Page 7 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Luna

“ W hat’s got your panties in a bunch?” Stella demands as we drive to Minton Holdings in her car.

“I’m fine,” I snap, looking out of the window.

“ Luna .”

I lick my lips. “I…it’s Dom. We…well…we….”

“You slept with him,” Stella says gleefully. “I knew it.”

I turn to glare at her. “No. We didn’t do that . We…it’s worse.”

Stella expertly weaves past a BMW whose jittery brake lights flash every few seconds like the driver’s afraid of the gas pedal.

“You gave him a blow job and he didn’t return the favor?” she muses.

I groan out loud and drop my face in my hands. “No, Stella. We danced.”

She snorts. “Well, then, let me call the Tribune. ”

“To Let’s Stay Together .”

She groans in understanding. “Well, shit.”

“It was so…it was….”

“Forgive him, Luna. He was a kid. He fucked up.”

Stella is one of the only people whom I told about what happened with Dom, why we ended, and why I’m so frosty with him.

“He cheated on me.”

“So the fuck what? That was over ten years ago. Move on. Give him a chance. He obviously wants one.”

“He’s dating Camy,” I bellow.

She drives into the parking lot of Minton Holdings and parks her Jaguar I-Pace with some force. “She hangs on his arms. But he’s not dating her. Hell, Luna, I don’t think he’s been with anyone since he got here. Noah and the guys give him a hard time for following you around like a puppy.”

“Savannah is a small town; it’s perfectly normal to bump into people.”

“You know what’s not perfectly normal?” she hisses.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” I open the passenger door and am out before she is.

“You are hanging on to something that happened when you were kids,” she finishes.

I wait until she opens the trunk so I can get my backpack. Once I sling it on one shoulder, I look at Stella, letting her see the turmoil inside me. “Would you forgive someone for cheating on you?”

Stella rolls her eyes. “Hon, I forgave Noah for showing our sex tape to my father. Look, do you think the Dom you see today is the kind of man who’ll cheat on you?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighs. “Now you’re just being contrary. Dom is a good guy, and you know it. We all made mistakes when we were kids. You did as well. Just because you wrecked your daddy’s car when you were fourteen doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a driver’s license today, does it?”

“It’s not the same thing.” I throw my hands up in exasperation.

She gives me a withering look.

My shoulders slump. “I won’t become my mother.”

“Hon, that’s not going to happen. Two reasons. One, you’re not Jenn. Second, and importantly, Dom is not your father.” Stella pulls me into a quick hug and kisses my cheek. “Come on, let’s go kick some ass, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The glass-walled conference room at Minton Holdings is an architectural crime—an overpriced attempt at modern minimalism that misses every mark.

The drywall is faux-industrial, meant to look edgy and artistic, but ends up looking like a bad stage set. The fluorescent lights, clearly chosen for their designer appeal , clash violently with the steel fixtures and cast a cold, sickly glow that makes everyone look slightly undead.

The room screams money but loudly whispers a lack of taste.

If the cold interior isn’t bad enough, the thermostat is set somewhere between a meat locker and arctic death.

Which is ironic, considering we’re here to design a hospital focused on environmental sustainability and patient-centric healing spaces.

No one’s healing in this space. In fact, it feels as if it’s been purposefully designed to make one feel uncomfortable.

Tommy Minton sits at the head of the table, flanked by two of his suited clones; white, male, and about a decade past needing to retire. Jason Marquez, our very inept coordinator, who has at least stopped hitting on me, is also at the meeting.

Camy is hanging off Dom’s arm. She’s sitting on his left while I’m on his right. I have no choice but to sit there so I can see the slide deck as he progresses through the presentation. She can sit elsewhere, but she won’t.

Dom is intently looking at his laptop screen, going through the presentation we’ve been working on for the past week. He told me he wants me to present, and he’ll only step in if there are questions that he’s equipped to answer better.

For all my grumbling and bitching and moaning, Dom is the perfect partner. He stays in his lane and is incredibly considerate. I’d have more of a reason to continue to bark at him if he was a mansplaining asshole like Jason.

After the obligatory small talk, we finally dig into the substance of the meeting. Tommy’s eyebrows twitch when Dom opens the presentation and he learns I will be presenting, but he holds his tongue.

Again, Dom’s deferring to me.

It’s insane how good he is at working in a team, and I bet he’d be just as good as a team leader as he is a member. He doesn’t step on toes, he’s always kind and respectful, and knows when to back off a discussion and when to push ahead.

