Chapter 2: Blueprints and Bad Coffee

The private elevator to Gabriel's penthouse office hummed upward, and I told myself this was professional. Strictly structural. Nothing about the way my stomach flipped had to do with the memory of his thumb brushing my wrist from the boardroom meeting earlier that day.

I adjusted my curls, twisted into a knot so tight it pulled at my scalp, and clutched the revised renderings like they might sprout wings and fly me out of here. The cherry lip balm in my purse was the backup one. The boring meeting kind. Not the one he'd pocketed like some kind of trophy.

The doors opened directly into his domain. Glass walls overlooked a rain-lashed Seattle that glittered against the dark. His desk dominated one corner, massive and scarred from what looked like actual construction tools. No one else was here. Of course.

"Margaret." His voice came from the shadows near a wet bar setup that probably cost more than my mortgage. He stepped into the light, sleeves rolled up, top button undone like always. That small patch of skin at his throat shouldn't have made my mouth go dry. "Glad you could make it."

I set my bag down harder than necessary. "You said revisions. Here I am. Let's not pretend this is a social call."

He smiled, that slow curve that used to unravel me in under ten seconds. Five years hadn't dulled its edges. If anything, the new lines around his eyes made it more dangerous. Like he'd earned the right to look at me that way.

"Coffee first," he said, already moving toward a complicated pour-over contraption that looked like it belonged in a laboratory. "You still take it like a construction worker? Black with enough sugar to rot teeth?"

My pulse stuttered. He remembered. Of course he remembered. The man had once brought me coffee at 3 a.m. during a brutal all-nighter on my thesis, kissing my neck while the machine hissed behind us.

"Black is fine," I lied, because admitting anything felt like handing him another brick from my wall.

He didn't comment, just went through his ritual with the kind of focus most men reserve for closing million-dollar deals. Water measured to the gram. Beans ground fresh. The scent hit me like a time machine, rich and dark and far too intimate for fluorescent office lighting.

I spread the blueprints across his desk, anchoring the corners with whatever I could find. A vintage metal ruler. A smooth river stone. His hand brushed mine as he set the mug down, and I jerked back like I'd been burned.

"The atrium load calculations," I said quickly, tapping the paper. "I adjusted the cantilever angle by seven degrees. It distributes stress more evenly while maintaining the visual float. Your notes were... thorough."

He leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I caught the faint scent of his soap mixed with rain. His breath stirred the tiny hairs at my nape. "It's better. But the aesthetic still fights the structure in the southeast quadrant. You're asking glass to do the work of steel."

I turned my head, which was a mistake. Our faces were inches apart. Those green eyes pinned me. "Glass can be stronger than you think," I said. "If you trust the engineering."

His jaw flexed. The scar on his knuckles stood out white as he gripped the desk edge. "I trust your work, Maggie. I don't trust what you're not telling me."

There it was. The undercurrent that had been swirling since the boardroom. I stepped sideways, needing air that didn't taste like him. My hip bumped a low shelf, and something metallic clattered. A tiny architectural model. I caught it before it hit the floor.

It was beautiful. A delicate tower with cantilevered sections that looked suspiciously like... no. I set it down carefully. "Nice collection."

"Hobby," he said, voice tight. He took the model from me, fingers lingering on the miniature observation deck. "This one's new. Inspired by a design I saw recently."

My throat closed. The lines were too familiar. I'd sketched something almost identical years ago, telling myself it was just practice. Just therapy.

I turned back to the blueprints. "The southeast quadrant needs more than steel. It needs vision. Your original specs boxed it in like a cage. My atrium lets light penetrate all the way to the foundation level. People need to see possibility when they walk in, not just efficiency."

He made a low sound that might have been agreement or frustration. "Possibility gets buildings condemned if the math doesn't hold."

The words landed like a slap. I straightened, heat flooding my cheeks. "Five years ago I argued a lot of things. Including that you wouldn't disappear without a trace. Guess we both learned."

Silence stretched between us, thick as the rain pounding the windows. Gabriel rubbed that damn scar, a tell I remembered too well. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its commanding edge.

"It wasn't a trace. I wrote you. From Lisbon. Then Prague. Then that godforsaken island off Scotland where the only internet was at the pub. My sister... she got mixed up with some bad people. Victor was part of it. Threats that weren't just business. I thought staying away kept you safe."

I wanted to believe him. God, the part of me that still woke up reaching for someone who wasn't there wanted to grab those words and hold them close. But I kept my face still, thinking of the life I'd built without him.

"Safe," I repeated, tasting the word. It felt sour. "You left me with nothing but a bracelet and a promise. I had to learn how to be safe on my own."

His hand came up like he might touch me, then dropped. Instead he picked up my coffee mug and pressed it into my hands. The ceramic was warm. Perfect temperature. Exactly how I liked it. The bastard.

"Drink," he said softly. "Before you bite my head off completely."

I took a sip before I could stop myself. The flavor exploded across my tongue, nuanced and perfect and so achingly familiar that my eyes stung. I almost called him baby. The word crawled up my throat and I swallowed it with another gulp of coffee.

"This doesn't change anything," I managed. "We're not those people anymore. I'm here to build your tower, not rehash ancient history."

But even as I said it, my body leaned toward him. Traitorous thing. He noticed, of course. Gabriel had always noticed everything.

"Ancient history," he murmured. His fingers traced the edge of the blueprint between us, stopping just short of where my hand rested. "Funny how it keeps rewriting itself. Your design has my fingerprints all over it, Maggie. The way the support columns branch like trees in that park we used to..."

