Collision Course • Enemies To Lovers

The coffee was scalding hot, expensive, and now soaking through my white silk blouse.

"Oh my God, I am so—" The words died in my throat as I looked up into the coldest pair of gray eyes I'd ever seen.

The man standing before me didn't look apologetic. He looked annoyed. As if I had somehow thrown coffee on myself just to inconvenience him.

"Watch where you're going," he said flatly, brushing imaginary drops from his pristine Tom Ford suit.

My mouth fell open. "Excuse me? You ran into ME."

"I was checking my phone. You should have moved."

The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable audacity of this man.

I was standing in the marble lobby of Morrison & Klein Architecture, the most prestigious firm in New York City, on the most important day of my career. Today was my first day as a junior architect, the culmination of six years of brutal competition at Columbia and two years of unpaid internships that had drained my savings and my spirit.

And this arrogant stranger in his thousand-dollar suit thought the laws of pedestrian traffic didn't apply to him.

"Let me guess," I said, snatching napkins from the reception desk. "You're one of those entitled executives who thinks everyone should just scatter when you walk by?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "And you're one of those people who makes assumptions about others based on sixty seconds of interaction."

"I'm making an observation based on your behavior."

"Your observation is noted and dismissed." He glanced at his watch—a Patek Philippe, because of course it was. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

He walked past me toward the elevators, his expensive leather shoes clicking against the marble with infuriating confidence.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, trying to blot the coffee stain that now decorated my blouse like some kind of abstract art piece. So much for first impressions.

"Don't worry about him," said a warm voice beside me. I turned to find a woman in her early thirties with kind eyes and a bright smile. She wore a badge that identified her as Maya Chen, Senior Architect. "That's just Ethan Morrison being his usual charming self."

My stomach dropped. "Morrison? As in..."

"As in Morrison & Klein, yes. Ethan Morrison, son of Richard Morrison, who founded this firm forty years ago." Maya handed me more napkins. "He's technically a partner, though most of us try to avoid him when possible. Brilliant architect, terrible human."

Perfect. I'd just called one of my bosses an entitled executive. On my first day.

"I didn't know," I said weakly.

"How could you? He's barely here anyway. Spends most of his time on site or traveling to meet clients. We're usually blessed with his absence." Maya checked her watch. "Come on, I'll show you to your desk. You can change in the bathroom—I think I have an extra cardigan you can borrow."

As we walked toward the elevators, I caught one last glimpse of Ethan Morrison. He was talking to someone, his expression serious and focused, and I hated that I noticed how the morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sharp angles of his face.

No. Absolutely not. I didn't care if he looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. He was rude, arrogant, and apparently my boss.

This was going to be a nightmare.

The Morrison & Klein offices occupied floors thirty through thirty-five of a gleaming tower in Midtown. The junior architects worked on the thirtieth floor—an open-plan space with rows of desks, each equipped with dual monitors and drafting tablets. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline, but I barely had time to appreciate it.

Maya introduced me to the team: six other junior architects, all looking slightly shell-shocked and overwhelmed. We were the new crop, hired to work on the firm's smaller projects while learning from the senior staff.

"Your first assignment is already waiting," Maya said, logging me into my computer. "It's a residential renovation in Brooklyn Heights. The client wants to modernize a historic brownstone while maintaining its original character. Very tricky balance."

I pulled up the files, my earlier coffee disaster temporarily forgotten as I lost myself in the plans. This was what I loved—the puzzle of making old and new work together, of honoring history while creating something fresh.

Hours passed. I sketched, measured, calculated. The coffee stain on my borrowed cardigan barely registered.

"Burning the midnight oil on day one?"

I looked up to find a guy about my age leaning against my desk. He had warm brown eyes and an easy smile that was the complete opposite of Ethan Morrison's cold stare.

"Just trying to make a good impression," I said. "Despite the coffee incident this morning."

He laughed. "Oh, you're the one who met Ethan? The whole floor's been talking about it. I'm Jake, by the way. Jake Torres."

"Sloane Mitchell." We shook hands. "And I didn't so much meet him as get insulted by him."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Ethan's not exactly known for his people skills." Jake perched on the edge of my desk. "But he's a genius. The Hudson Tower project? The Riverside Cultural Center? Those were all his designs. The man's won more awards than the rest of the firm combined."

"Being talented doesn't excuse being rude."

"No argument here. But it does explain why everyone puts up with him." Jake glanced at my screen. "Brooklyn Heights brownstone? Nice. Word of advice—the clients on these projects are intense. They want everything perfect, and they want it yesterday."

"I can handle intense."

"I believe it. Anyone who stands up to Ethan Morrison on their first day has guts."

I smiled despite myself. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all. Terrible boss aside, the work was exactly what I'd dreamed of.

My phone buzzed with an email notification. I glanced at the screen and felt my stomach sink.

From: Ethan Morrison

To: Sloane Mitchell

Subject: Brooklyn Heights Project

Ms. Mitchell,

I'll be overseeing your Brooklyn Heights renovation. Please have preliminary designs on my desk by Friday, 5 PM. I expect thorough research, creative solutions, and absolutely no coffee stains on the presentation boards.

— EM

Jake, reading over my shoulder, let out a low whistle. "Ouch. Looks like you're stuck with him."

"Fantastic," I muttered. "Just fantastic."

As if summoned by my misery, I looked up to see Ethan Morrison himself walking through the thirtieth floor. He moved like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. People stepped aside, nodded respectfully, tried not to make eye contact.

His gaze swept across the room and landed on me for just a fraction of a second. There was no recognition, no acknowledgment of our earlier encounter. Just that cold, assessing stare before he continued toward Maya's office.

I turned back to my computer, jaw set with determination.

Fine. He wanted preliminary designs by Friday? I'd give him the best damn designs he'd ever seen. I'd prove that I belonged here, coffee stain and all.

I had no way of knowing then that Ethan Morrison would become the most infuriating, challenging, and ultimately important person in my life.

But that was still weeks of arguments, late nights, and reluctant revelations away.

For now, I just wanted to survive my first week without committing homicide.