Price Architects is located in Little Italy. There’s no address, no sign to denote the office save an etched logo on glass doors. Doors you can’t see from the street, as they’re located at the top of a metal stairway on the side of a converted industrial building. The street-facing ground level hosts a restaurant (Italian, of course), as well as several retail shops that change names faster than I can keep up.

Despite being able to afford a larger, more externally aesthetic location, Matthew loves it and will never move. Every time an upper-crust client has to call because they can’t find us, he gets tickled. Because he knows what’s coming—the client finally arrives and the moment they step inside, their frustrations and doubts seep away.

The office stretches the entire top floor of the building. The open floor plan is cleverly partitioned into various workspaces for design, production, business development, and construction admin. The floors are rustic wood, the walls exposed brick. Rows of iron-paned windows flood the space with natural light. Thick wooden rafters span the whitewashed ceiling, which gleams above a series of industrial lighting fixtures.

It’s a small firm—only eight employees—but despite the inherent madness and inescapable clutter, the office has a sense of grandeur. Of order and purpose. Vision.

I feel incredibly lucky to be a part of it. I don’t have any credentials, just an intuition for colors and materials, flow and form. Because of my long tenure, I’ve had my hands in almost every pot, from construction sketches to project management and marketing. What I know boils down to this: it takes a hell of an effort to build something truly beautiful.

At eight thirty Monday morning, I step inside the office and breathe deeply. Calm blankets me, along with a distinctive bouquet of paper, ink, and brick.

“Morning, sunshine!” chirps the woman behind an elegant reception desk.

A vivacious redhead in her forties, Alice Cooper has been working for Matthew since he started out ten years ago. She’s indispensable to the firm: flawless receptionist, client hunter, scheduling guru, licensing queen, and baked goods goddess. If Matthew had to choose between firing me or her, I would be looking for a job.

I smile and glance around the quiet space. “Where is everyone?”

“Breakfast meeting for Matthew and Adam. Everyone else is out and about.” She offers me a pile of messages. “Weekend voicemails.”

“Mrs. Thompson?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Alice scrunches her nose, black-framed glasses riding upward. “I don’t know how you put up with her. She sounds like a nightmare.”

I laugh. “Well, I don’t know how you put up with two preteens.”

“Lots of wine. And a husband. You should get one, Thea. I’ll teach you how to train him.”

The door behind me opens. I glance over to see Matthew heading in, cellphone glued to his ear. Adam is behind him, also yammering on his phone. They offer us tight smiles and stride deeper into the office.

“Those are not well trained,” Alice quips.

I laugh and shuffle through the various voicemails from the tyrannical Mrs. Thompson. The firm recently rebuilt her Del Mar coastal mansion from the ground up. I’ve had clients like her in the past, so I’m not surprised by her adamant weekend calls.

Mrs. Thompson is the type who hires a designer but wants the credit. What’s important is that she be able to tell her friends how involved she was. It’s not that she rejects my suggestions—in fact, she invariably agrees—but she needs to feel a part of the process. Every. Single. Step. From doorknobs to towel racks, to paint color in the closets, to fabric and finishes for each item of furniture.

Then again, she’s the one shelling out the big bucks. The least I can do is humor her.

When I’m up to speed on her current list of complaints and demands, I drop my purse at my desk and head to the coffee counter. Because Alice loves me, there’s a fresh pot waiting. I’m pouring cream into my mug when Matthew calls my name.

Sipping the heavenly brew, I scan the office and find him bent over a massive drafting table. Sketches and blueprints clutter the surface. Adam stands at his shoulder, pointing at something and shaking his head.

I make the trek and lean against the table opposite them. “Good morning to you too, boss.”

Matthew jumps, knocking Adam back a few steps. “Jesus, Thea! Put a bell around your neck!”

I smirk. “Not wearing heels today, sorry.”

He narrows his eyes speculatively. “I forgot how short you are.” He shakes his head. “You know what I mean. You’re usually six feet tall. Whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I can’t even think straight.”

I glance at Adam, who looks just as flustered as his brother.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Big things,” mutters Matthew, his attention back on the table. “Big client. Real big.”

“Okaaay. Who?”

The chime on the office door sounds. We all glance over as three people walk inside. Two women and a man. The sun streams in behind them, but I can see short, bright red hair. The other woman is blonde.

And the man…

“Oh, shit,” I breathe, spinning on my heel until I’m staring at a brick wall.

Matthew calls out, “Come on back, Mr. Hughes!”

“Thea?” questions Adam. “Are you okay?”

Footsteps near us and a low, honeyed voice says, “Call me Alex, please. Are you ready for us? I didn’t give you much notice.”

“Yes, absolutely,” says Matthew.

I turn slowly around, knowing what’s coming. I can’t bring myself to look at Alex, so I focus on Matthew’s smiling face. He continues, “I mentioned our in-house designer on the phone. She’ll do wonderful things for you. Please, let me introduce the exceedingly talented Thea Sands.”

I face Alex and stick out my hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Hughes.”

Alex’s expression is neutral, but there’s a world of feeling in his eyes. Mostly irritation. He clasps my hand for the briefest moment before releasing it. The contact is still shocking to me; I fight the urge to wipe my palm on my hip.

“You’ve already met?” asks Matthew, surprised.

I explain, “Mr. Hughes and I were introduced at the King wedding.”

“Now, Ms. Sands,” says Alex chidingly, “you know very well we met the day before.”

“Oh yeah!” says the redhead, pointing at me. “You’re the girl in the photo.”

