Coming from Alexander Kingsley, this is practically effusive praise. I try not to look too pleased as I straighten up, smoothing my blouse with hands that still tremble slightly whenever he's near.
"The craftsmen have been incredible to work with," I say. "They understood the vision immediately."
"They understood your vision," he corrects, setting his tablet down. "Don't deflect credit, Camille. It's unattractive."
I bite my lip against a smile. Even his criticisms somehow feel like compliments now.
He walks around the table, stopping beside me, close enough that I can feel his heat but not quite touching. "The textural contrasts you've created between the handwoven elements and the polished stone will be striking. It's exactly the feel I wanted for this property.”
My chest warms with pride. This isn't just sex talking. Alexander doesn't hand out professional praise unless it's earned.
"Thank you," I say simply, resisting the urge to lean into him.
He reaches past me to adjust one of the model pieces, his arm brushing mine. "We've covered substantial ground faster than anticipated. At this rate, we could finalize the interior plans before returning to New York."
I nod, trying to ignore the strange pang in my chest at the mention of returning to New York. Of course this arrangement has an expiration date. The project will be completed, and we'll go back to our separate lives—him to his billionaire empire, me to my small design firm with its much less glamorous clients.
"I've arranged something for this evening," he says, interrupting my thoughts. "A sunset catamaran sail."
I look up at him, surprised. "Really?"
"It’s for research," he explains, his expression giving nothing away. "I need to know which company to recommend to our high-end clientele. The experience needs to be impeccable."
"Oh." I try to hide my disappointment. Of course it's just business. "That makes sense."
His finger traces a small circle on the table, just inches from my hand. "The boat leaves at 5:30. Wear something comfortable. And bring a light jacket—it gets cooler on the water after sunset."
"Should I prepare anything? Any specific aspects of the experience you want me to evaluate?" I ask, slipping back into professional mode.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Just be ready to tell me if it meets Kingsley standards."
He turns away, moving toward the door with that confident stride that somehow makes even walking look authoritative. At the threshold, he pauses, glancing back. "I'll meet you at the marina. Don't be late."
And then he's gone, leaving me staring after him, heart hammering in my chest.
Is this a date? Or just another work assignment? With Alexander, the lines are impossible to draw.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time in my suite trying to decide what to wear. "Comfortable" could mean anything. My professional wardrobe isn't exactly filled with sailing attire, andI certainly didn't pack for romantic evenings on the water when I was frantically throwing clothes into my suitcase.
After discarding half a dozen options across my bed, I settle on a breezy blue sundress that brings out my eyes, pairing it with flat sandals that won't slip on a wet deck. I let my hair down from its usual work-appropriate style, the Caribbean humidity instantly transforming it into beachy waves.
As I reapply my makeup, I can't help but laugh at myself in the mirror. "It's research, Camille," I say aloud. "Not a date. Stop acting like a teenager."
But there's no denying the flutter in my stomach as I grab a light cardigan and my phone. Whatever Alexander wants to call it, the prospect of watching the sunset with him—away from contracts and material samples and construction timelines—fills me with nervous excitement.
The walk to the marina takes me along a winding path through lush tropical gardens. The evening air is warm against my skin, carrying the scent of flowers and salt water. I spot Alexander before he sees me—tall and commanding even in more casual clothes, speaking with a man who must be the boat captain.
He's wearing crisp linen pants and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those forearms that have become an unexpected obsession of mine. The setting sun gilds his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slight silver at his temples. My steps falter momentarily as desire pools low in my belly.
This is ridiculous. I've had this man in every way possible over the past three days. I've tasted every inch of him, felt him inside me, cried out in the dark as he sent waves of pleasure through me. Yet somehow, seeing him like this—outlined against the golden evening sky, waiting for me—feels more intimate than anything we've done in bed.
When he turns and spots me, his expression shifts almost imperceptibly—a slight softening around the eyes, a subtle parting of the lips. Anyone else might miss it, but I've learned to read the micro-expressions that breach his careful control.
"There you are," he says as I approach, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that makes me feel both exposed and appreciated. "Right on time."
"I’d never keep you waiting," I reply, and then feel stupid for saying it that way.
Don’t be so damn eager, Camille.
