Brothers of Paradise Series

“And so what if he’s handsome, and intelligent, and passionate about the same things I am? He’s my boss. I was damn lucky when he accepted me for this job. I know that.”

Jessie nods. “No screwing that up. He’s off-limits. Too risky.”

“I’m going to be professionalism personified.”

“The dictionary definition herself,” Jessie agrees. “And you’re going to keep your eyes open for other handsome, intelligent men.”

I grin at her. “How hard is it to be indifferent, anyway? I’ll show up on Monday and barely look his way.”

“That’s my girl.”

As it turns out, indifference is hard to practice when your boss looks like Henry Marchand.

He’s cool and reserved at our Monday meeting, thick hair pushed back and a let’s-get-shit-done look on his face. I wish I was immune to it. To all of it-the way he occupies space like he owns it, like he built it-and the ambition that rolls off him like thunder. But I’m not. I sit down opposite him, dutifully forgetting that other men even exist.

Henry nods at the list I’ve prepared for the meeting. He hasn’t mentioned our late night on Friday, and any intimacy between us is gone. It might as well never have existed at all.

“Well then,” he says. “Get on with it.”

I run through the coming week. Henry nods or disagrees at the appropriate times, fingers tapping against the table.

“Push the two o’clock on Wednesday,” he says. “Investors from Corporeal want to meet instead. I’m taking them out for lunch.”

“Reservations?”

“Yes.”

“I can call Rema. It’s right across the street-you could be in and out in an hour.”

“Good. Reserve a table for one p. m.”

“Will do. And regarding the Founders’ Gala on Friday? They’re going to call again today, asking who you’re bringing.” I run a finger along the edge of my laptop and think about his terrible date last Friday. Did he have a roster of women he ran through? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, who to choose tonight…

Henry’s eyes narrow slightly. “There will be people there from the Opera Project board.”

“An excellent time to network, then.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice softening a tad. “Which is why I’d like you to accompany me.”

“Ah.”

Amusement flashes in his eyes, like he doesn’t think I’ll say yes. Like he’s baiting me-another test to see if I’ll rise or fall to the challenge. I push my shoulders back.

“All right, then.”

Henry’s lips lift in a small half-smile. “Excellent. You have all the details, I suppose. Register yourself as my plus-one.”

“I will.” I close my laptop, caught between wanting clarification and fear of exposing too much of myself in asking for it. “Do we meet outside the event?”

“I’ll pick you up. Text me your address.”

The thought of Henry Marchand, in his Town Car, waiting by my building in Brooklyn… Unbelievable. “Okay.”

Henry rises from the table. He adjusts the cuffs of his jacket, every inch the CEO and property developer. “It’s a work event, Miss Alvarez. You’ll be paid.”

“Yes. Good.”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“I’ll send you the blueprints for the opera house shortly. If you find the time, I’d like your feedback.”

“Absolutely.” I grab my things and head to the door of his office. “Anything else?”

He pauses by his desk, looking at me with intensity. I don’t know what to make of it-I don’t know what to make of him at all. “No, that’s all. Thank you.”

I close the door behind me and take a deep breath.

This job was nothing like I’d expected. Henry Marchand was nothing like I’d expected. The consummate professional, who spent his nights designing large-scale projects. Who expected professionalism and perfection-most of all from himself-but who clearly had a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath the cool facade. Who thought inviting your assistant as a date to a gala was a perfectly professional thing to do.

If it is, it wasn’t included in his previous assistant’s notes. I almost laugh at the thought, sinking into my office chair.

I open the blueprints he sent over. Scaling back the opera house layer by layer, I familiarize myself with its internal structure. It’s beautiful. Giant curving staircases that wrap around the outside of the main room, leading to the different levels. Corridors and passageways, some hidden, meant to be used by staff and actors alike.

The seating in the opera itself is designed in layers, and the ceiling echoes the curves from the building outside-patrons will be seated beneath shimmering metal waves.

I delve deeper still; the foundation work, the blueprints for the piping and electrical work. It feels personal, looking at his work, knowing he’s the only one who’s worked on it. Personal in a way that it never has before.

Maybe it’s because I know I’m the first one that he’s shown it to. Or because it’s clear that he cares about architecture more than the basic numbers and figures, beyond even the prestige. And he asked for my input.

I make notes on the structure and don’t hold back. The backstage layout feels off. Is there enough space for 50+ people here during showtime?

I critique the seating arrangement on level four and the sculpture he designed for the vestibule. The wall lights feel dated. No detail is too small; I try to think like a jury might.

Steps approach down our corridor and I quickly minimize Henry’s blueprints.

It’s Kyle Renner, head architect extraordinaire, and resident asshole. He doesn’t have an appointment. I square my shoulders and brace myself for conflict. If there’s one person who’s made it clear he doesn’t think I’ll last, it’s Kyle.

He stops by my desk and looks down his nose at me. “Hello, Faye.”

“Hi. What can I help you with?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Marchand.”

“I see. Is he expecting you?”

Kyle smiles at me, but it’s not a kind expression. My skin crawls at the clear patronization in his gaze. “Yes, he is. He was the one who emailed me to come over.”

I give him an equally bland smile back and press the intercom. “Sir?”

“Yes?”