“What photo?” asks Adam.

I’m balancing on a hillside of pebbles. My face feels tight, the friendly smile permanently etched there. I quickly offer my hand to the redhead, whose pixyish features perfectly match her trilling voice. “We haven’t been introduced…” I hint.

“Lucy Davis, Alex’s PA,” she says, pumping my hand before giving Matthew and Adam the same treatment. When she’s finished squeezing the blood from their fingers, she points at the blonde. “I have no idea what she does or why she keeps following us around.”

The blonde smiles thinly and because I’m closest, offers me her hand first. She’s stunning: crystalline blue eyes, pert nose, lush mouth. “Nicole Sullivan. Alex’s West Coast assistant.” Her hand is smooth and slender, capped with vivid crimson nails.

I can’t help glancing at Alex with a raised brow.

He stares at me a long moment, then looks away. “So, Matthew, let’s talk business. I’ve got a six-week timeline, no contractor, and the blueprints are an unholy mess. What can you do for me?”

After a few minutes of listening to the men talk over my head, I retreat to my desk to call Mrs. Thomson. Normally, I don’t mind our thirty-minute debates, but today her high pitched voice is like sandpaper on exposed nerves. When the torture finally ends, I barely resist slamming the phone into its cradle.

I spend the next half hour scribbling notes, calling vendors, and canceling several orders. When the last task is done, I drop my head onto my desk and start counting to a hundred.

I make it to seventy-three.

“Your hair is curly.”

I whip upright. Alex stands on the other side of my desk, arms crossed over his chest. There’s no discernible expression on his handsome face. Across the office, Matthew is on the phone. Adam and the women are chatting with Alice.

I touch the spill of hair on my shoulder. “It’s not curly.”

“Wavy, then.”

I begin shuffling papers. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Hughes?”

His fingers thud onto my desk, catching the corner of a sketch. He pulls it free from a pile and studies it. “Did you draw this?”

“Yes.”

He glances up. “You did the art on your back, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I bite out.

He lays the sketch carefully down and clears his throat. “About last night—”

“No, stop,” I say quickly. “We’re not going to talk about it.”

“I think we should. I didn’t handle it well.”

Alex Hughes is an emotional avalanche that I won’t survive. My only chance is to deflect him. I say crisply, “Before you decide on using me as a designer, you should see my portfolio.”

He studies me a moment, then acknowledges my diversion with a sardonic nod. “I don’t need to. You come highly recommended. Plus, I always work closely with the designers of my restaurants. I’ll need to approve everything.”

Another Mrs. Thompson.

“Perfect.” My intended tone takes a turn on the way out, emerging thick with sarcasm. Embarrassed (he’s the client, after all), I stammer, “I’m sorry. I mean, that’s great. Good idea. Knowing what you’re getting. Personal touch.”

I stare at the ceiling. Please go away.

“God you’re sexy when you blush,” he murmurs.

Did I really think I could dodge an avalanche? I can’t pretend I’m not affected. Dropping my eyes to his face, I lift hands in surrender. “Alex—”

He laughs—laughs!—and plants his palms on my desk. “Don’t worry,” he says, with a devastating grin. “I don’t fuck where I work.”

Blood drains from my face. My mouth falls open in shock.

Alex starts laughing again, so hard he has to stand up and hold his middle. “Whew,” he finally says, dragging a hand over his jaw. His eyes still glisten with mirth. “The look on your face… Priceless. Absolutely priceless.”

I welcome the searing confidence of anger. Standing, I stalk around the desk and poke him hard in the chest. I whisper furiously, “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

He grabs my hand. Instead of moving it away, however, he presses my palm to his chest. My smaller hand is engulfed by his larger one. His skin is hot, his grip firm, compelling without being demanding. I stare at his strong, elegant fingers and can’t help but wonder if he plays piano.

“I meant what I said.”

Lost in my musings of pianos and candlelight, I blink in surprise and look up. “What?” Then I remember, and yank my hand away. My cheeks are aflame but I square my shoulders and press on. “That’s a relief. I’m tired of this asinine game.”

Alex smiles. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Ms. Sands.”

Exasperated, I snap, “Can we please settle on first or last names?” A moment later, my brain catches up with my ears. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Two part response,” he says, eyes twinkling merrily. “First, sometimes I like calling you Thea and sometimes I like calling you Ms. Sands. Two names for your two faces. As for the other, come hell or high water, Hemlock is opening May first. That’s six weeks from now.”

Suddenly exhausted and more than a little confused, I lean back onto my desk. I have no idea what the timeline has to do with anything. Besides being heavily reliant on miracles.

From the other side of the office, Lucy chirps, “Alex! We need to leave if you want to sit in on the server interviews. And your father just called for the third time.”

Irritation flashes in his cobalt eyes before he looks over his shoulder. “Coming!” When he faces me again, the change in him is dramatic. The mischievous playboy is no more. In his place stands the ruthless tycoon.

Leaning forward, he speaks softly into the hair over my ear, “Six weeks, but I think you’ll be mine before then.”

I jerk away but his hands clamp on my shoulders. His grip isn’t painful; in fact, it’s anything but. I stare up at him, his face only inches from mine. For the first time, I notice the gold flecks around his pupils.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he mutters. “You’re not even my type.”

“What’s your type? Easy?” I quip, but it falls flat.

Alex grins tightly. “I’m going to enjoy your surrender, Thea. More than you can possibly know.”

He releases me, turns on his heel, and walks away.