“You understand exactly what we need,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, creating a dimple in his left cheek that hadn’t been visible before. “Though I should warn you—my board is notoriously difficult to impress.” His fingers tap once against the napkin where I’d sketched a floating staircase, the pad of his index finger lingering on the corner of the paper.

  “I don’t impress easily either,” I reply, then feel heat rise to my cheeks at the flirtatious edge in my voice, the warmth spreading down my neck like spilled wine.

  Conor’s eyes darken slightly, deepening to indigo for just a heartbeat, but his response remains professional, his posture straightening almost imperceptibly. “Then we’re well-matched. I’d like to move forward with a contract, if you’re interested. And I’d like you to present your initial concepts at our board meeting next week.”

  I blink, remembering Devon’s words from last year: “You’re too intense about your work, Bets. Dial it back in client meetings.” Yet here’s Conor Campbell, CEO of a billion-dollar company, not just tolerating my passion but actively responding to it.

  “I’d be delighted,” I say, gathering my sketches. “Though these are just rough ideas. I’ll need to visit the site before the meeting."

  “Of course. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow, if that works for you.”

  He pays our bill despite my protests and insists on walking me home when I mention I live nearby. The late afternoon sun casts shadows across the brownstone-lined street as we walk. Conor matches his stride to mine naturally, without the impatient edge Devon always has when we walk together.

  “This is me,” I say, stopping at the steps of my building. “Thank you for the coffee and the opportunity.”

  "The pleasure was mine,” Conor replies. “Your reputation is well-deserved, Ms. Miller.”

  "Betsy, please."

  “Betsy,” he repeats, and my name sounds different in his mouth somehow.

  Before I can respond, a car door swings open, revealing a tiny woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair and bright, curious eyes.

  “There you are, darling! I’ve been waiting for her for ages!” My grandmother strides from the backseat of her black town car with remarkable agility for someone who is seventy-five on her next birthday.

  “Teeny!” I exclaim, embracing her. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow."

  “Well, the bridge club was a disaster—Mildred kept forgetting we were playing contract, not duplicate—so I decided to come early." Teeny’s gaze shifts to Conor, assessing him with unabashed interest. “And who is this handsome gentleman?”

  "Conor Campbell, ma’am. A new client of your granddaughter’s.” He extends his hand to Teeny with the same respect he showed me earlier.

  “Theresa Miller, but everyone calls me Teeny. Ironic, isn’t it?” My grandmother beams up at him. “New client? Well, you’ve chosen wisely. My Betsy is brilliant.”

  "I’m quickly discovering that,” Conor agrees, his eyes finding mine again.

  In this moment, with warm late-afternoon light gilding the edges of everything, something shifts inside me. It isn’t just professional recognition or physical attraction—though both are undeniably present. It’s the sensation of being truly seen, of having someone look at me and recognize not just my talent or appearance, but the essence of who I am.

  As Conor says his goodbyes, promising to email the site details this evening, I catch Teeny’s knowing look. My grandmother has always been perceptive about people.

  “Well,” Teeny says as we climb the steps together, “he certainly isn’t Devon.”

  “No,” I agree, glancing back to watch Conor’s retreating figure. “He certainly isn’t."

  CHAPTER 4

  CONOR

  Morning light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across the polished concrete floor. I lean back in my chair, yesterday’s meeting with Betsy Miller still fresh in my mind—her quick intelligence, the confident strokes of her pen across those coffee shop napkins, the way her dark eyes lit up when she spoke about her vision.

  “So,” Nicole says, breaking into my thoughts as she drops a stack of contracts on my desk. “Have you decided which architect you’re going with? The Parsons guy was practically salivating at the budget.”

  I straighten in my chair, smoothing my tie against my chest. “I’ve made my decision. Elisabeth Miller.”

  Nicole raises an eyebrow, the thin arch disappearing beneath her copper bangs. “Miller? She wasn’t on our shortlist initially.”

  “I met her yesterday. She goes by Betsy.” The name feels intimate on my tongue, like savoring the first sip of an expensive scotch. “She has a completely different approach than the others.”

  “Different how?” Nicole crosses her arms, her silver bracelets clinking against her crisp white blouse. Her stance shifts into what I recognize as her bullshit-detector mode—shoulders squared, chin slightly lowered, green eyes narrowed to analytical slits. In the fifteen years she’s been my Chief of Operations, she’s developed an uncanny ability to see through corporate façades—and my own occasional lapses in judgment—with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.

  “She sees constraints as creative opportunities rather than obstacles and understands the preservation requirements that made the others panic. She was already sketching solutions before I’d finished explaining them.” I tap my Mont Blanc pen against the polished mahogany desk, the sharp metallic rhythm matching the quickening of my pulse. “No ego, no pretension, just pure talent and vision that cuts through all the architectural jargon like a hot knife through butter.”

  Nicole’s manicured fingers fly across her tablet, nails clicking against the glass like raindrops on a window. “Let me just take a quick look at her portfolio...” Her expression shifts subtly as she scrolls—first professional curiosity, then the unmistakable arch of her right eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Oh. I see.”

