Page 24 of It Happened Again

“Thanks.”

“And I can keep things professional if you can,” I challenged back.

“Of course I can, when situations are optimal.” Her cheeks turned rosy, as if flustered. “But we have history. Don’t you think that’d be too much of a distraction?”

“For you or for me?”

“Both of us,” she whispered, tilting her head and softening her eyes. “You know our past. I’d hate for any lingering disappointments to get in the way.”

Why did a pattern suddenly emerge? I could see it so clearly now. Maisy always chased her career—me and any kind of relationship between us were always in the way and got left behind.

When would she ever admit that she could havebothme and a career if she’d only give it a chance?

The situation was risky, that if I stayed and tried again with her, I could lose, but a decision had to be made right now. I either cut ties and left and put her behind me or I tried again… Fuck. The way her eyes said one thing—staring deeply into mine like she wanted me so badly—while her mouth said another, pushing me away, I couldn’t walk away from her if I tried.

“Maisy, I have no disappointments, okay? We can’t change the past. But we can focus on the here and now. We’re both professionals. I think we can make this work.”

She folded her arms, still holding the coffee cup, gaze unreadable. “You sure about that?”

“No,” I admitted and grinned. “But I’m willing to try if you are.”

She studied me for a beat too long, then finally let out a breath. “Eight weeks is a long time, Brooks.”

“Not long enough, if you ask me.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

I cleared my throat. “I meant—for the scope of the project. It’s ambitious. But I think what you’re trying to do here is important. I’ve reviewed your proposal, and it would be my honor to help you create the ideal setup here.”

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. “You read my work?”

“In order to design a space for you, what kind of architect would I be if I didn’t care about my client’s desires? And you know I’ve always been one to satisfy yours.” I licked my lips. If she took that with double meaning, she should. Her needs always came first for me.

She chuckled. “I hope I don’t regret this,” she said, chewing her cheek. “What I need is someone on my side who is as passionate as I am about this. And I know I can trust you. So, let’s do this.”

“Good choice. Now, let’s get to work.” Ignoring all bodily and internal celebrations for jumping over this minor hurdle, I handed her a yellow hard hat. She took the pencil out of hair and let her golden locks fall, shaking it out. So pretty. I had to quickly look away—as the professional thing to do.

When I turned back, with the hat in place, it couldn’t contain some of the loose golden strands falling around her face. Her hand swiped up to push them back. God help me, I had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from doing it for her.

If this was how things started, I hoped it wasn’t a mistake.

“So give me the overall scope of the project and timeline,” I suggested as we walked through the dusty build site and taped out the location of the sensory recovery room she’d proposed.

“The first four weeks will be focused on designing completing the space with the latest technology and materials to evoke the stress-free environment we’re going for. The final four weeks will involve bringing in different groups of people to experience the room and testing their response to it. I’ll analyze the data along the way, and present it at a public event here at the end of that time.” She nodded once, like that’d be efficient enough. Then she gestured toward what would be the corners of the room, explaining her ideas, suggesting the stations that might be in each—calming lighting, curved acoustics, softsensory inputs and much more, each one linked to separate parts of her research.

I diligently took notes on my phone and asked plenty of questions—and quietly wondered what perfume she was wearing. Because the fragrance drove me insane in a very good way. Talk about environmental stimulus.

Maisy paused near one of the window openings and peeked out. “Like a window to the future,” she mused.

“Huh?”

“Nothing, just something my friend Sophie said to me. This feels different from before,” she said. “Working with you, I mean.”

“A lot of time has passed. We’ve both changed.”

She glanced at me. “Maybe. Or perhaps we’re both works in progress.”

We stood there, in the half-constructed space, surrounded by exposed beams and the low hum of drills outside. I wasn’t sure which of us was under renovation more.

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