Brothers of Paradise Series

The bartender shoots me a smile and starts mixing the drink with practiced movements. Tonight will be good, to get back into the dating game, to meet someone new. Good. Very good, in fact.

Henry would be on his date too. I had looked up Salt beforehand, and it was a beautiful place. No doubt his date was someone beautiful, too. I’d googled Henry Marchand before-hadn’t been able to stop myself-and I’d only found one picture of him with a date. He’d been in a tuxedo, and the woman on his arm had been stunning. Slim and with big doe-eyes. The title had been mocking. The son of famous New England developer attempts to make a mark on the New York scene.

In the picture, Henry stared into the camera in a way I was getting used to, like he was daring it to take a picture of him. His green eyes indifferent, as if whatever you choose to do-or don’t do-doesn’t matter to him in the slightest. It’s a look I recognize. It’s what makes him a challenging boss.

Not to mention a great architect-the opera house had been impressive. My hands had itched to get closer, to see the blueprints and bring it to life on my screen. It was exactly what I’d worked on at Elliot Ferris, the large, grand-scale projects. He competed in every possible design competition worldwide, which was exactly how we’d gotten the Century Dome project.

Just thinking about the Dome brings tightness to my chest. For five years I’d poured everything I’d had into that project, and Elliot Ferris had taken all the credit. All of it-and let me go without so much as a recommendation.

Damn it. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not about past mistakes, nor about Henry and his stern gaze and eye for design.

The bartender nods at me. “Waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” I say. “Must be late.”

“No worries. If he’s not here when you’re done with your drink, the next one’s on the house,” he says with a wink.

I can’t help but grin back. At least someone is here to appreciate the effort I put in with my dress and makeup tonight. “Thanks.”

The minutes inch forward and no Travis in sight. He hasn’t even texted to let me know he’ll be late.

Henry would never be late. No doubt, he’d been bang on time tonight for his date. My mind drifts to what he would wear-how his suit would hug his wide shoulders and strong arms-before I shut it down.

I’m not on a date with Henry Marchand, and I never will be.

Travis shows up nearly half an hour late. He smiles crookedly when he sees me, looking exactly like the picture Jessie had sent me. About my height, with brown hair and lanky limbs. Cute, in a boyish kind of way.

“Faye?”

“That’s me.”

He leans in to kiss my cheek, smelling like smoke. “Glad you could make it tonight.”

“Likewise,” I say dryly.

Travis doesn’t apologize for his lateness and the rest of the evening follows suit. I’m bored out of my skull an hour later, trying and failing to follow a story about his roommate’s poor taste in video games.

I clear my throat. “Do you enjoy bartending?”

“Nah. It’s all right, you know. Pays the bills.” He grins, cheekily. “But I definitely feel like I have a future elsewhere.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“No, try me,” I say, intrigued for the first time in over an hour. “What do you want to do instead?”

He leans in, smiling at me like he’s about to tell me a secret. “I saw this great documentary last week about Neil Armstrong. It was so cool. I mean, he was so cool. What he did, you know? Man, that guy really did something with his life, you know. And the documentary really showed that, like, in-depth.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “So you want to become a documentary filmmaker?”

He laughs. “No. An astronaut.”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I figured it’s a lot of work, but you have to start somewhere. I know I just made the decision, but I’m really committed.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’ve already ordered a few books about it. Well, one. Introduction to physics. Seemed a good place to start.”

Oh, god.

What the hell had Jessie been thinking, setting me up with this guy? We couldn’t be more different if we tried. He was a blank canvas and still trying to figure out what to become. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t someone I was interested in dating.

And when he asked me what I did for a living-the first question he’d asked me all night-and promptly confused an architect with an archeologist…

Travis raises an eyebrow when I call it a night. “Already? It’s not even ten.”

“I’m an early riser,” I say, putting down two twenties for my own drinks. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Sure you have to go? Jessie said a lot of nice things about you, but she didn’t do you justice.” His smile turns flirtatious, eyes glittering. “I live close by, you know.”

Yeah… it’s definitely time to go.

“I have to. Thanks for tonight.”

“I enjoyed myself,” he says. “See you around.”

Despite the stifling New York air, I breathe in deep gulps as I leave the bar. Jessie, my kind, crazy, impulsive friend. She’d been wild when she suggested this. An astronaut. He wanted to become an astronaut based on one week of knowledge.

I walk down the street and watch people mill about around me. New York is always a bustle of people, never asleep, never quiet. When I first said I wanted to move here, my parents had been confused. Why? It’s all money and work and people who don’t smile at one another on the street. It had been difficult to describe it to them. I loved my parents. I loved the small town in Ohio where I grew up. But it hadn’t felt big enough for my dreams, or for the person I grew into as soon as I left for college.

My phone rings, an insistent vibration in my pocket. Probably Jessie, calling to check in on the date, unable to stop herself. I consider letting it go to voice mail-she’ll be disappointed that I didn’t like Travis.

But eventually I fish it out of my pocket, and when I see the caller ID, it isn’t Jessie at all.

It’s Henry.

Henry

“It’s hard, you know, to travel so much,” Chelsea says. “It gets lonely to be on the road all the time. And I never really feel like I’m home when I’m home either, you know? But of course you know. You work a lot yourself.”

“I do, yes.”

She flicks a strand of curled hair over her shoulder. “I like men who work a lot. Who have ambition. And I’m sure you do.”

“I enjoy my work, yes.” Watching paint dry would have been more fun than this discussion. For over an hour, Chelsea had been running the conversation, avoiding all my attempts to talk about something even remotely interesting.