When I arrive to work at eight the next morning, Matthew and Adam are already there with Jim Stevens, the firm’s favored contractor. Stevens is built like a linebacker, with short, bristly white hair and a mustache that puts Sam Elliot’s to shame. He has a voice to match: deep and scratchy, bringing to mind Marlboros, whiskey, and lassos. Or maybe that’s just me.

Jim looks fresh and animated next to the two rumpled architects. From the dark circles under the Price brothers’ eyes, I know they've worked overnight to finalize construction plans. For now, the men consult a flatscreen computer monitor and iPads. Pending approval, the blueprints remain digital.

As I near the men, Matthew gives me a tired nod. “Good morning.”

“Morning boss, Adam.” I wink at Jim. “Marlboro Man, where’s your cowboy hat?”

He grins. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. Did ya hear about the tornado comin’?” He’s not actually Southern—San Diego born and bred—but he plays my game because it makes me giggly. Adam and Matthew crack tired smiles.

“I hear it’s a big one,” I say.

“Biblical, even. Forty days and forty nights.” I do the math and yes, there are exactly forty days until the opening of Hemlock.

“More clever than you look, cowboy,” I say, grinning.

Matthew groans and lifts a hand. “Stop, you’re both killing me.” His bloodshot eyes meet mine. “I like the new look.”

“Yeah,” agrees Adam. “I’ve never seen you so casual.”

I glance down at my faded jeans and sleeveless black shell. Holy shit, I’m wearing flip-flops. A little anxious, I look at Matthew. “Sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight this morning.”

He snorts. “No one gives a damn, Thea.”

“Nice tattoo, by the way,” says Adam.

I smile weakly, but don’t feel the usual jolt of dismay over someone seeing it. “Thanks.”

“Did you get my email this morning?” asks Matthew.

I shake my head, reaching instinctively for my phone before realizing it’s at the bottom of my purse. “Sorry, no. What’s up?”

“Alex is working out of his hotel today. He wants you to bring the samples there. He’s in the Presidential West Suite at the US Grant.”

My nerves dance. “Of course he is,” I say.

Matthew’s lips curve at my dry tone. “He wants a few potential color schemes to look over, too.”

My stomach executes a neat backflip. “Yesterday he said flooring only!”

Jim whistles. “The winds are pickin’ up, folks.”

“God,” groans Adam.

“Just throw something together,” Matthew says, gaze back on his iPad. “I know you, Thea. You’ve already done research and have a scheme in your head. Just give him a couple more options to humor him.”

As always, his confidence in me withers my insecurities. “You got it, boss.” With a wave of farewell, I head to my desk, flooring samples put on hold. Colors are infinitely more pressing.

Four hours later, my eyes are burning, my neck has a crick in it, and my hands are covered in pastels and ink. As the approved construction sketches came midmorning via email, in addition to three color schemes (I already know which will be used), Alex will have his first look at Hemlock’s interior. Six design concepts show a prospective waiting area, bar, varied seating, as well as feature walls and lighting.

Tornados be damned.

I can’t help a low groan as I stand for the first time in hours. Kneading my lower back, I glance around the office to find it empty save for Alice, who’s on the phone. There are signs at the other desks that several architects came and went while I was in my design-vortex.

After transferring folios, sketchpad, and the printed construction plans to my tote, I retrieve the bamboo binder from the bookshelf. Alice winks and waves as I hobble past her.

I almost stop at home to change. Almost. But halfway to the hotel, I contract a case of the Fuckits. The catalyst is Alex’s quote from Illusions.

I do not exist to impress the world.

For almost twenty years, I’ve carried those words close to my heart. They are the promise I made to myself as a child. Never actualized or truly understood. For as much as I rebelled, I was still my mother’s creation.

Focus. Control. Poise.

I was too young, at eleven years old, to map the journey from imprisonment to freedom. Still too young at twenty-one, though the promise flared momentarily, spurning me to reject the money (instead of love) my mother used as leverage.

But now, as I think of walking through the lobby of the US Grant in thirty dollar jeans and a tank top that reveals my tattoo, my hair down and messy, my hands covered in color—I just don’t give a fuck.

Right now, today, the truth of me is bigger than the lie. I am not afraid without my armor. Nor am I weak without my buffer of narratives. C.S. Lewis said, What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. I’ve put one foot in front of the other for most of my twenty-eight years, and feel as though I finally understand Lewis’ words.

Change, like entropy, cannot be arrested. The only power I possess to counter it is my ability to adapt. To take the next indicated step, whatever it might be.

