I bet you don’t, Alexander.
I think about my conversation with Izzy earlier. About how rich people do exactly as they please and don’t care how others feel about that.
"So," I say, gesturing to our surroundings, "the men's bathroom?"
"And the women's," he says, moving toward a connecting door. "I want to start with these public spaces. They're often overlooked in resort design—treated as necessities rather than opportunities."
I follow him, my designer's eye already assessing the rough space. He's right—public restrooms are typically an afterthought, designed for function with minimal attention to aesthetics.
"The experience of luxury should be uninterrupted," Alexander continues, pushing open the door to the women's bathroom. "Even in spaces like this—especially in spaces like this."
I nod, beginning to understand why he wanted to meet here specifically. "Most designers focus on the showpieces—lobbies, restaurants, guest suites. But true luxury is in the details."
His gaze sharpens. "Exactly. I don't want a single corner of this resort to feel less than exceptional." He gestures to the rough concrete walls. "What do you see here?"
The question sounds innocuous, but there’s an edge beneath it. Like he’s not just testing my design skills… he’s testing me.
"I see an opportunity to surprise and delight," I say finally. "Most resort bathrooms aim for clean and forgettable. But this could be memorable—in a good way. Materials that feel luxurious to the touch. Lighting that flatters rather than just illuminates. Subtle scents that complement the overall sensory experience of the resort."
Alexander watches me, his expression unreadable. "Go on."
"The mirrors could be statement pieces, not just functional elements. Perhaps custom designs," I continue, warming to the subject.
As I speak, I notice smudges of dirt on my hands from earlier in the tour—probably from touching unfinished surfaces or examining building materials. I move toward one of the partially installed sinks, turning on the water without breaking my train of thought.
"Acoustics are important too," I add, rinsing my hands. "The sound of water should be soothing, not?—"
The water pressure suddenly surges, spraying forcefully against the basin and splashing back up—directly onto the front of my white blouse. I gasp and jump back, but it's too late. Cold water soaks through the thin linen, the fabric molding to myskin. I feel my nipples pebble instantly, and I’m certain they’re now visible through the sheer material.
"Shit!" I blurt, grabbing frantically for the paper towel dispenser, which of course is empty because this bathroom isn't actually functional yet.
His gaze drops, just for a second, before he drags it back up to my face. His expression is blank, but his voice is thicker when he finally speaks.
"The plumbing is a bit unpredictable at this point," he says simply.
I cross my arms over my chest, mortification burning through me. First the dildo website. Then the spewed coffee. The accidental groping. And now this. At this rate, I'll somehow end up naked in the lobby by the end of the week.
"I have a change of clothes in my room," I say, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity. "I can go change quickly and then continue our discussion."
Alexander's gaze drops briefly to my chest, then back to my face. "That won't be necessary. We're discussing bathrooms, Ms. Montclair, not attending a black-tie event."
His casualness somehow makes it worse. I want him to be flustered, to be something other than perfectly composed while I'm standing here with my bra visible through my wet shirt.
"I'd be more comfortable changing," I insist.
He considers me for a moment, then gives a slight nod. "Very well. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes."
"Thank you," I breathe, backing toward the door, still keeping my arms firmly crossed.
"And Camille?" he adds as I reach the exit.
I pause. "Yes?"
"Try not to get distracted by any more... party supply shopping... while you’re in your room." The corner of his mouthtwitches, and I realize with a fresh wave of horror that he's referring to the dildo website from the interview.
He remembers. Of course he remembers.
"I'll do my best," I manage, then flee before I can embarrass myself further.
