The Bachelor Society Duet - Sara Ney Page 0,1

fucking cool.

The Basement has appetizers and I can eat more when I get home if I’m still desperate, but actual food would be great. Either I eat or I get drunk on two.

I might have been a member of a fraternity in college, but I’m still a lightweight. Cannot handle my liquor. Have always been that way, always will be.

I return to my office, and just as I’m about to construct another paper airplane, a jaunty little knock sounds at the door; Taylor is rapping his knuckles on the glass wall, eyes trailing to the pile of houses and planes littering my carpet.

“Stressed?” He pushes a pair of black frames up the bridge of his nose.

“Very.” Why lie to the kid? If he wants to be an architect once he graduates, he oughta know it’s not always ribbon cutting ceremonies, fundraisers, networking, and champagne lunches.

It takes actual work.

It takes engineering, long hours, lack of a social life, and countless sleepless nights to meet deadlines.

Taylor? He still has years of hopes and happy hours and bullshit dreams ahead of him.

“I don’t mean to sound bitter, I’m just having a day.”

The smile he gives me is sympathetic. “We all have them.”

I look over at him. “When do you have shitty days?” The guy radiates unicorns and rainbows and happiness.

He considers my question. “I have shitty days when, like, Starbucks gets my order wrong.”

“Get the fuck out of here. That’s not an actual problem.” I laugh, bending to help him retrieve all the pieces of paper discarded on the ground.

“Where should I take this model?”

I blow a strand of dark, hair out of my eyes, mentally noting the need for a haircut, or a trim at the very least. “Conference room B, maybe? I don’t think anyone is using it. Then Daniels can decide what he wants to do with this.” I hand Taylor a stack of teeny houses with three-car garages. “This development is his brainchild, but I don’t think he has space in his office for one more model mockup.”

“Got it, boss.”

I snort. “I’m not your boss.” Not even close.

“But you could be, someday,” Taylor points out, bending down to grab a paper airplane and extending as if he’s going to send it sailing across the room.

I pause. He’s right; I could become his boss someday if I keep working my ass off. They make associates partners around here. Technically, if I stay and work hard, there’s a chance I could become one, too.

“How old are you?” Taylor asks hesitantly, scooping up a paper house.

I glance at the model of the community resting on a drafting table in the corner of my office. There must have been two hundred little houses on that giant platform, half of which are now scattered on my floor.

“Twenty-six.”

“See? And you’re already on a major project. It only took you a year.”

Shit, is he keeping track of my career? That’s…weird.

I eye Taylor suspiciously. “Are you stalking me?”

He laughs, blushing. “No!” Adjusts the bowtie around his neck. “But I’m following your career because I’m trying to learn how to become successful.”

Holy shit. Wow.

I clear my throat, choking up a bit. “I’m just a guy from a crappy neighborhood, Taylor. I paid my way through college, busted my ass, took a lot of drugs to stay awake late so I could study—sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not.”

I doubt I should be giving this kid advice. He probably came from the suburbs—not unlike the communities this architecture firm designs and develops, with two married parents, a picket fence, and a dog.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he finally says. “But you’re wrong.”

My brows go up. “Oh yeah? What am I thinking?”

“That I had it easy and was popular, got good grades and all the ladies.”

Um—that’s not what I was thinking. Close enough, though.

“Fine—my parents paid for everything and my dad got me this job, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be an architect, or that I can’t be a good one. I just want someone to mentor me, someone I can relate to.”

“Aren’t you gay?”

“I mean at work. I don’t want to follow you around afterward. I have a feeling your personal life is a shitshow—no offense.”

“None taken.” Because it is.

He nods, the thick, navy, tweed vest he has buttoned over a white dress shirt far too dressy for a Thursday, but who am I to judge? I’m wearing denim jeans for fuck’s sake.

Wrinkly ones.

“So will you? Mentor me?”

“I don’t know what the hell that even means.”

“I’ll