“This is the atrium.” I use the red laser pointer on the clicker to circle the area on the blueprint on the screen.

“South-facing to maximize daylight harvesting. We’re using electrochromic glass to reduce glare and heat gain without sacrificing visibility.

And this—” I tap the edge of the screen with the pointer, “—is the vertical garden that’ll serve as both an air purifier and mental health anchor for the pediatric wing. ”

One of Tommy’s clones murmurs, “This is a bit too ambitious.”

I hold back a sneer.

Tommy leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. “Luna, I like the optimism, but let’s stay realistic. We don’t need boutique concepts. We need a hospital.”

I keep my face carefully neutral. This is the damn plan he signed off on—and now he wants what ? Some sterile, gray-walled monument to mediocrity?

Well, fuck that.

“This is a hospital. One that heals people using light, nature, and science. This isn’t boutique—it’s evidence-based design,” I clarify calmly, no heat.

Not about to give these assholes the satisfaction. This isn’t my first rodeo. I work in a male-dominated industry, where being undermined with words like ‘ fluffy ’ or ‘ boutique ’ is de rigueur . If you’re a female architect, men like Tommy reframe your strength as decoration .

Dom clears his throat right when Tommy looks like he’s about to speak. “Luna’s right; the upfront investment in energy efficiency pays for itself in under six years. Plus, research shows patients recover faster in biophilic environments.”

Tommy frowns. “Still sounds like fluff.”

“Tommy, this is what you signed off on,” Dom reminds him patiently.

What I notice about the grown-up Dom is that he doesn’t lose his temper, doesn’t fly off the handle. There is an intrinsic calm about him, like he can’t be rattled, and he also can’t be moved without a good argument.

He’s a mature thirty-two, while I feel like I’m just cosplaying adulthood at thirty-one—masking the fire, the fury, the sheer frustration of moments like this.

What I want to do is rip Tommy a new one.

What I do instead is stay composed, breezy even, and keep pushing my argument forward.

I know I’m right. But I also know that Tommy’s the client, and clients with money tend to think that makes them architects, too.

My job isn’t just to be right—it’s to make him feel safe choosing my way.

Tommy shrugs. “Yeah…but what looked good as a plan—I’m not sure it can be implemented. And the budget isn’t endless, Dom, you know that.”

“Luna, want me to pull up the cost analysis?” Dom asks casually.

I nod, appreciating the gesture. He’s deferring to me without making it a show—reminding Tommy exactly who’s leading this project .

I walk through the calculations with crisp precision, ending with, “As you can see, we’re on scope, on schedule, and on budget.”

Tommy grunts, unconvinced.

Dom leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers, and smiles just a little too pleasantly. “Tommy, you said you wanted timeless. Hard to build a legacy if you’re sweating over every fuckin’ nail.”

I couldn’t get away with saying something like that—not without being labeled emotional or difficult. But Dom, as a man, can.

I can’t swear in a meeting with a client; I’ll be seen as rude. But Dom can.

I can’t challenge the client; it’ll be perceived as insolent. But Dom can.

It’s not fair.

It’s not equitable.

It’s just how things are.

In another meeting room, I know Dom—half-black in a room full of white men—would face the same silent, insidious power dynamics I do.

But not here. His Pritzker Prize, his portfolio, the way he walks into a room like he belongs there—it’s earned him something rare: their respect.

It’s astonishing what he’s accomplished.

And now that I’m watching him handle Tommy with a surgeon’s precision—disarming, guiding, never pushing too hard—I get it.

It’s not just that he’s an exceptional architect.

It’s how he manages people, reads a room, and plays the long game .

This is client management at its finest—and I’m here for it, learning.

I take my seat next to Dom. I glance at him. He meets my eyes, his expression gentle.

He winks at me, mischief in his eyes, like we’re sharing a secret, like we know he’s handling Tommy, and he’s helping me handle him as well.

Stella gives me a ‘ I told you so’ look, and I nod, warmth rushing through me.

Yes, I see the man Dom is today—the man he’s become. I’m so proud of his decency, his generosity, his goodness .

The room goes quiet.

Tommy flips through the folder, which is a printout of the slides we just presented, his scowl deepening with every page, though he doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, he sets the folder down with a dramatic sigh, as if giving in is a favor he’s doing me.

“Well,” he says, ignoring me and looking at Dom, “I suppose we move forward.”

“Luna?” Dom turns to me, defers to me.