  “What?” I say, my voice sharper than intended.

  She turns the tablet toward me with deliberate slowness, which makes my jaw clench. There on the screen is Betsy’s professional headshot—those intelligent dark eyes like polished obsidian, full lips curved into a confident smile that reveals just a hint of perfectly straight teeth, dark hair falling in soft waves around her heart-shaped face, framing high cheekbones that catch the light even in a still photograph.

  “You’re implying what, exactly?” I ask, forcing my expression to remain neutral while my fingertips press harder against the mahogany desktop. Nicole’s knowing look—the one she’s perfected over fifteen years of calling me on my bullshit—makes the back of my neck warm.

  “Just noting that Ms. Miller happens to be stunning. Merely an observation.” Nicole’s voice is neutral, but her eyes dance with amusement. “Purely coincidental to your decision, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve known you since Stanford, Campbell, back when you thought Ramen was a food group and wore that ridiculous corduroy blazer with elbow patches.” Nicole leans against my desk, arms crossed. “You haven’t looked this energized about a project—or a person—in years. You’ve got that same manic gleam you had before the Singapore merger.”

  I yank my silk tie free with such force that it whistles through the air like a designer whip. “I’m meeting her at the site in an hour to review the space and discuss preliminary concepts.” My fingers fumble with my collar buttons like they’ve suddenly forgotten how opposable thumbs work.

  “On a Saturday?” Nicole’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shoot up toward her copper hairline, her emerald eyes widening with barely concealed amusement.

  “The board meeting is this Thursday. We need to move quickly.” I run a hand through my thick dark hair, disheveling the careful styling I’d spent ten minutes on this morning. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh, betraying me like a polygraph.

  “Have Thomas bring the car around—the Audi, not the Range Rover.” Nicole nods, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her glossy mauve lips. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small diamond stud that catches the morning light. “I’ll let him know. And Conor?” “Yes?”

  “It’s nice to see you excited about something again.” Nicole’s voice softens, the teasing edge replaced with genuine warmth. I grab my charcoal cashmere jacket from the back of my chair and the leather portfolio embossed with the Campbell Enterprises logo. The leather feels cool against my suddenly warm palms. “It’s a significant project,” I say, adjusting my cuffs with more attention than necessary. “Of course it is,” she replies, not bothering to hide the knowing smile that creases the corners of her eyes and reveals the small dimple in her right cheek.

  Thomas navigates through Brooklyn’s weekend traffic with ease, the sleek black Audi purring beneath us as we weave between delivery trucks and yellow cabs. We glide to a stop at the curb outside the old textile factory, its weathered brick façade rising six stories against the cloudless October sky. Through the tinted windows, I see Betsy already waiting, her dark hair—glossy as wet ink—catching the sunlight as she studies the building, one hand shielding her eyes. She wears fitted jeans that hug the gentle curve of her hips and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled precisely to her elbows, exposing slender forearms adorned only with a delicate silver watch. More casual than yesterday’s charcoal pencil skirt and silk blouse, but no less striking against the backdrop of industrial Brooklyn.

  “We’re seven minutes early, sir,” Thomas says, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Would you like me to circle the block?” “No, that’s fine.” I straighten my French cuffs, suddenly aware I might be overdressed in my tailored Armani slacks and custom blue oxford. My fingers linger on the platinum cufflinks my father gave me when I made partner. “I’ll call when we’re finished.”

  As I step from the car onto the cracked sidewalk, Betsy turns, spotting me immediately. The October breeze catches a strand of her soft brown hair, lifting it across her cheek before she tucks it behind her ear with slender fingers. Her smile—genuine, warm, reaching all the way to her dark espresso eyes—sends an unexpected flutter through my chest, like turbulence on an otherwise smooth flight. I haven’t felt that particular sensation since my twenties, and it catches me off guard, making my next breath hitch slightly.

  “Mr. Campbell,” she calls, her voice carrying clearly over the distant rumble of Brooklyn traffic as she extends her hand, a silver bangle sliding down her wrist.

  “Conor, please,” I reply, her hand warm and small in mine, her grip surprisingly firm. “Thank you for making time on a Saturday.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t wait to see this space.” Her enthusiasm is contagious, her eyes bright with anticipation, crinkling slightly at the corners. “I was up half the night sketching ideas—my coffee maker got quite the workout.”

  “Show me,” I say, genuinely eager to see what she’s come up with.

  As we walk toward the building, I find myself hyperaware of her presence beside me—the faint scent of her perfume, a citrusy and clean fragrance, and the graceful confidence in her movements. I’ve built a career on rational decision-making, on careful analysis of risk and reward. I pride myself on emotional discipline, on never letting sentiment cloud judgment.

  Yet here I am, distracted by the way sunlight plays across her profile, by the passion in her voice as she describes her vision for transforming the old factory. The flutter in my chest returns, stronger this time, as she turns to me with a question about the original architectural plans.