The universe celebrates my moment of clarity, providing me with a parking spot near the entrance of the hotel. I don’t give myself time to linger or think; I grab my tote and go. Over the sidewalk, through the glass doors.

I pass the reception desk, where two polished women sit. They stare at me with open mouths. I smile and wave. The elevator doors part with a touch of a button. Waiting for me.

The ninth floor hallway looks more like it belongs in an upscale condo complex than a hotel. My heart pounding in my throat, I press the buzzer beside the suite’s white door. When it opens, Alex’s gaze meets mine for the briefest moment before he strides away. He’s on the phone, in the middle of an unpleasant sounding conversation.

His voice floats back to me, “I said handle it, Jackson. What do I pay you for?”

I follow slowly, taking time to absorb the understated opulence of the suite. A half bath sits to my right, followed by a small galley kitchen through which a dining room is visible. Past the kitchen, a spacious open floor plan connects the living room with the dining room and two beautiful balconies.

The entire space is flooded with natural light from french doors and windows, each capped by glass fanlights. Italian teardrop chandeliers and black walnut floors. High ceilings, creamy walls, dark leather couches, and accents of blue and yellow from original artworks. To my left, a staircase leads to a second level, the assumed location of a master bedroom.

No overdone luxury here, but quiet, assured elegance. Old Money taste. Old Money billionaire. It suits him perfectly. It’s also easily twice the square footage of my condo.

I set my tote down carefully on a console. Across the salon, Lucy and Nicole sit on either end of a long couch. Both are on their phones. Lucy sees me and winks; Nicole eyes my attire and sneers. I can’t hear their conversations because Alex’s angry voice drowns them out.

“…unacceptable. I said tomorrow… Yes, tomorrow! If you don’t have a solution for me by then, it’s your job.”

I do my best not to look at him. He keeps walking into my line of sight, though, making it impossible. No long sleeves today. He’s in a white t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and chest. Not too tight, but snug enough to fill in the blanks of fantasy—his chest is colorful too. Both of his arms are tattooed to the wrist. Vivid and intoxicating.

And he’s barefoot beneath his slacks.

God help me.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he snarls. “Get on it.”

He ends the call with his head tilted back. For several moments, he glares at the ceiling, then sighs heavily. Lucy, also off the phone, says, “I told you he was an idiot.”

He grunts. “Last time I don’t listen to you.”

With three long strides, he crosses the salon and sits in a white club chair. Still not acknowledging my presence. The thought that I’m being punished flits through my mind. I don’t know why, but it makes me smile. Content to play the voyeur, I lean against the wall beside the stairs.

Alex and Lucy chat vaguely about the ‘idiot’ until Nicole’s phone call wraps up. She interrupts their dialogue with: “Candace needs an answer about Friday, Alex.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “What’s going on again?”

“It’s her Autism charity’s benefit in L.A.”

“How badly does she want me there?”

“She’s called me ten times in three days.”

He groans. “Deacon or Charles?”

Lucy snickers. “Your brothers aren’t going to take this bullet for you, buddy. They’re back East right now, anyway.”

Brothers. I try to remember what I know about them. It’s very little. The older one has something to with luxury resorts in exotic locales. The younger, upscale urban hotels. Clearly, the Hughes men have a love of building things. That, and making money. There’s one sister in the family. Candace, presumably.

“…have to?”

I only hear the last words, but Alex’s tone makes it clear he wants a negative response. It’s almost… whining. Which brings another smile to my face.

“Yes,” says Lucy, after Nicole looks at her beseechingly. “You have to bring a date. Your sister will throw a fit if you show up alone.”

Alex sighs. “Who’s available?”

Nicole says flatly, “Alyssa is in L.A. this weekend. Joyce, too. She would jump at the chance, as you know. Or there’s that model. What’s her name? Peta? Petra?”

“Petra,” says Alex warmly. “Call her.”

I can’t stop a flinch from crossing my face. Lucy, who’s facing me, sees it but thankfully doesn’t give me away. Her gaze slides smoothly back to Alex. I might be imagining it, but she looks a little disappointed in him.

For a moment, Nicole’s profile reflects how I feel. I don’t like the woman, but nevertheless experience a flare of camaraderie. Alexander Hughes is a hurricane and we are trees with shallow roots. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now: forces of nature answer to no one.

“Is there anything else?” he asks, and they shake their heads. “Good.”

I don’t hear the same command the assistants do, but they stand to gather their iPads, phones, and purses. They file toward me. “See ya, Thea,” says Lucy, waving as she passes. Nicole gives me an icy stare and follows.

The front door closes with a soft click.

“Have you eaten lunch, Ms. Sands?”

