Brothers of Paradise Series

“Yes.” He thumbs through papers on his desk and smoothly pulls out my application. I see him glance through my CV. “It’s clear that you’re very well-educated. But then,” he adds, looking up at me, “you already told me that in the cover letter.”

Don’t blush. I force myself to meet his gaze. “I did. I might be young, but I have a lot of experience in the field. I started as an intern at the City Planning office for five months. You’re welcome to call Anita Roberts, who was my supervisor there.”

Henry Marchand leans back in his chair and taps his fingers along the desk, once, twice. “And then you worked for Elliot Ferris.”

“Yes.”Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“But no reference from him. You were fired?”

It’s increasingly hard to meet his eyes, green and piercing, but I force myself to do it. “I was, unfortunately.”

“As you made abundantly clear in your letter, you believe this is one of the key reasons why I wouldn’t consider hiring you. Why I’m sure you’ve already been rejected by several firms, since you’re willing to… how did you so flatteringly put it? Stoop to this level.”

This time, I can’t stop the flush of embarrassment on my face. “Yes. But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with my work performance. And while I understand that you have no reason to trust me on that, I ask that you do. I have co-workers there who I believe would vouch for my job performance.”

Mr. Marchand glances down at my cover letter again. I can almost see the words sticking out on the page. Lecherous.

Don’t ask, I beg silently.

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at my lap, where my leather-bound architect portfolio rests. It had been a wild shot to bring it here.

“You brought your portfolio, Miss Alvarez.”

“I did. Ask me anything.” I square my shoulders. “Let me show you that I know this industry.”

“We regularly build for clients with very strong opinions,” Mr. Marchand says. “How do you balance function with aesthetic appeal?”

Ah. It’s a classic question. He’s going to have to do better than that.

“A client’s wish comes first, of course. We’re designing and building for them. But at the end of the day, we’re the ones with formal training in this, and if we don’t point out obvious flaws in their desires, we would be failing them.”

“And in your own designs?” he asks. “How do you personally make the distinction?”

There’s something unnerving about the intensity in his eyes. “Unless a client demands otherwise, I strive for simplicity,” I say. “There’s no need to throw in elaborate details that could be outdated a decade from now.”

He taps his knuckles along the desk again. That’s really going to start to annoy me.

“I start on a new project. Day one, what do I do?”

“You focus on the logistics,” I answer, voice calm. “What are the legal property boundaries? How does the sun, the wind, water come into play? What features in the surrounding landscape could be a problem, or an asset?” I let my hands curl around the armrests of the chair I’m in, meeting his gaze head-on. “You start working on permits and timelines. I imagine you’re also mentally assigning tasks to different members of your team.”

“You worked on the Century Dome,” he says, “if your cover letter is to be believed.”

“I did.” And I was damn proud of that structure. Despite the client’s wishy-washy instructions, despite the work environment, it had turned out a fine building. It had received near universal praise when it was unveiled, and while my name was nowhere near it, I know that Elliot Ferris would never have been able to finish it without me.

I wonder if Mr. Marchand sees that pride on my face, because his eyes glitter with amusement when he asks his next question. “What would you change?”

“With the Dome?”

“Yes.”

I want to protest instinctively. It’s perfect. But I can tell that would be to fail this particular test.

Instead, I look around his office thoughtfully, gathering my ideas. He’s clearly a man with ambition leaking out of his very pores, to have achieved so much at his age. What would impress a man like this…

“The name on the plaque,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other.

“The position is that of an assistant, not an architect.” There’s challenge in his voice. “You realize that you’d be doing no practical architectural work? I have a full roster of architects on board and no space for another. I can make you no promises.”

Something in me squeezes painfully tight at his words. “I’m aware, and I’m not asking you to. But I think my experience as an architect will make me a better assistant.”

“As it so happens, so do I.” He taps his knuckles on the table a third time. “I don’t have time to teach you things.”

My previous admiration of him lessens slightly. Insufferable man. “That’s all right.”

“I know my previous assistant is leaving instructions, and Rykers’ assistant can help you get set up. But for the most part, you’ll have to learn on the job.”

“I can do that.”

“Can you start next Monday?” He braces his arms against the desk. They look unusually strong for a New York builder-the ones who rarely leave their offices.

“Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

“We’ll start with a six-week probation period before you’re offered a full-time contract. I’ll have HR draw up the paperwork and email it to you before the day is out. If you have any salary or time concerns, respond directly to her.”

“I will.” Good God, is this actually happening? “Thank you, sir.”

He nods and reaches over to shake my hand. His is strong and dry, with calluses in his palm. Again… unusual, for these big cats. “Welcome onboard, Miss Alvarez. I’m taking a chance on you. Don’t make me regret it.”

“You won’t,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on and hoping I wouldn’t either.

Faye

“You’re Mr. Marchand’s new assistant?”

“Yes,” I say. This is getting frustrating. “I was hired last week.”

Kyle, one of the head architects at Marchand & Rykers, lets his gaze travel from my head to my toes in a very clear dismissal before he turns back to the coffee machine. “I suppose he had to hire someone.”

The nerve.

I shoot him a blinding smile and turn on the kettle to make myself some tea. “I suppose he did. And seeing how I have a degree in architecture as well, I’m sure I can be of assistance.”

Kyle raises a cool eyebrow. His hair is artfully styled, square features complimented by a pair of glasses with bright orange frames. “How delightful. I’m sure you won’t mind helping the architects with some of our blueprints then, when you have some downtime.”

I grit my teeth. “After I run it by Mr. Marchand, of course.”