  I realize, with a clarity that is both exhilarating and terrifying, that I might be falling for Betsy Miller—not just her talent, not just her beauty, but the rare combination of brilliance and genuine passion that animates everything about her. It’s too soon, too unprofessional, too complicated, given our working relationship.

  And yet, watching her eyes widen as we step into the cavernous main space of the factory, sunlight streaming through the dusty windows to illuminate her upturned face, I can’t bring myself to care about any of those rational objections.

  “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she breathes, turning in a slow circle to take in the soaring ceiling and exposed brick. “Can you feel the history in these walls?”

  “I can now,” I say quietly, though I’m not looking at the walls at all.

  “I want to show you something,” Betsy says, pulling a leather-bound sketchbook from her messenger bag. Her fingers flip through pages filled with precise lines and flowing curves until she finds what she’s looking for. “I sketched this at three in the morning.”

  I lean closer, catching that citrus scent again as our shoulders nearly touch. The drawing shows the main space transformed—exposed beams are preserved but complemented by sleek glass partitions, the original brick walls are showcased rather than covered, and natural light floods through strategically placed skylights.

  “You’ve maintained the industrial character while creating something completely contemporary,” I observe, genuinely impressed. “The way you’ve used the existing support columns as design features rather than obstacles...”

  “Exactly!” Her eyes light up, and she turns to me with such unfiltered enthusiasm that I feel a tug in my chest. “Most architects would see those columns as limitations, but they tell the building’s story. And look here—” Her finger traces a curved line on the page. “This mezzanine follows the original track where they used to move textile carts.”

  I find myself nodding, captivated not just by the brilliant design but by her passion. “You’re seeing possibilities no one else did.”

  “That’s what good design is about—recognizing the potential that’s already there.” A slight flush colors her cheeks as she realizes I’m watching her rather than the sketches.

  We spend the next two hours exploring every corner of the building, Betsy documenting dimensions and architectural details while I make notes about potential uses for each space. She climbs fearlessly onto a precarious-looking window ledge to examine the original molding, waving away my concerned hand.

  “I used to climb fire escapes to sketch rooftop views in college,” she explains, jumping down with athletic grace. “My professor called it ‘embodied architecture’—you have to feel a space to understand it.”

  The afternoon light begins to soften, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. We’ve covered every inch of the building, and my portfolio is filled with her preliminary sketches and notes. As we prepare to leave, I realize I’m not ready for our time together to end.

  “This has been incredibly productive,” I say, closing my portfolio with deliberate slowness. “Your approach is exactly what this project needs.”

  “Thank you for taking a chance on me.” Her smile is genuine, professional, but warm. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Now or never, Campbell. The thought comes unbidden as we stand in the fading light of the main floor.

  “I know this might seem out of left field,” I begin, striving to keep my tone casual, “but would you be interested in bowling tomorrow night?”

  Her eyebrows lift slightly, confusion replacing her professional composure. “Bowling?”

  “My company team is short a player for the league championship.” The words tumble out faster than I intended. “Nicole usually plays, but she’s flying to Chicago tomorrow. It’s just a casual thing, but...” I trail off, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this must sound coming from a man who probably looks like he’s never set foot in a bowling alley.

  Betsy studies me for a moment, her head tilted slightly, as if trying to solve a fascinating architectural problem. Then a slow smile spreads across her face.

  “I should warn you, I’m extremely competitive,” she says, tucking her sketchbook into her bag. “You might regret asking me.”

  Relief and something warmer flood through me. “So am I,” I reply, unable to keep the smile from my voice. “Championship’s at eight. I can have Thomas pick you up at seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll be ready.” She hoists her messenger bag onto her shoulder.

  As we walk toward the exit, I notice how the setting sun catches in her dark hair, turning the edges to burnished copper. This is professional, I tell myself. Just a team event. But the quickening of my pulse suggests otherwise.

  Outside, Thomas is waiting with the car. I hold the door for Betsy, catching another trace of her citrus perfume as she slides into the backseat. For a fleeting moment, our eyes meet, and I see something there—curiosity, perhaps, or challenge—that makes me wonder if she feels this unexpected connection too.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” she says.

  “Looking forward to it.” More than you know.

  As Thomas pulls away from the curb, I watch her figure grow smaller in the side mirror, silhouetted against the old factory building. For the first time in years, I find myself genuinely excited about something that has nothing to do with business acquisitions or profit margins.

  It’s just bowling, I remind myself. But somehow, I know it’s much more than that.

  CHAPTER 5

  BETSY

  The dust from the storage box tickles my nose as I rummage through years of forgotten possessions, hunting for my lucky bowling shoes. They have to be here somewhere.

  “You’re going to knock his socks off,” Liana’s voice purrs through my phone speaker. “Who invites their architect out for bowling? I think it’s a bit endearing. He’s testing the waters.”

  I roll my eyes, though my stomach does a little flip at the thought. “It’s just bowling with the potential client who might give me the biggest contract of the year. Nothing more.” My fingers brush against something smooth and cool—my cobalt blue bowling ball, still nestled in its bag. “Found it!"

 

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