Chapter One

All those years of hard work and making coffee were about to pay off. Big time. Ava Marie Everrett stood in the oversize boardroom of Emerson & Smythe Architectural Designs International in Honolulu, ready for the announcement.

Stanley Smythe Jr. sauntered into the conference area, bypassed the three male coworkers standing nearby and, on his way to the front of the room, waved a hand at the bottles stacked on the side table. “Ava, dear, why don’t you help pour the champagne?”

“Certainly, Mr. Smythe.”

For ten years she’d been paying her dues, working her way up the architectural corporate ladder. The last three of which she’d watched one career-making opportunity after another get assigned to a different brilliant and innovative architect. Each one with a Y chromosome.

“Let me give you a hand.” Her colleague and friend, Greg Austin, shook his head at the cheap brand of sparkling wine and popped the first cork. “Looks like Sacramento is in the bag. This one has to be yours.”

Accepting the opened bottle from Greg, she blew out a long steadying breath. “It was a team effort.”

“Oh, come on. Every step of the way your ideas took the lead. The team knows, if E&S wins this—and I see no reason for a champagne toast if they haven’t—the museum will be your baby. They couldn’t have won the contract without you.”

A small part of her wanted to scream to the world, “Yes. This is my baby.” Over the last weeks just about each member of the team had, in one form or another, agreed with Greg that, this time, there was no way the archaic-thinking heads of E&S could pass Ava by for chief architect. Her style and flair were all over these drawings.

Months ago, when she’d learned that E&S had been selected to submit a design for the Sacramento Cultural Arts Museum, she’d begun pitching to be part of the team. The anchor building for the new multibillion-dollar Arts District, intended to rejuvenate the west side of the capital city, had consumed her thoughts. Visions of natural stone, indirect lighting and works by native artisans had taken over not only her every waking moment but her dreams as well. By the time the team members were announced, and she was counted among them, she could already feel the angles and lines of the sleek final structure oozing from her fingertips, like Spider-Man’s webs.

One by one her associates and most of the support staff came by to collect a glass of the bubbly. The last open bottle poured and her own drink in hand, she scooted quickly to one side, away from the table, Greg on her heels.

“At least he didn’t have the gall to ask you to serve the drinks as well.”

She almost laughed at that. “Don’t kid yourself. The words are probably on the tips of old Stanley’s lips.”

“Not even he would ask the newest chief architect to serve the champagne.”

Chief architect. She really liked the sound of that. Any minute now Ava expected to hear the official announcement of the submission status and the naming of the lead personnel. Excitement bubbled inside her like the champagne in her flute. As chief architect she’d be working with the chief engineer on-site for much of the project. It took all she had not to grin like an overworked mother with the single winning Powerball ticket.

Only a few months ago Ava had unloaded the demanding lump of a man she’d wasted four years of her life on. Now that she had no one to tether her to Honolulu, Ava was free to take on the most demanding of projects anywhere in the world, without feeling an ounce of guilt. And this project was the one.

Greg shifted around, leaning in more closely. “Rumor has it that the delays in the Paris project have a few people here worried about their necks.”

Now that was something Ava hadn’t heard. But then again, not holding her liquor well, she rarely spent her free time in places conducive to garnering valuable tidbits of gossip. Not to mention she was missing the key body part to be accepted as one of the boys.

“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “the backlash is so far spread that Emerson & Smythe has not been invited to submit for the Bay Area Aquarium.”

“Really?” The engineering problems in the Paris project made up only the most recent black eye in a string of delays in the E&S portfolio. The elder Stanley’s attention hadn’t been on the business in years. Cutting corners to afford divorce number three was one of the reasons the man had been asked to retire.

A sly smile tugged at one side of Greg’s face. “I’ve decided to accept a spot with Stevens, Orbach and Madison.”

Holy crap. SO&M was one of the biggest architectural and engineering firms in the world. “Chicago?”

Greg bobbed his head, grinning. “We’ll keep the condo here in Honolulu, so Allison has a place to escape to if the snow gets taller than her.”

“You’ll be missed.” She would certainly miss him. Greg was one of the few architects on the design teams even close to her age and the only one who never treated her like a glorified errand girl.

