By Design

Week 1

He remembered the first time he saw her.

The second glance was accidental.

It cost him.

He walked straight into his boss's back.

He'd seen her countless times since, but never the way he'd seen her that first morning.

She'd been laughing.

Her eyes sparkled. Dimple on her cheek.

There was a luminescence about her in that moment that he couldn't ignore.

He recognized some of the people she was with—the fifth-floor crowd, the architects. All of them showing some form of amusement.

His boss shot him a look: questioning, judging.

He apologized like it wasn't a big deal and shouldn't be.

His coworker beside him gave him a side eye and a smirk.

He straightened up and looked back a third time. The elevator doors were closing.

A glance held one heartbeat too long. A face that lingers after it's gone. A moment that quietly rewrites what you expect to find every morning.

Week 4

He was on the phone when Moore appeared at his office door.

"Reeves."

He covered the receiver and gave his boss a nod.

"I need you at that IFC Handover at 2."

His brow furrowed. He pressed mute on the phone. The person at the other end kept talking.

"That's Davidson's project."

"I know. Something's up with Davidson lately, and I'd feel better knowing someone can catch the shortfall. Might be nothing."

He exhaled slowly, pulling up his calendar on the computer.

"Done."

Richard Moore, his direct supervisor and mentor, tapped on the glass door before leaving.

"Thanks, kid."

Kid. He was the only one of the project directors Moore called kid.

They'd first met when he interned for Moore at a different company. Ten years before Moore became the third M in MMM Development Partners.

Three years ago, he'd applied for the role of Development Manager. He was qualified. Moore remembered him. Promoted him to Project Director a year later.

He hadn't wanted to go to the IFC. It wasn't his project, and attending a handover for someone else's work was a professional courtesy he didn't owe anyone.

But Moore had called him kid, and he'd said done, and that was that.

He slipped into the back entrance of Conference Room B at 2:05.

He heard the voice before he registered who it belonged to. Found a chair. Settled into it. Looked up.

And saw her.

His mouth opened for a split second before he caught himself.

She was standing at the front of the room, facing a small group of people. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot—the kind that looked effortless until you tried to replicate it. A few strands had escaped and framed her face.

She was wearing a simple black dress. Professional, but soft. The kind of dress that hinted at curves without showing them.

Her voice was quiet but steady. She walked them through the design with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

He didn't hear a word she said.

He watched her hands. The way she gestured. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her lips moved when she spoke.

Then her body. The way she stood. The way she shifted her weight. The way she didn't fidget, didn't waver, didn't look at anyone for approval.

She was beautiful like this—commanding the room. Different from the laughter he'd seen that first morning, but no less captivating.

He'd seen her countless times since that day. In the lobby. At the food hall. Passing through the corridors.

Always the same. Always untouchable. She maintained a certain distance, an aloofness that kept people at arm's length.

Until she engaged. Then her warmth betrayed the facade, even when she didn't want to be in the conversation.

He'd watched her from across tables, from behind columns, from the corner of his eye. He knew her routines, her coffee order, the way she moved in heels.

But he'd never been in the same room with her like this. Never been able to watch her without the risk of being caught staring.

The presentation lasted forty-five minutes.

He spent every second watching her.

At one point, she made eye contact with him.

Brief. A second, maybe less. She was scanning the room, making sure everyone was following. Her eyes landed on him. Paused. Then moved on.

But in that second, something shifted.

She saw him.

She didn't look away immediately. She didn't flinch. She didn't smile. She just... looked.

And then she moved on.

He shifted in his seat. Uncomfortable. Aware of the room full of people around him. Aware that he couldn't stop.

He spent the rest of the presentation replaying that moment.

The way her eyes met his. The way she held his gaze for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. The way she seemed to see him—really see him—for a fraction of a second.

He didn't know what it meant. He didn't care.

It was enough.

When the presentation ended, the room erupted in polite applause. People stood. Shook hands. Made small talk.

He didn't move.

He observed in silence from the back of the room.

She was talking to someone—the client, maybe. A tall man in an expensive suit.

She was smiling. Professional. Polite.

The man touched her elbow.

She didn't pull away.

His eyes narrowed.

The man leaned in. Said something in her ear. She nodded and smiled.

He didn't know who the man was.

But he knew he didn't like it. That casual familiarity between them.

She left the room without looking at him.

His eyes stayed on her as she walked out, noting the way she tucked her papers under her arm. The way she vanished through the door.

He sat there for a long moment after everyone else had filed out.

He'd crashed a meeting he wasn't supposed to attend. Sat through it without hearing a single word about the project he'd been sent to cover.

Watched her like a creep from the back of the room.

