LITMIR.BIZ

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was always a jolt to walk into Max’s office on a clear sunny day. Even when you were expecting it, the view was breathtaking.

      Seb’s own office, nearly as big and airy as Max’s own, looked out to the north. He could sit at his desk and see up the coast. And if he shifted in his chair, he could watch the ferry crossing the water.

      But Max could see paradise. Across the water, the Cascades spiked their way along the peninsula. A bevy of sailboats skimmed over the sound. And to the south the majesty of Mount Rainier loomed, looking almost close enough to touch.

      The first time Seb had seen the view from Max’s windows, he’d stopped dead, his eyes widening. “I don’t see how you get any work done.”

      Max had shrugged. “You get used to it.”

      But now he stood and stared at the grandeur of Rainier for a long moment, Seb wasn’t sure he ever would. And the memory of his first glimpse reminded him that when he’d first come out to the Pacific Northwest, he’d vowed to climb Rainier.

      He never had. There hadn’t been time.

      Work had always been a bigger, more tempting mountain to climb. And there had always been more peaks, bigger peaks, tougher ones. And he’d relished the challenge, determined to prove himself. To make a name for himself. And make his own fortune to go with it.

      The family had a fortune, of course. The hotel empire that Philip Savas oversaw guaranteed that. In another family, that fortune and those connections could have smoothed the way for a budding young architect. It hadn’t. In fact, Seb doubted his father even knew what he did for a living, much less had ever wanted to encourage him.

      Philip didn’t even care. He owned buildings, he didn’t create them. And he had no interest in Seb’s desire to.

      The one time they’d discussed his future, when Seb was eighteen, Philip had said, “We can start you out in Hong Kong, I think.”

      And Seb had said, “What?”

      “You need to get a taste of the whole business from the ground up, for when you come to work for us,” Philip had said, as if it were a given.

      When Seb had said, “I’m not,” Philip had raised his brows, given his eldest son a long disapproving stare, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

      End of discussion.

      Seb would have said it was the end of the relationship, except they hadn’t had much of one before that, either.

      At least Philip’s indifference had provided a wonderful incentive to do things his way, to make his own mark.

      And standing here, in Max’s office, feeling the cool spare elegance of his surroundings and admiring his spectacular view—which also happened to include over thirty buildings Grosvenor Design had been responsible for creating—Seb felt that surge of determination all over again.

      He opened his portfolio and began laying out further sketches he’d done so they could jump right into things, when the door burst open and Max strode in.

      Seb glanced up—and stared. “Max?”

      Well, it was Max, of course. There was no mistaking the tall, lithe, angular body, the lean hawkish face, salt-and-pepper hair and the broad grin.

      But where was the tie? The long-sleeved button-down oxford cloth shirt? The shiny black dress shoes? Max’s uniform, in other words. The clothes Seb had seen Max Grosvenor wear every workday for the past ten years.

      “You’ll be more professional if you look professional,” Max had said to Seb when he’d hired him. “Remember that.”

      Seb had. He was wearing his own version of the Grosvenor Design uniform—navy slacks, long-sleeved grey-and-white pinstripe shirt and toning tie—right now.

      Max, on the other hand, was clad in a pair of faded jeans and a dark-blue windbreaker over a much-washed formerly gold sweatshirt with University of Washington on its chest in flaky white letters. His hair was windblown and his sockless feet were stuffed into a pair of rather new deck shoes. “Sorry I’m late,” he said briskly. “Went sailing.”

      Seb had to consciously shut his mouth. Sailing? Max?

      Well, of course thousands of people did—even on weekdays—but not Max Grosvenor. Max Grosvenor was a workaholic.

      Now Max shucked his jacket and took a large design portfolio out of the cabinet. “I would have gone home to change, but I’d told you three. So—” he shrugged cheerfully “—here I am.”

      Seb was still nonplussed. A little confused. He could understand it if it had been a meeting. Even a meeting on a sailboat. And admittedly stranger things had happened. But he didn’t ask.

      And Max was all business now, despite his apparel. He opened the portfolio to their design for Blake-Carmody. “We got it,” he said with a grin and a thumbs-up.

      And Seb grinned, too, delighted that all their hard work had paid off.

      “We went over it all while you were down in Reno,” Max went on. “I brought along a couple of project people as well. Hope you don’t mind, but time was of the essence.”

      “No. Not at all.” Seb understood completely. While he had done considerable work on the project, Max was the president of the company.

      And no one else could have gone to Reno in Seb’s place. That medical complex project there was all his.

      Max nodded. “Of course not. Good man.” Still smiling, he dropped into the leather chair behind his desk and folded his arms behind his head, then nodded at the other chair for Seb to take a seat, too. “I was sure you’d understand. And I told Carmody a lot of the work was yours.”

      Seb settled into the other chair. “Thanks.” He was glad to hear it, particularly because then Carmody would understand that Max wasn’t solely responsible for the work and he wouldn’t feel as if they were being fobbed off on an inferior when Seb took over.

      Max dropped his arms and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he locked his fingers together and said earnestly. “So I hope you won’t feel cut out if I see this through myself.”

      Seb blinked.

      “I know we’d talked about you taking it over,” Max went on. “But you’ve been in Reno a lot. And you’ve still got a finger or two in Fogerty’s project and the Hayes Building. Right?”

      “Right.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be willing to work even harder to do Carmody-Blake.

      Max nodded happily. “Exactly. And you’ll have more time to run the bid on the school in Kent this way,” he went on. “They were really impressed with your ideas.”

      Seb made an inarticulate sound at that point, hoping it sounded as if he was pleased with the compliment. It was a compliment. It was just—he’d really wanted the Blake-Carmody project.

      He had no right to be disappointed, really. Logically he knew that. Yes, he’d been invited to share his ideas for the project, and yes, Max had taken them seriously. They’d even discussed the possibility of him taking over as head architect on the job. But while it had been unspoken, it had never been official.

      And he could understand why Max would enjoy overseeing a plum job like this one. It was just that over the past couple of months Max had been talking about “stepping back” and “taking it easy.”

      And hell, he’d just come in from sailing, hadn’t he?

      “I knew you’d understand. Rodriguez is going to boss the office space side of it. Chang’s doing the shops,” Max went on.

      That made sense. Frank Rodriguez and Danny Chang had also contributed to the portfolio with ideas that reflected their specialities. Seb nodded.

      “And I’ve asked Neely to take charge of the living spaces.”

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