Stanley Smythe Jr. stood up front, tapping his glass with a spoon, as Greg clinked glasses with Ava. “Here it comes.”

The bright grin on the new CEO’s face outshone the bald expanse at the top of his head. “I’m sure you’re all aware of why we’re having this impromptu little morning celebration, but allow me the pleasure of confirming. Emerson & Smythe has been officially awarded the contract for the Sacramento Cultural Arts Museum.”

Expected applause erupted, and Ava’s heart hammered to the same rapid staccato.

“This project holds great importance to the firm. The competition was stiff, but we held every confidence that our brilliant and innovative team would come through for us. And they have.”

Another burst of applause filled the room, and Ava closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of her name.

“For this reason we have chosen an exceptional team member, whose flair for the innovative shines through every time.”

A smile pulled at her cheeks.

“Please join me in congratulating Brad Cummings.”

Shock stabbed her. Bubbling excitement succumbed to a sour churning in her stomach. Putting forth her best effort, Ava plastered on her I’m-very-happy-for-you smile and silently hoped the exceptional and innovative architect’s upcoming project imploded.

“I’m sorry, Ava.” Greg looked as pained by the announcement as she was.

They’d done it to her again. “Yeah” was all she could say.

“I’d hoped, with old man Smythe stepping down, that maybe…”

Right. Maybe. She couldn’t muster a reply. She’d had the same hopes. Out with the old and stuffy. In with the new and visionary. Except her hopes had just been shipped off to California without her. Disappointment filled her to the point she feared, if she opened her mouth, it would spew across the room with the force of a fire hose, and smack Brad and their boss in the face. Or maybe lower.

Greg turned his back, nudging her closer to the corner, and lowered his voice. “Maybe it’s time you thought about moving on as well.” With a casual shrug and a slow sip of his mimosa, he let the words sink in, before stepping back. “I’ve got a lot of files to start transferring. Think about what I said.”

And just like that, Ava stood alone in the corner of the massive boardroom, while yet another male teammate received the moniker of chief architect, congratulatory slaps on the back, and a first-class ticket to Sacramento.

It had taken her four years to realize she was in a dead-end relationship with the so wrong guy. Maybe the fact that it had only taken her three years to realize the same thing about her job meant she was making progress. She deserved better than this. She deserved Sacramento. Setting down her morning cocktail, Ava worked her way across the room, stopping for a pat on the back as part of the winning team, along with a few regretful gazes from those who understood she’d been robbed.

Moving beside Brad at the front of the room, she offered the expected congratulations.

For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of apology in his eyes, but it passed so quickly that she was sure she’d only imagined it.

“Thanks. This is everyone’s win.”

She bobbed her head. After all, what was true in kindergarten still worked today. If she can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

Just as she shifted to approach the new president of E&S, the well-dressed man turned to her. “Wonderful news, isn’t it?” And then the idiot handed her his empty glass. “Be a dear and fetch me a cup of coffee instead.”

After years of being the only architect in the room asked to fetch coffee or bagels or to pick up lunch, she almost reached for the glass out of sheer habit. Almost. “I don’t think so. Perhaps Brad here can help you.”

For a few seconds her boss looked completely stunned, and then, as though struck by an unexpected wave of reality, the grin slipped from his face. “I know you put in your share of hours on this, and, rest assured, we’re keeping that in mind for next time.”

Next time. She leaned into her boss and whispered near his ear. “There won’t be a next time.” Stepping back and angling for the corridor, she leveled her shoulders, lifted her chin and raised her voice. “The next time this bright and innovative architect designs a bid-winning building, she won’t be working for your cheap ass.”

Walking out the door and down the hall, Ava could hear Stanley Smythe Jr. sputtering in her wake.

“Who… What… Well.”

Taking her phone from her pocket, she found the number for the Diamond Head Corner Coffee Shop. “Morning. Could you please deliver one hundred pounds of your French roast coffee to Emerson & Smythe?”

“One hundred pounds?”

“That’s right. Oh, and include one of your single-serve coffeemakers. From now on the new president will be making his own damn coffee.”