I hummed without thinking, a low Motown riff that escaped before I could catch it. Marvin Gaye. The one we'd danced to in my crappy apartment, half-drunk on two-dollar wine and each other. His eyes sharpened.

"You still do that," he said. Not a question. "When you're thinking hard. Or trying not to feel something."

Heat crawled up my neck. I set the coffee down too hard, sloshing a drop onto the plans. "Professional hazard. Architects hum. It's practically in the contract."

His laugh was rough, surprised. It did dangerous things to my insides. "You used to hum that exact song while you sketched me naked. Don't think I've forgotten."

The memory hit me like a structural failure. His body stretched across my futon, auburn hair messy, green eyes laughing as I tried to capture the lines of his shoulders. I'd hummed because I was happy. Stupidly, dangerously happy.

I couldn't look at him. If I did, I'd see that same man standing in front of me now, older and harder but still capable of wrecking me. "That was a long time ago. Before you decided your family emergency was more important than us."

He moved then. Not aggressively, but with that deliberate command that always made my knees weak. Suddenly the desk wasn't between us anymore. His body heat wrapped around me like a promise I couldn't afford to believe.

"It was more complicated than that," he said. His voice had dropped to that register that used to make me forget my own name. "Victor had evidence. Photos. Things that could've destroyed my sister's life. I paid what he asked. Stayed gone until the dust settled. By then you'd disappeared too."

My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to pull him closer. The conflicting impulses made my hands shake as I gripped the desk edge.

"And now you're here," I whispered. "Pushing for revisions at midnight like some kind of penance. What exactly do you want from me, Gabriel?"

His gaze dropped to my mouth. The air between us thickened like wet concrete setting too fast. I felt myself tilting toward him, drawn by five years of what-ifs.

He leaned in. Our noses brushed. Then our lips. It wasn't graceful. My teeth caught his lower lip at a bad angle. He tasted like coffee and regret and something that made my chest ache. For one suspended second, everything else fell away.

Then my phone alarm blared from my bag. The shrill tone sliced through the moment like a poorly placed support beam. I jolted back, nearly knocking over the vintage model again.

"Shit." I fumbled for my phone, cheeks burning. The alarm read: PICKUP REMINDER. Reality crashed back in, cold and heavy.

Gabriel stepped away, rubbing his mouth. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. But there was something else there too. Calculation. Like he'd felt me pull away from more than just the kiss.

"Important call?" His voice was rough. He turned to the windows, giving me his back. The city lights painted his shoulders in gold and shadow.

"Just... a reminder." I shoved the phone deep into my bag, hands clumsy. The taste of him lingered on my tongue, mixing badly with the coffee. My lip throbbed where our teeth had clacked. "I should go. These revisions can wait until morning."

He didn't turn around. His shoulders were too still. "Running again, Margaret?"

The words stung. I grabbed my portfolio, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary. "This isn't running. This is having priorities. Goodnight, Mr. MacAllister."

I made it to the elevator before my legs started shaking. The doors closed on the sight of him still facing the rain-streaked glass, one hand pressed flat against it like he could push through to something solid.

---

Down in the parking garage, the rain had eased to a drizzle that misted my windshield. I sat in my hybrid for a long minute, hands tight on the wheel. The taste of him still burned on my mouth. My phone buzzed.

Elena: Girl, if you're still at that office past midnight your excuses better be structural. Call me before you do something stupid like tell him.

I almost laughed. Almost. Instead I started the car and pointed it toward the suburbs, toward the small house with the porch light I'd left on. The radio played low, some late-night Motown that made my eyes burn. I turned it off.

At home, the house was quiet except for the soft tick of the hallway clock. I paid the sitter, then crept into my daughter's room. She was sprawled across her bed, curls wild across the pillow. One small fist clutched a crumpled piece of paper.

I eased it free, careful not to wake her. The drawing was typical: a tall building that stretched to the top of the page, two stick figures holding hands on what was clearly a cantilevered deck. A third, smaller figure peeked from inside the structure, half-hidden behind wavy lines that might have been glass.

She'd labeled it in careful four-year-old letters: Our secret tower.

My throat closed so tight I had to sit on the edge of her bed. The paper shook in my hands. When had she drawn this? While I was letting Gabriel's mouth almost undo five years of careful lies?

She stirred, tilting her head in her sleep exactly like her father did when something didn't add up. Her green eyes fluttered open for a moment.

"Mama?" she mumbled. "Did you make the building taller today?"

I smoothed her curls back, heart cracking. "A little bit, baby. Go back to sleep."

She did, trustingly. I stayed there until my legs went numb, the drawing burning a hole in my pocket.

My phone lit up on the nightstand. A new email. From Gabriel. Sent at 2:47 a.m., because of course it was.

Subject: We're not finished.

The body was brief. Almost clinical. Except for the last line.

The atrium needs more work. Meet me at the site tomorrow at ten. And Maggie... whatever you're building those walls to protect, I promise I'm not the wrecking ball you think I am.

I stared at the screen until it went dark. Outside, headlights swept across my driveway. A town car, sleek and black, pulled up behind my hybrid. The driver's door opened.

Gabriel stepped out into the drizzle, looking up at my house like it held every answer he'd been chasing.

My pulse roared in my ears. The drawing crinkled in my fist as I stood at the window, caught between the sleeping child who shared his eyes and the man who'd come looking for truths I wasn't ready to give.