As she passes it to me, our fingers brush. A tiny, electric jolt shoots up my arm. My eyes flick to hers—and for a brief, stupid second, I forget how to breathe. She pulls her hand back quickly, as if I’ve burned her, and turns toward the door. That’s when I see them—purple heels with flowers on them.
“Nice shoes.”
The words are out before my brain can stop them. She freezes mid-step and glances back, surprise flickering across her face.
“Thank you.”
“My father mentioned them. Said you two have frequent conversations.”
I can’t help the small smirk, but her expression falters instantly, like she’s been caught doing something wrong.
“I—I’m sorry, it just became a thing.”
“Don’t apologise.” My voice softens. “He enjoys talking to you. I should probably mention… he’s in the hospital. So he won’t be calling for a while.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. Is he going to be okay? Can I do anything to help?”
Her eyes are full of concern, and it does something strange to my chest—tightens it, but not in a bad way.
“No, not at the moment. I’m just trying to—” My voice catches, uninvited emotion clawing its way up my throat. I look away, pretending to scan a file, anything to stop her seeing the crack forming in my façade.
Then I feel it. Her hand, warm and gentle, resting on mine.
Something in me breaks open. Before I can stop myself, I turn my hand over and lace our fingers together. It’s instinctive, grounding. The kind of human contact I’ve been avoiding for too long. I stare at the desk because if I look at her, I might actually fall apart.
“I’ll help however I can,” she says softly.
Her words hit somewhere deep. I squeeze her hand—just once—before forcing myself to let go. The warmth lingers, unsettling in its comfort. I tell myself it’s just because I’m vulnerable, emotionally drained. That’s all.
“Thank you, Matilda.” My voice steadies. “Have you read up on the Wright file for today’s meeting?”
“Yes,” she replies, and when I finally meet her gaze, I notice her eyes. How have I never realised how brown they are? Like polished wood in the sunlight.Focus, Henry.
“Mr and Mrs Wright,” she continues, “they’re looking for designs for two residential homes in Malibu.”
“Residential?” I frown, flipping through the folder. “Why did I take a residential design? That’s not my remit.”
“Well,” she begins carefully, “Mrs Wright—Stephanie—wants to expand their property portfolio with luxury homes in Malibu.But I found out her husband’s also planning a chain of high-tech hotels. He’s scouting property sites in and around London. If you impress her, you’ll likely land the hotel designs too. I put this in an email and you told me to make a file.”
I blink. No recollection whatsoever. Either I’ve lost my mind, or she’s saving it for me.
“And how exactly did you dig this up?”
“I spoke to Mrs Wright’s assistant,” she says, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. “Turns out she’s very chatty.”
I narrow my eyes, but it’s no use—I’m impressed. And maybe a little too aware of how good it feels to see her smile again.
“Fine,” I say. “You’re joining me in the meeting.”
“What?”
“You know more about this than I do. Grab a coffee and brief me—we’ve got ten minutes. You have a degree in architecture, right?”
“Yes…” she answers, still confused.
“Good. You’ll work on this project as a second architect.”
Her jaw drops, and for a second, I almost laugh. I don’t know why I’ve just done that—other than the fact that I can’t seem to stand the idea of her not being near me today.