I glance across the room to find Alex standing. Finally facing me. His eyes are on mine, but they’re cool and distant. It hurts, more than I care to admit.

“No,” I answer softly.

He nods. “Room service, then.”

He crosses to a side table and lifts a phone to speak with the concierge. He doesn’t ask me what I want to eat, which doesn’t surprise me. I tune him out and pick up my tote, wandering into the dining room.

I’ve just finished spreading out my materials when Alex enters the room. He rounds the table and stops beside me, so close our forearms brush. I have no idea if it’s intentional on his part, though it would have been a simple matter to push aside a chair.

I don’t move. Don’t try to protect myself. It’s not so much a strategy as an unwillingness to let go of the buoyant promise of my youth: I exist to live my life in a way that will make me happy. And right now, it’s being close to Alex.

The intricate tattoo work on his arm tickles my peripheral vision as he reaches forward to pick up a sketch of the restaurant’s main seating area.

“This is good,” he murmurs.

“Good?”

A smile enters his voice, “Very good.”

I take a breath. Courage, Thea. I stare at a corner of the table. “Thank you for the book. I was totally out of line yesterday, with that comment about appearances. I don’t know you well, of course, but I’m pretty sure you’ve only ever been yourself. You don’t… pretend like I have to.”

“Thea…” he says softly, almost pained.

“Just let me finish. I lied to you, about the story. Illusions is one of my very favorite books. I—I lost my copy a long time ago. I can’t tell you how much it means to me, to have it again.”

He stills for a moment, then trades the sketch for another. Ignoring me. “Am I being punished?” I ask rashly.

The sketch flutters down. I watch it settle as Alex turns around and leans back against the table. “Look at me,” he says, in the dark tone that makes me shiver.

I look up slowly, letting my gaze skim over the tapestry of ink on his nearest arm. Up until I meet his eyes. For the first time, I can’t read them at all. But at least they aren’t cold anymore.

“I know you lied,” he says, and I blink in surprise. “I also know why you ran away. Believe me when I say this because I’m rarely this forthcoming with women: I am not sleeping with, nor have I ever slept with, Nicole. Moreover, I am inordinately pleased by your jealousy.”

“Oh,” I breathe. I clear my throat. “I’m not—What I mean is—”

His fingers are in my hair before I can read the intent in his eyes. They curl through the strands at the base of my neck and tighten. Breath hisses through my clenched teeth, but not in pain. The desire in his eyes is drowning-deep. It makes me powerful—and totally powerless before him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growls, eyes on my mouth.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.

His head lowers. Static tingles between our lips, they are so close. “You should be.”

What the hell does that mean? But the words don’t make it past my lips. On some deep level, I know what he’s saying. There’s a strong chance he’ll hurt me—inevitable, really—and not in a physical sense.

My chest heaves. I strain against his grip, which tightens to near-pain, shooting fire through my skull and straight to my core. I want to touch him so badly my palms tingle. But I don’t.

“Alex,” I gasp.

“What?”

I can’t look away from his mouth—the damnable curve of his lips. I am losing but not yet lost. Perhaps my roots aren’t so shallow, after all.

“I won’t beg.”

His lips hover over my jaw, my cheek, and float to my ear. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You will.” Heat rolls through me and my knees weaken. Various scenarios flash through my mind and in all of them, I am sensually compromised and eagerly begging.

I hang by fingernails to the last of my defenses. “You never told me if you play piano,” I say breathlessly.

He smiles against my hair. His grip loosens, releases, and fingers trail down my neck, over my spine. They dance lightly, mimicking a concerto. “Of course,” he says sardonically, lifting his head to gaze down at me. “Don’t we all?”

The darkness is gone from his gaze. I am relieved—and not.

“I’m horrible,” I admit. “All thumbs.”

His abrupt laughter is unfettered. Expressive eyes crinkle at the corners, irises so vivid a blue it’s almost surreal. Dear God, he’s beautiful.

Still chuckling, his hand falls as he turns his attention back to the sketches. I release a shaky breath, a survivor of an almost-catastrophe.

Already, I’m changed from knowing this man. No armor. Rewritten narrative. Somehow, I must survive his leaving. Forty days.

In my head, a small, shrill voice is warning me to retreat. To protect my heart. I hear the message but it doesn’t penetrate the moment. The electric warmth of his presence. My humming skin, my thumping heart.

Alex studies my drawings, focused and seemingly unaffected. But I can see the evidence of my power pressed against the zipper of his pants.

His gaze flashes to my face; I’m caught. “Eyes off, Ms. Sands. Or did you forget we’re totally alone?”

