Brothers of Paradise Series

“Miss Alvarez? I’m a busy man.”

“You genuinely want me to interview for the position?” This time, her voice is dry. “I can’t for the life of me understand why.”

“I told you. Your application was very amusing. Besides, you have excellent qualifications. Can you make it to Marchand & Rykers tomorrow at…” I glance at my calendar. “Nine a. m.?”

“I can, yes.”

“Until tomorrow, then, Miss Alvarez. And don’t be late.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, now.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and spend another five minutes perusing her cover letter again.Belonging to NôvelDrama.Org.

It’s ridiculous.

Playing along with it is decidedly stupid, too. But it’s also a meeting I’m looking forward to, and it’s been a long time since that’s been the case.

Faye

The interview has to be a joke.

No one in their right mind would hire someone based on the terrible mess of a letter I sent in. I know that-he surely knows it too. So what am I going in for? Amusement, probably. He wants to see what a ridiculous person he’s dealing with. Have himself a laugh, like he did over the phone.

I look at myself in the mirror again. Well, he’ll have no such luck.

It might only be a joke to him, but I’m not going to waste an opportunity to gain a tiny bit of credibility back. I look professional, from the black pumps to the slick ponytail. I’m wearing my most modest of suits-the pencil skirt goes to my knees, and my silk blouse is nearly covered by the matching blazer. I kept my makeup simple, too. Anything to downplay the features that I know men like this often prey on-or see as a mark against me.

I walk into Marchand & Rykers with my architecture portfolio tucked under my arm. I couldn’t resist bringing it, even if the position he advertised was only for an assistant.

The receptionist shoots me an uncertain smile. “Miss Alvarez?”

“That’s me,” I say. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Marchand?”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Excellent. Let me show you the way.” She leads the way up a wide glass staircase. It’s very obviously an architect firm-the blank white walls, the spotlights at artfully placed angles. Clean and plain.

“Have you worked here long?” I ask her.

“Nearly three years. It’s a great firm.” She’s quiet for a beat, fiddling with her key card to access the elevators. She presses the button to the eighth floor, and we start moving.

“How’s Mr. Marchand?” I have no idea what to expect out of this. My heart is beating a rhythm of nerves in my chest, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. Odds are he just wants to laugh at me.

“Well,” she says carefully. “He’s a very talented architect.”

She doesn’t add anything else, and it’s not difficult to read the subtext. But he’s an asshole. Most builders and architects of this caliber are. Lord knows I’d encountered my fair share of them.

You need a certain kind of ego to push through designs that might very well outlive you.

She opens a glass door and leads me down a massive hallway. There’s an empty desk at the end, right next to a floor-to-ceiling window.

“His assistant sits out here,” she says, “and Mr. Marchand’s office is through this door.”

She gestures at a large oak door. Beautifully carved and weathered, it feels incongruous with the rest of the minimalist office. Interesting.

“All right,” she says. “Good luck, then.”

I pause in front of the giant door. “Does he know I’m here?”

“Oh. I’m sure. You were supposed to be here at nine, right?”

“Yes,” I say, but she’s already halfway down the hall, like she’s running from the situation. It doesn’t inspire confidence. “Alrighty then,” I murmur to myself and push my shoulders back. I’m Faye Alvarez. I was top of my class. I spent five years working on some of the most challenging designs in Manhattan. I’m a great architect.

I knock on the door.

There’s no response, only a soft, electronic click and the door swings open automatically.

The office is massive. There’s a giant desk in the center, all modern and sleek, but behind it are rows and rows of bookshelves. I can see a classic architect’s desk in the corner, with sketching sheets and a clip-on lamp.

A man is seated behind the desk.

Well, I think. He isn’t old at all.

The man can’t be more than forty. Thick, brown hair is pushed back. One stray lock has refused to obey him, though, and falls over a square forehead. He’s not in a suit. Instead, he’s wearing a navy-blue shirt tucked into a pair of gray chinos. It’s a casual look, but on him it looks like a million bucks. An expensive watch glitters at his wrist.

He stares back at me. There’s nothing in his eyes-not surprise, not amusement, nothing at all to signal a welcome. I don’t know if he’s trying to unnerve me, but I refuse to let him know that it’s working.

“Hello,” I say. “My name is Faye Alvarez. I’m here for an interview?”

He leans back in his chair and looks me over. It’s not leering at all-it’s clinical. I’m being assessed.

“Miss Alvarez of the famous cover letter,” he says. “Have a seat.”

I sit down opposite him, trying and failing to hide my surprise. He’s nothing like what I expected. This man is handsome, even if it’s in a detached sort of way.

“First and foremost, thank you for inviting me for an interview,” I say. “Despite my colorful language.”

“Yes, your application was unusual. Do you make a habit of applying for jobs while… what euphemism did we use? Under the influence.”

“Not usually, no.”

“You made a special exception for my firm.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. Is he teasing me? It’s hard to tell when his face is impassive.

“Anything for Marchand and Rykers,” I say airily. “And while I ask that you disregard my cover letter, my CV proves that I’m more than qualified for this position.”