Page 55 of Faultlines

He grins. “It’s better.”

He spreads the plans across my desk, and my attention sharpens. The site plan covers fifty acres just outside Ironwood Flats. Walking trails wind through preserved woodland areas, their paths delineated by delicate lines, and several low-profile buildings cluster around a central courtyard. Green spaces and a vibrant wash of color on the page dominate the layout.

“What is it?”

“A sustainable mixed-use development.” My interest is genuinely piqued. Instead of leveling the landscape, the design works around it, respecting every contour. He points out the highlights: seventy percent tree canopy preservation, passive solar design angled to the winter sun, rain gardens to manage runoff. It’s ambitious and elegant, a world of clean lines and thoughtful solutions. For the first time all weekend, my mind zeroes in on something other than the mess I’ve made. I trace the lines of a residential building, feeling a flicker of the professional passion I’d thought was buried under guilt.

“Funding?”

“Already secured. Mercer’s a billionaire in his own right.” Projects like this rarely come together so cleanly.

He points toward another page. “They also want net-zero energy certification for the community center.”

I whistle. “That’s difficult.”

“Exactly.” His grin widens. “But it would look pretty good in our portfolio.” That part is certainly true.

“It’s a development designed to work with the landscape rather than against it.”

“That’s what I told them.”

For the next forty minutes, my mind focuses on something other than Brooke. Unfortunately, the distraction doesn’t last, and the meeting eventually winds down.

He rolls up the drawings and stands, gathering the plans. “So.” The single word puts me on guard.

“So?”

“Enough serious conversation.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That statement never ends well.”

“Jensen wants to grab a beer after work.”

“No. I’m not in the mood to be ambushed by the two of you with unsolicited advice and overpriced appetizers.”

He looks offended. “Our advice is excellent.”

“Your advice usually involves making poor decisions.”

“That’s called living.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Probably.” He heads toward the door. “We’re meeting at The Fiddler’s Rest around six.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“I literally did.”

He taps my door frame. “See you at six.” Then he walks out before I can argue further.

By five-thirty, I’ve convinced myself I’m going home. By five-forty-five, Reid appears in my doorway carrying his keys. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Great.”