The doorbell rings.

His head whips around, expression so startled that I laugh. Blue eyes narrow on my face, but sparkle with humor. “Consider yourself extremely lucky,” he says.

I can’t resist teasing, “If your control is so thin, maybe we should meet at the office from now on.”

His brows lift. “Who says that would stop me? I’ve already pictured you bent naked over your desk.”

The doorbell rings again.

I stare, slack-jawed, as he grins wickedly and leaves the room.

* * *

Lillian’s hand is frozen halfway to her mouth. Tomato bisque drips from the spoon suspended in her fingers and the white tablecloth is beginning to resemble a grisly canvas.

“And then… nothing?” she asks breathlessly. “Like, nothing-something, or nothing-nothing?”

I point at the spreading stains until she looks down. Flushing, she hurriedly inserts the spoon into her mouth. “Nothing-nothing,” I confirm. I take a sip of wine, set the glass down, and begin tearing apart a sourdough dinner roll.

Our French Bistro is quiet for a Wednesday night. We’re the only patrons on the patio, which is how we usually prefer it. Tonight, though, I wish it were crowded with people to watch and write stories about. My own story is becoming rather difficult to articulate.

I’ve just told Lillian about the last two days—from the emotionally charged meeting at Hemlock yesterday, to the meaning of Alex’s gift, to today’s hotel visit.

“I can’t wrap my head around this,” she sighs.

“Neither can I,” I say dryly.

“He grabs you like a caveman, says he wants to bend you over, then you two eat cheeseburgers and design a restaurant like nothing happened?”

I wince. “It was a good thing, honestly. We got a lot of work done this afternoon. We also talked about… a lot of things.”

She zeroes in on my hesitation. “What things?”

I shrug. “Stuff. I found out how he heard about Price Architects. From Jason King.”

“Oddest groom/best man duo ever,” Lillian notes. “Isn’t Alex older than us?”

“Thirty-two,” I confirm. “They met at Harvard through Jason’s brother, who was in the same MBA program as Alex. They kept in touch loosely after Alex graduated. Drinks, dinner occasionally when Alex was in town.”

She puckers her lips. “How does that translate into best man material?”

“It doesn’t. Alex was shocked when Jason asked him. They hadn’t spoken for at least a year.”

Lillian snorts. “Chelsea! She totally pressured Jason into asking.”

I nod. “That’s what Alex thinks, too. He laughed about it, but it’s kind of sad—the fact that people use him for his name and money. He only said yes because he knew he was going to be in San Diego already for Hemlock.”

“Did you talk about childhoods? ‘Cause that’s serious business.”

I clear my throat, turning my gaze to the dark street. “You know I don’t talk about my childhood. We talked about books and music, mostly, and tattoos. He told me some of the stories behind the work on his arms.”

Saying it aloud gives me a remembered thrill—his smooth, low voice explaining the meanings and motivations of various designs. His forefinger tracing over lines and color, making my own fingers ache to touch.

“Are you sure it was just his arms?” Lillian asks, grinning at the wistful expression on my face.

“Yes,” I retort, flushing. “Just his arms. And no, I didn’t show him mine.”

“Well, duh. He already has the photograph.”

I glance down at the shredded dinner roll, the remains of which litter my half-eaten salad. My conviction of earlier is likewise in tatters. “Lil…” I whisper.

She knows instantly what I’m trying to say. Her hand covers mine on the table. I try again, forcing words through my tight throat, “I feel… when I’m with him, I…” I trail off, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t even know what’s happening between us. We haven’t even been on a date!”

“I know, Thebes,” she says gently. “I wish I could tell you sunshine and babies are at the end of this rainbow, but I don’t know.” I croak out a laugh and she squeezes my fingers. “What I do know is that since last Friday, you’ve been on an emotional roller coaster. And some really good changes have happened because of it.”

“I don’t—”

“Did you look in a mirror today? You never wear jeans to work. You never leave the house without perfect hair. And I’m sorry, but flip-flops?”

I laugh softly. “I don’t feel bad about it, either.”

She releases my hand to point at me. “Exactly! That’s the change, right there. Want to know what I think?”

I smirk. “You’re going to tell me either way.”

“Damn straight. I think that Alex Hughes lusting over your photograph, and now you, has been undoing the damage that your bitch mother and that asshole Damien did to you.” She lifts her glass of wine. “And for that, I toast him.”

I can’t return her smile. “I don’t want to fall for him, Lil. He lives on the other side of the country.”

“Oh, honey,” she says softly. “What do you always tell me? One step at a time.”

I sigh. “Touché.”