He came out of it with no valid reason to talk to her. Not that he should have one. Not when he was getting erections the first time he shared a room with her.

He should stay away.

He knew better.

Moore had taken him aside once. Pulled him into his office and closed the door. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.

"Word moves fast," Moore had said. "And reputation is currency. You spend it carelessly, you don't get it back."

He'd nodded. Said all the right things. Promised to keep his head down.

He knew Moore wasn't just giving advice. He was delivering a warning.

The promotion—the one he'd gotten mostly because Moore trusted him, not because he'd earned it through years of experience—that was on the line.

Moore had taken a gamble on him. A young project director with more ambition than tenure.

He'd resented it at first. The implication that he owed someone his career. The feeling of being watched, judged, measured against expectations he hadn't asked for.

He'd gotten the talk because of Jackie.

One of the architects from the firm on the fifth floor who had a reputation for sleeping with development managers from MMM.

She was just the office legend he'd stupidly confirmed. The affair that wasn't supposed to mean anything but somehow became everything to everyone but him.

They belonged to different offices separated by seven floors but their ecosystems were very much intertwined.

He knew what people said. Heard the whispers. Saw the looks the new interns gave him—curious, judgmental, knowing.

He'd told himself it didn't matter. That he'd earned his position through competence.

And now here he was. Hard in a conference room.

He was about to do the same thing all over again.

He left long after the room had emptied with his jaw tight and his hands in his pockets.

Week 7

She'd taken root in his mind. The way she'd looked at him. The way she'd commanded that room. The way her voice had carried through the space like she owned it.

He replayed the eye contact at night. In the shower. In the moments between waking and sleep when his mind wandered.

He'd convinced himself that was as close as he'd ever get.

And then Moore was standing at the threshold of his office again.

"That retail space on Main Street. Rossi. It's yours."

The sound of his heartbeat vibrated all the way to his ears.

It was her project.

Those forty-five minutes from two weeks ago that had allowed him to map her features so completely that there was no doubt to the accuracy of her likeness whenever he closed his eyes.

"Davidson?"

"Moving cross-country with the family."

Moore sighed heavily. Walked over and handed him a stack of binders and blueprint tubes.

"Everything you need. The project is underway. Handoff is tomorrow. We meet with the client on Friday for transition."

He wasn't new to the process. He'd just be taking over whatever phase the development was already in. Meet the client for formality.

"You attended the IFC?"

"Yeah. I'm familiar with the project."

"Good. She's thorough, this one. Anything you need, just visit the fifth. She's been notified."

"Does she—do we need her for the turnover?"

"No. Not unless you have questions."

He looked at the documents in his hands.

"I think we're good. I'll be at the site first thing."

"Thanks, kid."

Moore did his signature tap on the glass before leaving. He hardly noticed.

He stood there for a moment, letting it sink in.

He'd caught himself asking about her. If this was finally the excuse he'd been waiting for.

He walked over to the layout table, blueprint tube in hand.

There it was. Her plan. In his hands.

He didn't believe in fate. It was a convenient word for people who wanted to abdicate responsibility for their own choices.

But this—this felt close.

It had fallen into his lap without him seeking it out. Without him forcing it.

Like he was being rewarded for his patience.

He finally had a reason. A legitimate one. A valid excuse to be in her orbit.

Now he just had to decide if he was stupid enough to use it.

He spread the blueprints across the table and opened the binder.

That she was thorough was an understatement.

She was textbook.

Every detail accounted for. Every potential problem anticipated and addressed. The kind of work that made his job easier.

He wanted to find flaws. He needed an excuse to reach out, to have a reason to question her, to demand her time.

He nitpicked the kinetic facade. The floating mezzanine. The flexible grid interior. The modular raised-floor system. He looked for over-budgeting. Lack of consideration for structural integrity in favor of design.

Before he knew it, he'd spent close to an hour obsessing over every tiny detail.

He found nothing.

What he found instead was a design that looked complex and creative but was actually quite simple to build. Efficient. Saving the developer time without sacrificing artistry.

She hadn't just drawn a pretty, unrealistic picture that would've been a nightmare to construct. Her plans spoke to him in his language. Flirted with him using loads and forces.

He liked everything he saw. And the more he saw, the more he wanted.

Her.

Not just the face and the body, but the mind underneath. The one who strengthened her case with every line she drew on paper.

He didn't find his excuse. Not yet.

But he would. In the six months it would take to complete her vision, he'd find something. A reason to call her. A reason to meet with her. A reason to be alone with her.

He traced his thumb over her name and signature on the blueprint.

Alina R. Cartwright, License No. 9567256. Registered Architect.