And just like that, my mind catapults back to the disastrous interview, to the moment when I fell forward and my hand landed?—
No. Nope. Not going there.
But my traitorous brain is already replaying the scene in vivid detail: the solid warmth beneath my palm, the momentaryshock in those green eyes, the way his voice dropped when he said, "Careful, Camille. Some lines, once crossed, can't be uncrossed."
My face heats at the memory. Is he deliberately trying to remind me of that humiliation? Is this some kind of power play, forcing me to meet him in a location that emphasizes our awkward history?
Or maybe it's simply a practical matter—perhaps he's inspecting the bathroom facilities and wants my immediate input. That would be the logical explanation.
"The men's bathroom," I murmur to myself as we make our way back toward the lobby.
"Pardon?" Mr. Emerson glances over.
"Nothing! Just, um, thinking out loud about... bathroom design elements. Mr. Kingsley wants me to meet him at the men’s bathroom."
I force my breathing to slow, remembering Izzy's pep talk from this morning. I'm here because I'm talented.
But as we approach the lobby, I feel like I’m about to jump out of my own skin. In a few minutes, I'll be face to face with him again.
"The men's room is just past the reception area," Mr. Emerson says, gesturing to our right. "Would you like me to continue the tour after your meeting with Mr. Kingsley?"
"Yes, please," I say automatically, though I'm not sure how much more information I can absorb today. My brain is already overflowing with design possibilities, color palettes, material options—and now, the impending meeting with Alexander.
As Mr. Emerson heads toward the administrative offices, promising to return in half an hour, I check my reflection in one of the mirrored panels that will eventually frame the reception desk. My hair is still reasonably smooth despite the humidity,and my light linen blouse and tailored pants look professional without being stifling in the heat.
I take one last deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and head toward the men's bathroom, reminding myself with each step that I am a grown woman who can absolutely handle meeting her intimidating client in a bathroom without thinking about the fact that her hand has been on his?—
Damn it. Get it together, Camille.
I hesitate outside the men's bathroom, my hand hovering near the door. With a deep breath, I knock lightly on the door. "Mr. Kingsley? It's Camille Montclair."
"Come in," his voice calls from inside, that deep baritone sending an involuntary shiver through my body.
I push the door open slowly, as if something might jump out at me. Alexander Kingsley stands in the center of the unfinished bathroom space, hands in the pockets of perfectly tailored gray trousers. My pulse skitters as my eyes snag on his rolled-up sleeves, forearms bronzed and corded with muscle. My mouth goes dry. He, on the other hand, looks completely at ease, as if meeting in bathrooms is the most normal thing in the world.
The door clicks shut behind me, and it’s suddenly far too quiet. I’m alone in a men’s bathroom with a man who makes me think about things I shouldn’t. A man whose reputation is as sharp and cold as the marble he builds his empire on.
"Ms. Montclair," he says, his expression neutral. "I trust your flight was comfortable?"
"Yes, thank you." I step fully into the room. "It was... extremely generous of you to arrange private transportation."
One corner of his mouth quirks up. "I don't do commercial flights. Neither does anyone working directly with me."
He says it so matter-of-factly, as if private jets are as commonplace as Ubers. I wonder briefly what it must be liketo inhabit his world—where luxury isn't a treat but a baseline expectation.
"I apologize for the short notice," he continues, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "When I make decisions, I implement them immediately."
His words shouldn’t sound suggestive, but the low rumble of his voice makes me think of decisions that have nothing to do with floor plans and everything to do with what he might do to me if I let him.
"It was... unexpected," I admit, trying to keep my tone professional. "I had to reschedule several client meetings."
His green eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "Was that a problem?"
There's a subtle challenge in his question. The unspoken implication: if you can't adapt to my timeline, perhaps you're not right for this project.
"Not at all," I say, lifting my chin slightly.
Something that might be approval flickers in his eyes. "Good. I don't have patience for hesitation or indecision."
