“No chance of that happening, Mr. Alexander. Your concept for Spera House in Boston was genius. Inspired. The way you contrasted the stark lines of modern concrete with the curves of the building’s historical neighbors was amazing.”
Well, the young man certainly studies well. “The location motivated me. What can I say?” I smile at him.
“I’d love to discuss the possibility of an internship at your firm, Mr. Alexander. It would be an honor and a privilege to learn and work under you.” The man has done his homework. This year’s internship was only formally announced a week ago.
I nod and note his clenched fists by his side as I reach into my jacket’s inside pocket and pull out my business card. It’s a crisp, cream, thick stock with silver script printed, saying Alexander Richardson.
This is me on autopilot—smile, converse, and hand over the business card with instructions to contact my assistant. It’s straightforward, direct, and leaves little room for confusion. For a man like me, it’s the perfect networking strategy.
I hand the card over to him, and he grips it tight in his fingers and looks at it, running his thumb over the print before staring back at me.
“Give my assistant, Annie, a call tomorrow, and she’ll run through the application process with you.”
His shoulders square up and it’s obvious that the opportunity to work with me is something he would value highly. “Remember to tell her you met me last night and to schedule an interview for you with me straight away.”
The young man opens his mouth and then closes it again before nodding once and pocketing the business card. “Wow, that would be such an amazing opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Alexander.”
I reach out to shake his hand again. “Thank you for admiring my work. Us creative types love appreciation, as you well know, Mr. . . .”
“Gregory Graves.” Shaking my hand quickly again, he pulls back and again draws a fist against his leg.
“Mr. Graves, nice to meet you. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Have a good evening,” he says quickly, before walking back into the crowd and out of sight. I have to give it to him—to approach me so assuredly and ask straight out about the internship says a lot about his ambition and drive. Normally the selection of applicants for our intern program apply to get our name on their resumes. Gregory Graves might just lift the standard of this year’s options.
I continue to walk through the middle of the room and I take in the large soirée. These events are never what they seem. Tonight has been heralded as a celebration of my award win when in fact it is an exercise in fastidious—and rather obvious—fundraising.
The ticket prices are inflated and the propaganda surrounding the walls of the room tells the real truth of tonight’s get together; put me front of stage like the prized pony they’re all so proud of and in the process, raise funds for a new business center.
“Callum!”
I turn my head to see my best friend and business partner, Grant, walking toward me. The tension that had been building inside of me since I arrived slowly dissipates, and I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that there’s at least one person I can be myself with tonight.
I can’t help but laugh at him. He’s only just arrived and already he’s trying to adjust his bow tie. Grant Richardson, my best friend since high school, the only person in my inner circle, and another one who doesn’t like the pretense that this event signifies, is not a fan of tuxedos. Actually, he’s not a fan of anything restricting, marriage included. He looks around the room and huffs out a big gust of air from his mouth.
“Damn, this is the real deal tonight, isn’t it? Callum Alexander returning to Mecca.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Fuck off, Richardson. You think I want to be displayed like a work of art?” My light tone matches the ridiculousness of his statement.
He raises an eyebrow at me, his face full of disbelief. “Really? They’re proud as hell of you, Cal. It just so happens to also coincide with their need to raise a shit-load of cash. Fluke?” His smile is full of mirth.
I chuckle. “You know as well as I do that it’s not. It makes good business sense, even if they are using me as the big draw card.”
He nods in agreement. “Did you get past the paps outside?”
I sigh loudly. “Do you think they’d let me get past? I had to do three interviews with reporters before I reached the front door.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You are the guest of honor.”
Since my award win, a lot of media attention—in particular from the tabloids—has been focused on me, the ‘unmarried hotshot architect who shies away from the spotlight.’ In fact, I’ve become somewhat of a pseudo celebrity—a D-list star if you will. It’s not a title I’ve welcomed or even encouraged, but since it brings attention to my work and the firm, I’m conscious of the fact it would be unwise to bite the hand that feeds me.
One reporter in particular seems to have made it her mission to propel my status to that of the city’s most eligible bachelor. This of course was after I turned down her advances. Thankfully, she was nowhere to be seen tonight.
Looking up at the large clock on the wall, I realize it’s only eight p.m. and I’ve still got another two hours of this crap to put up with before I can make my escape. I lift my glass to my mouth again. The warm swill of whisky goes some way toward making the night slightly better
“Anyone good to look at?” Grant knocks me out of my thoughts, steering my mind toward the fairer sex.
He moves to my side to scan the room’s guests and I join him, looking around absentmindedly.
“Not that I can see, but the night is still young. You never know your luck in this fine city at night.” I laugh.
“A man can only hope,” Grant retorts.
“Looking for another trophy wife, Grant? Didn’t you learn anything from Olivia?” I ask.
Olivia is Grant’s ex-wife, a second runner-up Miss Montana with old money and a killer rack that captured his attention before she’d even opened her mouth. Cue a whirlwind courtship and a quickie Vegas wedding, and Grant was off the market. Or so we’d all thought. He’d soon realized that good looks and a well-known family name didn’t mean she was intelligent or could offer him anything more than great arm candy. The moment Grant realized he wanted more, his young trophy wife was out the door.
Whipping his hand out, he signals the attention of a waitress walking past with a tray full of champagne flutes. “Excuse me,” Grant says. When she stops and turns toward us, he swipes two glasses and offers one to me.
“Thank you,” I say to Grant as I take the drink. When I feel eyes on me, I turn and see the waitress hasn’t moved on. She’s standing beside us, openly staring.
I turn toward her. “Sorry, did you need something?”
“You’re Callum Alexander, right?”
I roll my eyes and exhale noisily before slipping my professional welcome mask back on and flashing her my most winning smile. “That’s me, and you are?”
“Lucia. Lucia Harding, but I prefer Luce.” She balances the laden tray onto her palm and holds out her other hand to me, her gaze never wavering as she introduces herself. Green eyes with a slight speckling of amber take me in as she waits for my next move. What surprises me more than anything is the way she’s seemingly unapologetic as she stands there and studies me. It takes Grant to clear his throat before I realize that I’ve been staring right back at her. Putting my hand in hers, my smile morphs into something more genuine, almost real. Something that hasn’t happened in a long time.
“Luce . . .” I keep my hand in hers and tilt my head to my right, where Grant is standing. “This is my rude friend, Grant Richardson, my partner-in-crime and right-hand man.”
Her cheeks blush a light red hue, and I can’t help but wonder what on earth she’s thinking about. Then my own mind wanders to what else could make her blush, what I could do to her to elicit such a response. A gentle squeeze of my hand snaps me out of my errant thoughts, and I realize I’m still holding her hand, but she’s not pulling hers away, either.