blind-spot collision with a hot guy you will literally never see again. It's fine to be a little rattled. But right now, you have a presentation to win."
She's right. I take a sip of the latte. Perfect temperature.
Okay." Priya checks her phone. "You need to leave in twenty minutes. That gives you time to be early, set up the room how you want it, and not walk in flustered like you just did here."
"Agreed." Nadia taps her pen against the table. "And turn your phone off before you walk in. Not silent. Off."
"I always—"
"You don't always," Liv interrupts.
It's true. "Fine. Off."
I take another sip of Nadia's latte. Perfect temperature. Perfect foam. She always orders it exactly right — extra hot, light foam, one pump vanilla.
"Also," Priya adds, setting down her phone. "For the record? Those were really good eyes."
I look up. "What? Whose eyes?"
The three of them smirk.
"The beach volleyball player," Priya clarifies.
I give her my flattest look. "Those were really annoyed eyes."
"Still good," Nadia says without looking up.
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling now.
I stand and gather my materials. Everything's accounted for. Everything's ready.
I head for the door, portfolio tucked under one arm, latte in the other hand.
The collision doesn't matter. I'll never see him again.
I have a presentation to win.