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“It will be wonderful. I can see you all the time. Like a real family!” Vangie had said at the time. She’d been over the moon at the prospect. “Isn’t that great?”
Seb, who had given up any notion of “real family” by the time he’d reached puberty, hadn’t seen anything to rejoice in. But he’d managed to cross his fingers and give her a hug. “Terrific.”
In fact, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared.
Vangie and Garrett both worked for a law firm in Bellevue. They spent time with each other and with their own set of friends and he rarely saw them.
He pleaded work whenever they did invite him to one of their parties. It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth.
Vangie said he worked far too hard, and Garrett thought his almost-brother-in-law was boring because he did nothing except design buildings.
That was fine with Seb. They had their lives and he had his.
But as the date for the wedding approached, things had changed. Wedding plans made months ago now required constant comment and consultation.
Vangie had begun calling him daily. Then twice a day. Recently it had increased to four and five times a day.
Sebastian wanted to say, “Get a grip. You’re a big girl. You can make decisions on your own.”
But he didn’t. He knew Vangie. Loved her. And he understood all too well that her wedding plans were symbolic of her biggest fantasy.
She’d always dreamed of being part of a “real” family, of having that built-in support. It was what “normal” families did, she told him.
And Vangie, more than any of them, had always desperately wanted them to be “normal.”
Seb was frankly surprised she even knew what “normal” was.
“Of course I know what a normal family is,” she’d told him sharply when he’d said so. “And so do you.”
He’d snorted at that. But she’d just come back with, “You have to try, Seb. And trust that it can happen.”
There was no reply to that. If Vangie wanted to live in a Disney movie, he couldn’t stop her. But whenever she called, he let her talk. At least, he did when he didn’t have to get to a meeting sooner rather than later.
But Max had left a message on his mobile phone last night while Seb had been flying back from Reno to say they needed to talk this afternoon.
Which meant, Seb thought with a quickening excitement that owed nothing to jelly beans or mints or the color rose, that they’d won the Blake-Carmody bid.
He and Max had spent both many long hours working up a design for the forty-eight-story downtown building that would be a “complete village” with shops, office and living space. And even though Max had been the one who’d taken the main portfolio to meet with Steve Carmody and Roger Blake, Seb knew it was unspoken that he was being groomed for the head architect’s position. So he had kept on improving, revising, detailing the general plans.
“I just don’t know,” Vangie said now. “There are so many things to think about. The napkins, for instance—”
“Yeah, well, we can talk about it later,” Seb said with all the diplomacy he could muster. “I really have to go, Vange. If I hear from Dad, I’ll let you know,” he added. “But he’s more likely to ring you than me.”
They both knew he wasn’t likely to ring either of them. When last heard from, Philip was about to marry his latest personal assistant. She’d be the fourth who’d had her eye on his wealth. At least his old man knew how to do a decent pre-nup at this point.
“I hope so,” Vangie said fervently. “Or maybe he’s been in touch with one of the girls.”
“What girls?” Philip was taking them on in pairs now? Would it be harems next? Seb wondered, as he shut his portfolio and stood up.
“The girls,” Vangie repeated impatiently, as if he should know which ones. “Our sisters,” she clarified when he still didn’t respond. “Our family. They’ll be here this afternoon,” she added, and all at once her voice sounded bright.
“Here? Why? The wedding’s not till next month, isn’t it?” God knew he was busy, but Seb didn’t think he’d lost the whole month of May.
“They’re coming to help.” Seb could hear the smile of satisfaction in Vangie’s voice. “It’s what families do.”
“For a month? All of them?” He could even remember how the hell many there were. But it didn’t sound like anything to rejoice about.
“Just the triplets. And Jenna.”
All the ones over eighteen, then. Dear God. How was Vangie going to put up with them all for a month? That ought to make her think twice about how much she wanted all of them to be a “normal” family.
“Well, good luck to you. So you want me to arrange for them to be picked up at the airport?”
“No. Don’t worry. They’re coming from all over and at different times, so I told them they should just take taxis.”
