“Thank you, Helen,” I say nodding toward her, “and gentleman. I gather the board secretary will be in touch with us regarding an appointment with your investigator?” I quirk my brow, not bothering to hide my anger at this point. I may be a consummate professional, but even the most impenetrable demeanor can crack in the face of insult.

Richard walks around the table to shake my hand. “I’m so very sorry about this, gentlemen. We want to get this cleared up so that the groundbreaking ceremony next month can still go ahead unhindered.”

“That would be appreciated, Richard,” I say. He releases my hand and goes to shake Grant’s.

By the time we reach the Range Rover, my head is threatening to explode. Throwing my briefcase into the back seat, I latch my safety belt and grip both hands on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white while I wait until Grant closes his door before letting out a loud growl.

“What the hell was that back there?” he asks, beating me to the punch. His incredulous tone merely vocalizes what I’m already thinking.

“Who the fuck knows? I do know that there is absolutely nothing to this so-called accusation, and whatever investigation they plan on conducting will prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“Fucking oath, it will. We dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. There is no way our design is matching anybody else’s. We spent weeks drafting up that concept. I poured the coffee down your throat and replaced the toothpicks under your eyelids my damn self. Who would do something like this?” Grant’s hand reaches up around his neck to loosen his metallic blue necktie he’d only finished tying just before the meeting.

I shake my head, the tension from the meeting slowly starting to ease with every deep, soothing breath I take. My muscles remain rigid, and the pulse in my neck continues to struggle to comprehend the last thirty minutes of my previously uneventful Friday.

“I promise you this. We’ll fight this to the death, Cal. Our word is worth more than some anonymous fucking tip. But I will say that if anything delays the mayor putting that fucking spade into the fucking ground on the waterfront, there will be hell to pay.” Grant sweeps his arms wide, almost taking me out in the process.

“I think we need a drink. I don’t know about you, but there is no way I’m going back to the office after that shit storm.”

“You’re a fucking scholar and a saint, Callum Alexander.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” I retort, earning a chuckle from my best friend. I turn the key and the V8 engine roars to life, rumbling throughout the garage as I pull out of the parking space and drive up the ramp toward street level and hopefully a bar serving strong liquor.

Two hours later we’re sitting on the balcony of Cisco, an upmarket bar situated right on the water just left of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Knowing I have dinner with Lucia later in the night, I’m careful to restrict myself to only a few tumblers of scotch while Grant is four beers in and at threat of a neck injury if the frequent changes in direction his head is pointing are any indication. He still acts as if we’re the same nineteen-year-old guys at college who could have any woman we wanted, any time we wanted. Where an empty bed on any night of the week was a wasted opportunity in his opinion. Ever since his divorce, it seems like he still believes in the same philosophy.

He’s lucky in the fact that we decided to only attribute my name as the principal designer to Spera House, the project that put our firm on the national architectural ‘map,’ so to speak. He likes to pull out the ‘I’m with him’ card at events and parties. To be honest, if it draws attention away from me and allows me the chance to simply enjoy myself without the added pressure of the name, the reputation and the ‘bachelor’ notoriety, then I’m thankful for the reprieve.

“You want another?” He slurs slightly as he stands up beside me, his chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor of the balcony.

“I’ve got plans later, so I better not.” Looking up at him, I see his eyes widen before a wide smile creeps over his face.

“Plans or plans?” He raises his hands in the air to make accent quotes with his fingers, winking at me when I shake my head and look away from him.

“Ah, like that, is it? And who might these plans be with?” he teases, knowing full well who I’m seeing tonight.

“It’s for me to know and you to not concern yourself with.” I lift my glass to my mouth and smile against the crystal.

“Oh, like that is it? Your loss. I see a rather lovely group of ladies at the bar I’d like to acquaint myself with. I’ll be back.” He disappears from my peripheral vision and I look up and out over the water, anticipation for the night ahead slowly increasing every time I check my watch, which is frequently.

A few minutes later, I hear a loud, obnoxious laugh by the bar, and I turn my head toward the sound to see a rather inebriated, dangerously perched Jodi, standing next to Grant and another woman. Her hand rests suggestively on his forearm, her all too familiar tricks of seduction coming out in full force. She strokes her fingers against his skin as he turns his head toward hers and leans down to whisper something in her ear.

He pulls back and stands up straight, a huge panty-melting grin plastered on his intoxicated face, and I just know that he’s using his charm to win her over. Little does he know that very little charm is required to get Jodi Malestrom interested in anything of the horizontal variety.

When his eyes meet mine, I jerk my head sideways to get his attention, watching as he fishes a business card out of his pocket and hands it to her before planting a teasing kiss on her cheek and walking back out to the balcony toward our table, thankfully blocking her view of me.

He takes his seat and swigs his whisky before dropping it back onto the table loudly.

“You know who that is?”

“A future participant in the Richardson Walk of Shame?” he says with a laugh.

“That, or the same Jodi that I kicked out of my bed a few months ago who had grand plans to hang her Louboutins on the Callum Alexander star?”

He looks over his shoulder at her before returning his gaze back to me. “You’re fucking shitting me?” He splutters.

“Wish I was. Let’s just say that she did not get the message when I made it very clear that I was not in the market for a Mrs. Alexander at this time, and that the fact her legs have been wrapped around my back did not make her a frontrunner like she expected,” I reply dryly.

He looks to the sky and groans. “Another Alexander cheerleader. Just my luck.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Smug bastard.”

“Oh believe me, she served a purpose, but had I known she would continue to misinterpret our infrequent liaisons as an ode to something more, I would’ve let that ship sail a hell of a lot earlier than I did.”

He takes one more look at her, his eyes raking over her head to toe and back up again. “She could’ve hung anything she damn well wanted off of me, misinterpretation be damned.”

“Dammit.” I groan when I accidentally catch Jodi’s eye. She smiles brightly and leans over to say something to her companion before grabbing her half-filled cocktail glass from the bar and walking toward us.

“What?” Grant asks, oblivious to the impending visit.

“You gave her your card didn’t you?”

“Of course,” he replies, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Why?”

“Well since your card says Grant Richardson of Alexander Richardson, you don’t think she might have put two and two together and for once in her life, actually gotten four?”

“Shit . . .” He groans.

“Callum,” Jodi purrs as she reaches our table.

“Jodi, what a pleasant surprise.” I stand up but am careful not to touch her.