New Blood
Chapter 1:New Blood
Three minutes into reviewing the Kessler load calculations, Claire Bennett heard it – that particular quiet that descends over an open office space the moment someone of interest comes through the door.
She didn't look up. Whoever it was, she had a deadline.
"There he is," Priya murmured from the adjacent cubicle, without even feigning an interest in her keyboard. "The transfer from Voss & Lindqvist."
Claire’s pen froze over the line of numbers. Voss & Lindqvist. Hartwell’s main competitor for the Ashford Commons bid, and the firm which, according to Office grapevine lore, had just lost its most promising young gun over a signing bonus too significant to acknowledge publicly.
"Marcus Reyes," Priya added, as if letting the name roll around her mouth. "Rumor is he single-handedly closed the Whitfield tower deal."
"Rumors fly," Claire said, and resumed calculating.
She got through one more equation before that prickling thing she identified as Professional Curiosity — won. She peeked toward the elevator bay.
He was younger than she’d thought. Or perhaps not younger, just…unencumbered. While she felt every architect she knew existed in a perpetual state of client meeting readiness, this man had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He was laughing with the receptionist about something in a perfectly at-home way, as if he’d been working here for years, not minutes.
He noticed her looking.
Claire’s eyes slammed back down to her desk with enough velocity that she came close to upsetting her coffee.
Pull it together.
By the time Bill Hartwell finished circumnavigating the floor, performing the required rounds of introductions and handshakes, Claire had patched her professional mask into something approaching serviceable. She’d even offered a stiff nod when Hartwell steered him in her direction.
"And this," Hartwell declared, "is Claire Bennett. Top structural designer. If you wonder why this place hasn’t toppled, ask her."
"High praise." Marcus Reyes extended a hand. Up close, the expression in his eyes was disconcerting; an amused, appraising gleam that seemed to indicate he already deemed her worthy of spirited opposition. "Marcus Reyes."
"I know who you are." Claire offered a quick, firm grip. "Voss and Lindqvist’s loss."
"Could be." His hand lingered half a beat longer than politeness dictated before letting go. "I hear Hartwell’s bidding for Ashford Commons. Ambitious move for a firm this size."
The muscles in her spine went rigid. "We don't need ambition, we need competence."
"Didn't question your competence." A smile bloomed, the kind of effortless credential that had no doubt opened countless doors. "Just wondering if 'competent' is going to be enough to get you there."
"It has been."
"Watch yourself," Hartwell said, chortling obliviously to the subtle undercurrent of their exchange. "Marcus was lead designer on the Whitfield. I'm hoping some of his fire rubs off a little around here."
"Claire’s fire is perfectly adequate," Marcus said, and then he was doing it again – that look, the awareness of just how near to the edge of propriety he was skating, and absolutely no intention of stopping.
Claire met his gaze for one extended second too many before dropping her eyes back to her screen. "I have a deadline, if you wouldn’t mind."
"Wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you." But he didn't leave immediately. She could feel the weight of his attention on her screen, on the Kessler calculations laid out before her, for another moment before Hartwell finally ushered him away towards the corner office that, until this morning, had been empty.
She didn’t watch him go. She refused to.
"Well," Priya said the instant their footsteps faded down the hall, "that was an awful lot of eye contact for two strangers."
"That was professional boundary setting."
"Right," Priya didn’t bother to hide her smirk. "You do know what this means, don’t you? Hartwell will want his best team for Ashford Commons. And his best team’s been put together, wearing a $2000 suit and walking around with main-character syndrome."
Claire didn’t answer. She was already performing a new kind of calculation. Not loads and stresses now, but odds. The odds that Bill Hartwell, who relished the competitive sport of pitting talented rivals against one another, would place the two architects with the most drive in the building on the year’s most important project.
She attributed the constriction in her chest to sheer, unadulterated dread.
It was a lie, and a small, pesky portion of her knew it.
Down the hall, through the glass front of his office, Marcus Reyes was already unpacking a single box of belongings—no photographs, she noticed; no personal effects, just books and a laptop—and stealing another look towards his desk, as if he, too, were rethinking some variables.
Claire turned back to her monitor. The Kessler numbers blurred for all of four seconds before she forced herself to focus.
Six weeks, she told herself. Six weeks until the Ashford Commons bid. Whatever this was—this annoying, unwelcome, electric hum—she had six weeks to ensure it didn’t become significant.
She had already decided that was not nearly enough time.