“Did you? Good for you.” Seb smiled and flexed his shoulders, glad Vangie was showing a bit of spunk, and grateful that she hadn’t stuck him with all the logistics of shifting their sisters around as well as having to listen to the jelly bean monologues. He picked up his portfolio. “Where are they staying?”
He supposed he ought to know that. He might even drop by and take them to dinner on Sunday—in the interests of “normal” family relations.
“With you, of course.”
The portfolio slammed down on his desk. “What!”
“Well, where else would they stay?” Vangie said reasonably. “All those rooms just sitting there! You must have four bedrooms at least in that penthouse of yours! I have a studio. No bedroom at all. Three hundred square feet. Besides, where else would they stay but with their big brother? We’re a family, aren’t we?”
Seb was sputtering.
“It won’t be a problem,” Vangie went on blithely. “Don’t worry about it, Seb. You’ll hardly know they’re there.”
The hell he wouldn’t! Visions of panty hose drying, fingernail polish spilling, clutter everywhere hit him between the eyes. “Vangie! They can’t—”
“Of course they can take care of themselves,” she said, completely misunderstanding. “Don’t fret. Go to your meeting. I’ll talk to you later. And be sure to let me know if you hear from Dad.”
And, bang, she was gone before he could say a word.
Seb glared at the phone, then slammed it down furiously. Blast Evangeline and her “normal” family fantasy anyway!
There was no way on earth he was going to share his penthouse with four of his sisters for an entire month! They’d drive him insane. Three twenty-year-olds and an eighteen-year-old—giggly, silly girl who, he knew from experience, would take over every square inch. He’d never get any work done. He’d never have a moment’s peace.
He didn’t mind footing the bills, but he was not having his space invaded! It didn’t bear thinking about.
He gave a quick shuddering shake of his head, then snatched up his portfolio and stalked off to Max’s office, where he would at least find an oasis of calm, of focus, of sanity, of engaging discussion with Max.
Gladys, Max’s secretary, looked up from her computer and gave him a bright smile. “He’s not here.”
“Not here?” Seb frowned. “Why not? We’ve got a meeting.”
Besides, it didn’t make sense. Max was always here, except when he was on a site. And he never double scheduled. He was far too organized.
“I’m sure he’ll be along. He’s probably stuck in traffic.” Gladys gave Seb a bright smile. “I’ll ring you when he gets here if you’d like.”
“Is he…on-site?”
“No. He’s on his way back from the harbor.”
“The harbor?” Seb frowned. He didn’t remember Max having a project down there, and he knew Max’s projects.
Max was—had been ever since Seb had come to work for him—his role model. Max Grosvenor was utterly reliable. A paragon, in fact. Hardworking, focused, brilliant. Max was the man he wanted to become, the father figure he’d never had.
Philip couldn’t be bothered to turn up when he said he would, but if Max wasn’t here at—Seb glanced at his watch again—five past three in the afternoon when he was the one who’d scheduled the meeting, something was wrong.
“Is he all right?”
“Couldn’t be better, I’d say.” Gladys said cheerfully. Though only ten or so years older than her boss, she doted on him like a mother hen—not that Max ever noticed. “He’s just been on a bit of an outing.”
Seb’s brows drew down. Outing? Max? Max didn’t do “outings.” But maybe Gladys had said “meeting” and he had misheard.
“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.” Even as she spoke, the phone on her desk rang. Raising a finger as if to say, wait, Gladys answered it. “Mr. Grosvenor’s office.” The smile that creased her face told Seb who it was.
He tapped his portfolio against his palm, watching as Gladys listened, then nodded. “Indeed he is,” she said into the phone. “Right here waiting. Oh—” she glanced Seb’s way, then smiled “—I’m sure he’ll live. Yes, Max. Yes, I’ll tell him.”
She hung up and, still smiling, looked up at Seb. “He’s just come into the parking garage. He says to go right in and wait if you want.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” He must have misunderstood. She must have said “meeting.” Max must have had a new project come up. “Thanks, Gladys.” With a smile, Seb stepped past her and opened the door to Max’s office.
It 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.”
