Chapter 12: Steel Beams and Soft Looks

The restaurant was too quiet for my taste. Crystal chandeliers, waiters in white gloves, soft jazz playing like the sound of money rustling in velvet pockets. I could smell white truffle... and ego in the air.

And of course, all of this, the place, the timing, even the piano in the background, was Reagan’s idea.

“I told you I’m busy,” I hissed at him as the waiter poured sparkling water into my glass.

“You’re always busy,” he said, leaning back into the black leather chair. “You still need to eat. And if I have to drag you out of your office for that, then so be it.”

I turned away, didn’t answer. My eyes went back to my phone.

The family group chat—titled La Familia Loco, naturally—had just exploded.

Ruan: “I CAN’T BELIEVE DOMINIC REPLIED TO MY MEME!!! HISTORIC DAY. JULY 18. EVERYONE WRITE THIS DOWN.”

I stifled a laugh.

Ruan: “He laughed. He LAUGHED! I saw the emoji. That’s a laugh, right? Not sarcasm? Gretta please tell me he actually laughed.”

I nearly spit out my drink.

Then a message from Mama popped in.

Mama: “I just sent a photo of y’all Papa being pissed. Look at it. His face looks like he’s about to flip a chair. Good.”

I opened the photo.

Papa was sitting at the dining room table, brows furrowed like always, but this time with crossed arms and a stone-cold expression that, to be honest, looked more like a corrupt cop in a telenovela.

I let out a small gasp and covered my mouth with my hand. God… he was actually furious that Dominic showed up again but still wouldn’t speak to him.

Reagan glanced up from his phone. “Please tell me you’re not laughing at an investor threat.”

“No. I’m laughing because my emotionally repressed middle brother finally replied to my eldest brother’s meme, and now my entire family’s acting like he just came home from war.”

He nodded slowly and picked up his wine glass. “Sounds about right.”

Meanwhile, he was still on a call. Julia, his assistant, all sharp tone and deadly precision like a Japanese kitchen knife, was giving him updates on the Frankfurt investors and rescheduling a meeting with the Board.

Reagan just murmured, “Consolidate the files. I’ll speak to them directly tonight.”

Of course he would. The man could probably rearrange time zones if he wanted to.

I went back to my phone, checking the notifications from The Chaos Coven, my group chat with the two loudest women in my life: Joy and Naomi.

Joy: “Look. I’m just saying… if that bastard still makes you sweat from six feet away, he’s still got power.”

Naomi: “Is it sweat or rage though, Jo?”

Joy: “SAME DIFFERENCE.”

Naomi: “Gretta. Respond with an emoji. ❄️ if he’s cold. 🔥 if he still makes you think inappropriate things in broad daylight.”

I covered my face with both hands and let out a groan.

Reagan tilted his head. “Problem?”

“Friends. Annoying. Overactive imagination,” I muttered.

He smirked, cutting into his steak with the kind of precision that made you forget he didn’t actually do anything with his hands for a living.

“And I always assumed your imagination was the dangerous one, Mrs. Milano.”

“I’ll stab you with this salad fork if you call me that again.”

“I like salad. Go ahead.”

I sighed and ignored him, snapping a photo of my food, the ultimate distraction tactic. I posted it to my story with the caption: Held hostage at lunch by a finance mafia. Send help. And brownies.

Joy replied instantly:

“IF YOU CAN SEE HIS ABS THROUGH THAT WHITE DRESS SHIRT YOU AREN’T A HOSTAGE, BABY. YOU’RE LIVING THE DREAM.”

Naomi:

“Not even the sun dares touch bodies like that without permission.”

I seriously considered throwing my phone into the soup bowl.

Reagan pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. “After this we’re heading to the project site. I want to see the open kitchen layout in person.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re stepping onto a construction site? In your custom-made shoes?”

He sipped his wine, calm as ever. “I want to see how your design holds up in real life. Not just in brilliant presentations that make every man in the room forget their spreadsheets.”

