My phone buzzes with another email from New York. Good. Work is the perfect distraction. I've built my empire by maintaining focus, by never allowing personal entanglements to cloud my judgment. I've had relationships—calculated affairs with women who understood the parameters, who wanted the same things I did. Uncomplicated. Finite.
Camille Montclair would be none of those things.
"The structural engineer has confirmed the change to the roofline won't compromise integrity," my project manager reports, sliding blueprints across the table in the temporaryoffice we've set up on the west side of the property—far from where I know Camille is working with the local artisans today.
"And the timeline?" I ask, forcing my attention to the plans in front of me.
"Still on schedule, assuming the materials arrive next week as expected."
I nod, making a note. Focus. This is what matters—the project, the deadlines, the flawless execution that has made Kingsley Resorts synonymous with luxury. Not blue eyes that widen when I stand too close. Not the soft curve of lips I'm fighting not to kiss.
The day passes in a blur of conference calls, site inspections, and meetings with contractors. By late afternoon, I've almost convinced myself that I've been overreacting. The attraction is merely a product of proximity and circumstance—nothing that can't be managed with some basic self-discipline and professional distance.
I check my watch as I wrap up a call with my CFO. Just enough time to review the changes to the spa complex before dinner. I stride toward the elevator bank, mentally cataloging the points I need to discuss with the spa consultant tomorrow.
And there she is.
Camille stands by the elevator doors, struggling with what appears to be a massive portfolio case and several large fabric sample books. The weight is clearly too much for her—she shifts awkwardly, trying to press the elevator call button with her elbow while maintaining her grip on the unwieldy load.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. She looks different today—her hair loosely tied back with a white ribbon, tendrils escaping around her face. She's wearing a simple sundress that falls just above her knees, revealing legs that are tan and toned.
"Let me help you with that," I say, closing the distance between us before I can think better of it.
"That’s okay. I've got it," she protests automatically, then wobbles as one of the sample books starts to slip.
I catch it before it can fall, my hand brushing against hers in the process. That brief contact shouldn't feel electric, but it does. "Clearly," I say dryly.
A flush creeps up her neck, but she surrenders half the load to me. The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and we step inside together. The space immediately feels too small.
"Which floor?" I ask, reaching for the panel.
"Fourth," she says. "I'm setting up in the corner suite to lay everything out. There's better natural light there."
I press the button, hyperaware of her presence beside me. The elevator begins its ascent, humming softly in the silence between us.
"I didn't see you today," she finally says.
"Meetings," I reply, the single word a pathetic excuse for my deliberate avoidance. "The storm set us back on some of the electrical work."
She nods, eyes fixed on the floor indicator as it climbs. "Is everything okay now? With the generator, I mean."
"Yes. The wiring issue has been fixed." I shift the weight of the sample books in my arms. "What's all this for?"
"I'm narrowing down the final selections for the guest suites." There's a subtle shift in her voice when she talks about her work—a confidence that emerges, replacing the nervous energy that seems to surface whenever we're alone together. "I've been working with the local artisans you arranged to meet with. They have some incredible handwoven textiles that would be perfect for the accent pieces."
The elevator reaches the fourth floor, doors sliding open. I gesture for her to exit first, following her down the corridorto the corner suite. She walks with purpose, her earlier nervousness seemingly forgotten as she tells me about what she learned today.
"The contrast of hand-finished pieces against more polished elements creates this beautiful tension," she explains, her voice now excited. "It feels authentic without sacrificing the sophistication your clients expect."
I find myself caught between watching her lips form the words and actually processing what she's saying. Both are equally compelling.
She pushes open the door to the suite with her hip, revealing a space already transformed into a makeshift design studio. Fabric swatches and material samples are arranged on every surface, grouped by color and texture. Her tablet sits open on a side table, displaying rendered images of the guest suites.
"Just set those on the bed, please," she instructs, placing her own load on a cleared space.
I do as she asks, then turn to find her already sorting through one of the portfolios, completely absorbed in her task. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she absently tries to blow it away, her hands occupied with organizing swatches.
Before I can stop myself, I step closer and reach out to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear.
