He pours himself a shot of scotch, neat. “Care for one?”
I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter to five, and I figure that’s good enough. “Hell, yes.”
He chuckles, then returns with a glass for each of us. “I take it we’re not drinking to Martin Glau?”
“I mean it, Damien. I’ve spent days staring at his concept sketches and they’re just not up to snuff. You vetoed my choice without asking for my input despite the fact that I’m the project manager—”
“I just thought what with me owning the company and all …”
“No,” I say, the words spilling out before I can censor myself. “That’s not what you were thinking and we both know it. Shit.” I lift the glass and take a long drink. “Sorry. Apparently I’m in the mood today to commit career suicide. All I’m saying is that you don’t want Jackson and I don’t want Glau. So there you go.”
I take another sip of the drink and try to look as calm and composed as possible despite the fact that inside my head I am running a steady stream of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
For a moment, Damien says nothing, and I wonder who in town might be hiring and whether or not Aiden will write me a good letter of recommendation. Over the years I’ve learned to read Damien pretty well. Right now, I don’t have a clue what he’s thinking.
And that’s really not a good sign.
“Listen, I’m sorry. This whole thing is a sore spot and I know that, and I shouldn’t have said anything.” I stand and start to gather the files. “I’ll ask Rachel to squeeze me onto your calendar tomorrow. Or I can come by the house over the weekend. I just think that now’s not the right time and—”
“Sit.”
I hesitate, then comply. But I keep the files in my lap in case a quick escape is called for.
“So if Glau is out, who does that leave us with?”
I tilt my head a bit. “Really?”
“You say he’s not up to snuff, then I believe you. So who should we consider?”
I’m tempted to tell him that no one even comes close to Jackson, but I don’t want to upset this shaky detente. “Phillip Traynor’s work is quite interesting.” I open the top folder and pull out a photograph of a hotel in Prague that put Traynor on the map three years ago.
I’ve loved and studied architecture my whole life, and next to Jackson, I think Traynor is one of the most talented architects working today. Even so, as far as I’m concerned, he’s sloppy seconds.
Still, I’m in cooperation-mode, and so I pass the picture and the folder to Damien, who studies my notes as I continue speaking. “He’s done a number of hotels, so he understands the travel and entertainment aspects. But he’s never worked on an all-out resort, so I think the project would intrigue him.”
“Looks promising. What’s the downside?”
“He has a reputation for being difficult,” I admit. “But despite that he’s very in demand. Which raises the second mark against him—his schedule is incredibly tight. I talked to his people, and he’s finishing up a project right now, but he was planning on taking three months off. If we bring him in, he’s going to up his fee to cover the inconvenience of canceling his R&R.”
Damien nods, taking it all in. “Who else?”
I open the next folder. “Allison Monro.”
“She did the Petri Museum in Seattle. I’ve met her.”
“She’s also done some really interesting residential work that I think might translate to the island bungalows.” I’m passing a photograph of one of Monro’s houses to Damien when his intercom buzzes.
“I know you said no interruptions,” Rachel says, “but Mr. Steele is here. And since you’re already meeting with Ms. Brooks, I thought I should let you know that he’d like a moment of your time.”
I realize that I have frozen in place, my arm outstretched, my body tense. I’ve been that way since Rachel said his name.
Damien looks at me, then takes the photograph, and the movement seems to break the spell. I sit back, hoping desperately that Damien cannot tell how violently my heart now beats against my rib cage.
“All right,” Damien says as he puts the Monro photograph on the coffee table, right on top of the Phillip Traynor file. “Send him in.”
A moment passes, then another. Then the door opens and Jackson strides in.
That morning, he’d told me that he intended to spend the day on his boat, working out of his office there on some minor projects that his New York staff is handling. So when Rachel announced him, I expected to see him in casual attire. Not swim trunks, but nothing more tailored than nice jeans and a starched button-down. Probably even with canvas shoes and windswept hair.
