Brothers of Paradise Series

“Well, I think he’s scary,” Jessie says. “Hiring you based on that cover letter means he’s clearly a psychopath.”

I laugh at her, and she joins in. “You’re probably right about that, actually. I still can’t believe he did.”

“Me neither, but whatever works, honey.” She pushes her red hair up higher into a ponytail. “Have you thought more about my text?”

I bury my head in my hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

“Oh, no I haven’t. What do you think? Do you want to have drinks next week with Travis? It would be good for you. Just a little drink, with a cute and interesting guy.”

I resist the impulse to roll my eyes. “If he’s that amazing, why haven’t you snatched him up for yourself?”

“Me?” Jessie puts a hand to her chest, the picture of innocence. “You know I would never date a co-worker. It’s unethical.”

“Sure.”

“Plus, I’ve already called dibs on Steve, our delivery guy. He has bulging arms, just my type. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you-and Travis.”

“Fine, fine. You’re probably right, anyway.” I take another sip of my wine. “I’ve been out of the game for too long.”

“Yes! I’ll set it up. Next week, all right?”

“I’ll be there. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my work for Mr. Hardass, that is.”

“No, God forbid. You have to make it five more weeks.”

“I will.” His face rises in my mind, unbidden. Not the indifferent mask he wore at work, but the way he’d smirked when we had the staring contest, bragging that he didn’t know what losing was. “I’ll make sure I last.”

Henry has rolled up his sleeves again, and it’s only ten a. m. on a Monday morning. He’s not wearing a tie, hair perfectly pushed back, but those arms… I shake my head at myself. I’ve never been a forearm person. The sight of his tan skin, strong muscles and wide hands shouldn’t affect me, and for more reasons than one. I need the date with Jessie’s friend, if this is how I’m reacting to my own boss.

Henry sits down at the large conference table in his office. “All right. You have your Monday meeting. Let’s go through the week ahead.”

I open my laptop and work through the questions I’ve listed one by one. He has a busy schedule this week, filled to the brim with client meetings, investors and contractors.

Henry listens to everything, giving me short, factual responses. Yes. No. Push that back. Email Rykers and ask if she can go instead.

His eyes are unwavering; the same clinical, assessing manner he always adopts with work. I can see how it would unnerve some, but it clarifies everything for me. Me, assistant. Him, boss.

It takes balls to treat people like that, I think. Without small talk or pleasantries. He might be insufferable, but the man’s effective.

“I have some final questions. I’m finalizing the last things for your trip to Chicago in a few weeks. Do you want me to book airport transport from your apartment or from the office?”

“What time’s the flight?”

“Ten a. m.”

“Book it from the office. I’ll come in early.”

“The Founders’ Association has asked for a follow-up on your invitation to the Founders’ Gala in two weeks. We need to make a decision, preferably sooner than later.”

He taps his fingers against the table. “Tell them yes. Tell them I’ll have a plus-one, too.”

“I will.” I stave off my curiosity, noting down the response. “You have a four-day weekend blocked off for personal time next month. You haven’t mentioned anything regarding that, but do you need anything booked? Prepared?”Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

“No.”

“Alrighty, then. Last point: Kyle Renner from the architect team wants to have a private chat with you about one of his designs. It seemed… important to him.”

Henry gives a low groan. “Yes, I know. He’s been trying for weeks. See if you can pencil him in this week. No more than fifteen minutes.”

“Will do.” I jot it down. “Do you have anything you want to add? Perhaps feedback on my performance from last week?”

“No feedback. Please book a table somewhere nice on Friday. Seven p. m. for two.”

“Sure thing. Who are you wining and dining?” I ask, already creating a post in his calendar. He regularly takes clients out, like most builders and developers. It makes sense, but still, I would love to see his version of schmoozing. The man never smiles.

“It’s a personal dinner.”

“Ah,” I say delicately, avoiding his gaze. Maybe a date, then. As much as I would like to see Henry schmoozing, I want to see his version of dating more. What kind of women does he go out with? Blonde models looking for someone willing to spend money? College architecture professors?

Henry clears his throat, almost like he’s uncomfortable, but his gaze is as steely as always. “Choose one of my regular places-they should be in the notes from your predecessor. Needs to be walking distance from my apartment.”

I look down to hide my surprise. “Will do. I’ll email you the details when it’s all booked.”

Wow. He’s hoping to score, then. Maybe he always does. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy you’d say no to, after a full meal and drinks, with his demanding eyes and demanding questions. I could almost picture it-teasing him for a full evening, drawing out those elusive smiles, and knowing that he would be just as exacting in the bedroom. That he would-

What? No. Head in the game, Faye.

I close my laptop. “Is that all, Mr. Marchand?”

“Yes.” He taps his fingers against the table in that infuriating manner. “Actually, no. I’d like you to accompany me to the Rexfield build-site tomorrow for the inspection.”

“Really?”

My surprise must be evident, because amusement flickers in his green eyes. “Yes, really. And bring another pair of shoes. Those heels are a safety hazard.”

I have to swallow down my excitement. “I will. And… thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re there to work-I’ll be asking you to take notes.” He rises from the table himself. “Now we’re done with the meeting.”

Despite the dismissal, I’m excited the rest of the day. I haven’t been to a building site in months, not since Elliot Ferris and the Century Dome. They’re rough places, but there’s something about the potential-knowing you’re walking into a space that will one day house people, with their lives and work and hopes and dreams.

The next day, I come to work in a pair of suit trousers, a pair of loafers tucked into my bag. Let it never be said that I don’t listen to instructions. Henry steps out of his office thirty minutes before the meeting. He’s wearing Timberland boots, but other than that, he looks impeccable, dressed in a navy-blue suit.

He looks me over, his gaze snagging on my footwear.

“No heels,” I say, “per your specifications.”

“Those are boat shoes.”