There’s work to be done. Commitments have been made. Those things aren’t happening if I’m sitting here in a verbal tug-of-war with a millionaire’s granddaughter.
“I do have another meeting in ten minutes,” I say, turning toward my computer. My voice is as detached as I can get it. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to get into your project today.”
Out of the corner of my eye, she flinches.
“We don’t have time today?” Dara asks, surprised.
“We’ve used up too much of it discussing …” Whatever we were discussing. I adjust my glasses. “Anyway, seeing if we are a good fit is a part of the process. I don’t design many homes because it requires too much …”
My voice trails off as I turn back to her. The way she’s looking at me catches me off guard. Her brows are raised, and her head is tilted to the side. She’s silently calling me out, letting me know she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
We watch each other for a long couple of seconds. It’s a standoff of sorts. Neither of us wants to be the first to look away.
It’s a case of two strong personalities wanting the other to bend, each of us wanting to control the narrative. What she doesn’t know is that I always win that scenario. Always.
I stand, adjusting my tie and attempting to clear my head.
“So, what does a person have to do to see if we’re a good fit?” she asks.
The cheekiness in her question is not lost on me. But I ignore it.
What I don’t ignore is the tension between the two of us, nor do I overlook her apparent propensity to try to push my buttons. It’s a replay from ten years ago. I almost came unglued over our speech, and it was for twenty class points. This time, there will be a lot more on the line.
Too much to risk, most definitely.
“It has a lot to do with trust.” My gaze burns into hers. “You have to relinquish control and trust that I understand your needs and will deliver everything you ask of me.” Where possible.
Instead of making her blush as I intended, she grins. It’s not the playful one from before or the happy smile that she tossed my way when she walked in. No, this one is darker. Seductive. Not at all what I was expecting.
I smooth my tie with my hand again, running it down my chest. Her eyes flicker to the movement for just a moment before her gaze rises back to mine.
“I think we could get there, Mr. Mason.”
My chuckle is soft as I plant both hands on my desk. I lean forward and wait to see if she squirms in her chair. I’m surprised that she doesn’t. She sits tall, unwavering—poised despite my efforts to break her resolve.
What the hell?
I’m starting to wonder if Curt Bowery, the hotel magnate worth millions of dollars, would’ve been easier to navigate than Dara Alden.
“It’s not if we can get there,” I tell her, looking her dead in her eyes. “I’m one-thousand-percent confident in my abilities to get there.”
Dara forces a swallow but doesn’t blink.
“It’s about all the things that lead to that final moment,” I say, my voice low and steady. “The journey, if you will.”
“That’s what they all say.” She tucks a small purse under her arm and stands. “But you might be right. I’m not sure you’re the man who should be handling … my project.”
Of course, she’s right. It’s the point I was just trying to make. But hearing her say it pisses me off.
I head to the door. “Think about it. Talk it over with your grandfather,” I say, swinging the door wide open. “You can let Eliza know if you’d like to reschedule, and we’ll see when I’m available.”
She hums as she moseys toward me. “You seem like a very busy man.”
I’m not sure if she’s being facetious, so I don’t respond. I think her statement was rhetorical anyway.
“Busy men always go through the motions and never have time to be creative,” she says, fighting a smile. “I’m not sure that fits my needs.”
I narrow my gaze.
Much to my surprise and annoyance, she laughs as she walks by me. Her elbow grazes my stomach in a move that I think is intentional. Before I can react, she’s down the hall and standing in front of Eliza.
“That dress is stunning on you,” she tells Eliza as if we weren’t in a strained conversation five seconds ago. “Where did you get it?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble as I slam my door. The framed copy of the first building I ever designed shakes against the wall.
I lean against my desk and suck in a deep lungful of air. The scent of coconuts only intensifies my frustration.
I open a window and then sit down.
“Busy men always go through the motions and never have time to be creative. I’m not sure that fits my needs.”
What the hell?
Relational intimacy.
Loads of rubbish, just as it was ten years ago.
Instead of listening to spoiled, silver spoon-fed women who want their ridiculous projects handled, I have real work to do.
My heart pumps from the interaction with Dara, and I find myself replaying much of our conversation. It’s not until I get to relational intimacy do I realize how much time I’ve wasted—and am still wasting.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and get back to the only thing I ever want to know intimately—my work.
TWO
DARA
“And that’s why I’m never, ever having kids.”
My off-the-cuff statement causes my best friend, Rusti Jameson, to laugh. Her shoulder bumps mine as we sit side by side on my couch and share a pint of ice cream.
“I mean it,” I say, thinking my new kid-free stance all the way through. “They’re so much work. Complicated. And gross.”
“You can’t rule out having children because one kid puked in your mouth.”
I dig my spoon into the chocolate chip mint container and free a chunk of chocolate. “Actually, I can. You would too if you tasted sweet potatoes two weeks later at the most unsuspecting times because some little cherub baby projectile vomited practically down your throat.”
Rusti gags. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”
I laugh and shove the spoon in my mouth.
“Maybe the problem is your subjects,” Rusti offers, shaking her head as if the imagery I painted is still in her brain. “Maybe you should stop taking pictures of babies and focus on … firefighters.” Her eyes light up as she tosses a thick black braid over her shoulder. “Think about it. Less drool, more body oil. Makes sense to me.”
I toss her a weighted look. “That’s great in theory. But have you ever seen a firefighter in real life—like, you’ve personally laid eyes on him—who’s nearly as hot as the ones on the calendars?” I scoop my spoon in the ice cream again. “The answer is no. No, you have not.”
Rusti flops back against my sequined throw pillows with her spoon hanging out of her mouth.
“They don’t exist,” I say. “Think about it. They can’t exist. It would be a public hazard. There would be women all over the world setting fires just to have a big red truck show up with muscle-bound hotties and their big hoses.”
I wiggle my brows, making my friend laugh again.
“What about men who chop wood?” she asks.
“Lumberjacks?”