“I could make you forget your spreadsheets. With a laptop. To the face.”

“Unfortunately, I’m very into stubborn.”

I stared at him. Long and hard. Then went back to chewing.

And deep down, I knew… this lunch was a small disaster that felt like something I had secretly wanted for a long time.

And that was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

:::

The air at the construction site always carried a specific scent. A blend of wet concrete, hot metal, and hope still taking shape.

I adjusted the hard hat on my head and stepped into the open zone, my boots crunching over uneven gravel. The air was dusty, the sun hung low, and the clang of steel meeting hammer filled the background like an old, familiar soundtrack.

“Careful, Mr. Milano,” I said without looking back. “This place isn’t exactly safe for expensive shoes.”

“Relax,” that baritone voice replied behind me. “I already told my assistant to save the shoes first in case of an earthquake.”

I turned to find Reagan strolling behind me, yellow helmet firmly in place, though nothing could mute the CEO-of-a-trillion-dollar-conglomerate aura. His suit sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and the forearms underneath looked slightly too good for someone who supposedly pushed paper for a living.

“And if you trip over that rebar?” I asked, pointing to a sharp steel rod sticking out of the ground.

He stopped beside me and gave a small smile. “You’ll help me, obviously.”

“I’ll take a photo and turn it into a meme,” I replied flatly.

He chuckled. “Fair.”

We moved through the main building structure, still halfway through concrete pouring. To the left, the steel skeleton of the community kitchen area was partially erected. I pulled out my tablet and held up the screen, overlaying the blueprint onto the real-world framework.

“This open kitchen will have three stations, one for culinary training, one for local small businesses, and another for community chef demos. The roof’s transparent with an automatic shade system. All the airflow funnels through here.”

Reagan leaned in, studying the screen. “You’re giving an entire neighborhood access to food and a space to gather. That’s... kind of revolutionary.”

I glanced at him. “It’s just basic design, Reagan. If all the directors would stop arguing about the budget, every space could feel like this.”

He stepped a little closer, more than necessary. “And if all architects were this spicy when presenting, maybe I’d visit construction sites more often.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t suppress a tiny smile. “You wouldn’t last five minutes out here without complaining about the heat.”

“But I can last five minutes standing next to you. That’s harder,” he shot back lightly.

I dipped my head slightly, trying to refocus on the screen. But my cheeks were starting to warm up and not from the sun.

We kept walking, toward the back section that would become the community garden. A few workers were arranging concrete planters and assembling the frame for a pergola. I pointed at the open patch of dirt at the far end.

“There’ll be a small stage there. For local performances, maybe outdoor yoga. We’re using reclaimed wood for the base.”

Reagan narrowed his eyes at the area. “Do you really think SoHo people are going to do yoga out here?”

“Maybe not,” I shrugged. “But they could. That’s the point. This space isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about possibility.”

He nodded slowly, then turned to me. “You talk like someone who wants to change the world.”

“I’m an architect. Comes with the job.”

“And I’m a troublemaker,” he grinned. “Also part of my job description.”

I snorted, then stared at him. “You know, I never get why someone like you shows up at construction sites. Dirty floors. Dust everywhere. No board of investors clapping in admiration.”

Reagan raised an eyebrow, took a few slow steps back, then turned and walked in reverse, still facing me. “Maybe I want to see the place where you’ll leave your mark.”

I paused. His words were too calm. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. He turned, walking back toward the poured concrete, the breeze catching the edge of his blazer. “This place... it’s going to remember you, Gretta. Once it’s done. And even if people forget who designed it. I won’t.”

I held my breath. And what I hated most was this: I knew he wasn’t performing.

Reagan Milano never said pretty things unless he meant every word.

I looked down at my tablet again, pretending to adjust something on the site plan. Then said, without looking at him, “Don’t fall in love again with an architect, Reagan. We’re too good at building walls.”

“Too late,” he said softly. “I already live inside them.”