* * *

Bright lights from cameras of every size and shape flashed in John Maplewood’s face, right up to the minute his date’s long legs slid from the backseat of the car. Bridget may not be an actress or model, but she certainly knew how to make an entrance. Or, in this case, an exit. All attention turned to the slit of the bright red dress that cut halfway up her thigh. The soles of her shoes matched exactly. Louboutin.

Had his brain cells not been fried after a four-hour conference call with Belgrade until the ass crack of dawn, he might have realized his offer to pay for tonight’s outfit to excuse the short notice would cost him. The downside of the women in his life knowing his net worth kicked him in the gut once again. Just another reminder of what the female gender really wanted from him. Not that they objected to his looks or his extracurricular skills, but it always came down to the money.

“Mr. Maplewood.” A good-looking guy from the local TV station shoved a microphone in John’s face. “Rumor has it donations for this evening’s fund-raiser have already topped last year’s. Care to make an official announcement?”

His assistant, Evelyn’s, words replayed in John’s ear: Make nice with the media. Remember it’s all for the children.

“I don’t know any more than you do.” John scoured his mind for the man’s name. Started with an M. Michael. That was it. “But I certainly hope your source is right, Michael. This evening is all about the children.”

Bridget leaned into John’s side, gazing up at him, like an adoring pedigreed puppy—or at least in those shoes, a mutt impersonating a pedigree.

“FJM Global is proud to sponsor this wonderful event,” he continued, ignoring Bridget’s award-worthy performance. “And we look forward to the day when lymphoblastic leukemia is no longer in our vocabulary.”

The reporter looked less than thrilled. Whether it was because this guy wasn’t about to get the scoop on the night’s numbers early or because John may have botched the guy’s name, John wasn’t sure. Either way, more superstars arrived and Mr. TV, having gathered what little gossip he would get from John, eagerly moved on to fresh fodder.

Inside the historical five-star hotel, the orchestra played a gentle rendition of a favorite Sinatra tune.

Bridget swayed to the music. “I love this song.”

Across the dance floor, John spotted their table with a few of the biggest donors and their wives. John would be expected to cajole them into happily parting with their money. And he would. He’d kiss their feet and polish their shoes, if it would help eradicate this horrible disease. Next to the empty chair—that waited for him—sat Stanley Smythe, the elder, and his new bride. Why was it the older a rich man got, the younger the trophy wife? But worse, Smythe could talk the ear off a mule. Surely waiting a few more minutes before John started shoe-polishing wouldn’t hurt. “Let’s dance.”

Bridget curled into his arms. “How did I win the lottery?”

“Excuse me?”

“I haven’t heard from you in months. Then, out of the blue, with less than twenty-four hours’ notice, I get an invitation to the black-tie event of the year.”

He avoided meeting her eyes. This wasn’t an evening of wine and romance. It was business. Lifesaving business. “You love black-tie events.”

“I do.” She beamed. “Thank you.”

Glancing down, he took note of her sincere smile. At least he thought it was. They’d met in court, when he’d been called as an expert witness. She’d wiped the floor with the opposing counsel. Bridget was a smart girl, and he’d enjoyed her company. Her sweet smile might have been enough to delude him into thinking she really cared for him—the man, the person—but, deep down, he knew, if he were a poor plumber, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. On her birthday they’d only been dating a couple months. His assistant, Evelyn, had helped him pick out a beautiful 22K Italian gold etched bracelet for Bridget. The disappointment in her eyes, when she opened the blue velvet box, had cut him to the core. At first he didn’t understand, and then it hit him. When they’d played tennis at the club with his friends, Bridget had admired one of the wives’ bracelet. It’s what had given him the idea for Bridget’s birthday gift. But his friend’s bracelet had been encrusted with diamonds. A rather extravagant expectation for only two months of casual dating.

Not that it mattered. He was done playing the game. But Evelyn had insisted, like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, that business disguised as social events needed to be handled in pairs. Since John had given up dating, and his breakup with Bridget had been friendly, she was his best possibility. Besides, he doubted he’d have Richard Gere’s luck hiring a hooker from Sunset Boulevard.