Chapter 6
Then, the floor seemed to drop three inches beneath Reid’s feet.
A sharp, squeezing pressure clamped around the center of his chest, accompanied by a sudden, metallic taste on the back of his tongue. The breath caught in his throat in a ragged, involuntary gasp. He stumbled back a half-pace, his right hand flying to his sternum.
Nora’s expression transformed instantly from fury to sheer, cold terror.
“Reid!”
She caught him before he could fall. Her hands clamped around his biceps, taking his weight as he sank backward onto the edge of the sofa.
“Breathe,” she ordered, dropping to her knees in front of him. Her hands moved to his face, framing his jaw with cool, firm palms, forcing his head up so his eyes met hers. “Reid, look at me. In through your nose. Slow. Four seconds.”
Reid gripped her wrists, his fingers digging into the soft fleece of her robe. His chest felt tight, constricted, but under the firm pressure of her hands against his cheeks, the room slowly stopped spinning.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed, his voice thin and humiliatingly weak. “It’s... it’s just the caffeine withdrawal.”
“Shut up,” she whispered, her thumbs brushing gently across his cheekbones. Her voice was trembling. “Just... shut up and breathe.”
He breathed.
He inhaled the scent of her wet hair, the cedar smoke, the cold ocean air leaking through the window frames. Slowly, agonizingly, the pressure in his chest subsided, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache and an overwhelming sense of physical exhaustion.
She didn't let go of his face. She stayed on her knees between his thighs, her forehead resting against his knee, her breath warm against the fabric of his trousers.
Reid looked down at her bent head. His fingers remained wrapped around her wrists, but his grip had softened from a defensive hold into something resembling a caress.
“Nora,” he said quietly.
She pulled back slowly, looking up at him. Her eyes were clear now, the anger gone, replaced by a deep, weary sadness that cut Reid deeper than any architectural critique ever could.
“Dinner is in an hour,” she said softly, disengaging her hands from his grip. She stood up, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist. “Roasted squash and bone broth. And you are going to eat every bite.”
She turned and walked into the kitchen without waiting for his answer.
***
By dusk, the storm outside had settled into a quiet, relentless drizzle that painted the Atlantic in shades of lead and charcoal.
The living room was quiet save for the crackle of a fresh birch log Reid had grudgingly allowed Nora to feed to the stove.
She had abandoned the dining table. Instead, she had spread her tracing paper directly across the braided wool rug in front of the hearth, working on her stomach with her chin propped on one hand, her pencil tracing clean, elegant revisions to the pavilion’s interior circulation paths.
Reid sat on the sofa above her, his booted leg stretched out on the cedar ottoman, a steaming bowl of squash soup balanced on his lap.
He had eaten the soup. Every drop of it. Not because she had ordered him to, but because the hollow ache in his chest demanded fuel, and because the warm, earthy broth tasted surprisingly like comfort.
He watched her work.
From this angle, he could see the curve of her spine through her thick sweater, the rhythmic tapping of her wool-socked feet against the floorboards, the slight furrow between her brows when a measurement didn't align to her satisfaction.
“You’re crowding the eastern vestibule,” Reid said, his voice quiet, stripped of its earlier venom.
Nora didn't look up, but her pencil paused. “The client wants thirty feet of clear sightline to the water.”
“You can give him thirty-five if you shift the secondary load-bearing pilaster six inches to the left,” he said. “Use the cantilever overhang to hide the structural column. It creates an optical illusion—makes the ceiling feel like it’s floating three feet higher than it actually is.”
Nora stared at the blueprint for five seconds.
Then, she erased her pencil line with quick, precise strokes and redrew the column six inches to the left, exactly where he had indicated.
She laid her pencil down and rolled onto her back, looking up at him from the rug.
Her hair was spread across the navy wool like dark firelight. In the flickering glow of the hearth, her face was soft, relaxed in a way he had never seen in the high-stress pressure cooker of their Boston office.
“You’re very good at this, Reid,” she said quietly.
Reid looked down at her, his throat tightening. “I was under the impression you thought I was obsolete.”
“I never thought you were obsolete.” She folded her hands over her stomach, watching him with an honesty that made him want to look away. “I thought you were brilliant. I thought you were the only person in this entire city who understood that buildings aren't just investments—they’re how people experience light and time.”
Reid’s hand tightened around the edge of his soup bowl. “Then why did you push me out?”
“I didn't push you out,” she whispered. “You stepped back.”
“I didn't step back. I fell off a staging riser!”
A strange, sad smile flickered across Nora’s lips. She turned her head toward the fire, watching the orange flames lick against the cast-iron grate.
“Right,” she said, her voice dropping into a tone he couldn't decipher. “You fell.”
Before Reid could demand what that meant, a sharp knock echoed from the front door of the cabin.
Reid frowned. “Who would be out here in this weather?”
Nora scrambled to her feet, wiping her hands on her trousers. “It’s the courier. I asked the local freight service to run the hard copies of the Vanderhoof contract up from Portland before the roads freeze tonight.”
She hurried to the door, pulling it open to reveal a burly man in a yellow oilskin poncho dripping rain onto the welcome mat. He handed her a thick, water-resistant vinyl envelope, exchanged a few muted words, and hurried back down the gravel drive toward his idling truck.
Nora closed the door, shaking the cold droplets from her hair.
She carried the thick envelope to the drop-leaf table, slicing it open with her paring knife. She pulled out a heavy stack of bond paper—the official executive dossier from the client’s legal counsel.
“Here,” she said, setting the thick document on the table. “Proof that the firm didn't collapse while you were in exile.”
Reid’s eyes narrowed.
He didn't touch the document while she was in the room. He waited until she took her empty soup bowl into the kitchen and turned on the tap to wash the dishes.
Then, leaning over the back of the sofa, Reid reached out and pulled the top sheet of the dossier toward him.
It was the formal project cover sheet.
At the top, printed in bold, embossed lettering, was the client’s header: *THE VANDERHOOF WATERFRONT PAVILION — PHASE ONE ARCHITECTURAL AUTHORIZATION.*
Reid’s eyes moved down to the lead designer credit line.
His breath caught in his throat.
*Lead Architect & Principal Design Director:* **Nora Mercer, AIA.**
