"I know I can." No false modesty, no overconfidence. Just certainty.
We discuss specifics—timelines, budgets, material sourcing. Her knowledge is comprehensive, her questions incisive. Throughout our conversation, I find myself watching her more than necessary, noting the graceful movement of her hands when she emphasizes a point, the way she subtly bites her lower lip when considering an option.
I stand reluctantly, signaling the end of our meeting. Considering how annoyed I was by her lateness, I’m surprised I’m not ready for her to leave yet. "I'll have my team draw upthe contracts. We'll need preliminary concepts by the end of next week."
"I'll deliver them by Wednesday," she counters, gathering her portfolio.
"Ambitious."
"Efficient," she corrects. "I don't believe in wasting time."
"Says the woman who was late," I remind her, attempting to make a joke.
She smiles—the first genuine smile I've seen from her. It transforms her face completely, softening edges I hadn't realized were there. "I promise it won't happen again."
I extend my hand. "I'll hold you to that, Ms. Montclair."
When our hands touch this time, I'm more aware of the contact—the softness of her skin, the slight coolness of her fingers. Something electric passes between us, something neither of us acknowledges.
"Thank you for the opportunity," she says, her voice slightly lower than before.
"You can thank Alex," I reply, watching her face carefully. "He was insistent that you were the right choice."
That shadow crosses her expression again—brief but unmistakable. There's a story there, one I suddenly find myself wanting to know.
"I'll be in touch," I say instead of asking. This isn't the time or place for personal curiosity.
She nods and turns to leave. I find myself watching her go, unable to look away.
When the door closes behind her, I sit back down at my desk, more distracted than I care to admit. Camille Montclair is not what I expected. Not at all.
I'm still staring at the door when my phone rings, jolting me out of thoughts I shouldn't be having about a potential contractor. Kate's name flashes on the screen. Perfect timing, asalways—my sister has an uncanny ability to call exactly when my mind is wandering into dangerous territory. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but that would only guarantee three more calls in rapid succession. Kate doesn't take silence as an answer.
"Kate," I answer, my voice deliberately neutral.
"There he is!" Her voice is too loud. "The elusive Tristan Vale, Manhattan's most eligible workaholic. I was beginning to think I was never going to hear your voice again."
"I've been busy." I swivel my chair to face the window, looking out at the city stretched below. "Some of us have actual jobs."
"Oh, please. I bill more hours than you do, baby brother." I can practically see her rolling her eyes. Kate's legal career is as demanding as my real estate work, a fact she never lets me forget. "I just manage to have a life outside the office too. It's called balance—a foreign concept to you, I know."
"Did you call for a reason, or just to critique my life choices?"
"Both, obviously." She laughs, and despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth lift. Kate's laugh has always been infectious—full-bodied and genuine. "Tristan? Are you still there?"
I realize I've drifted back to thoughts of blue eyes and confident ideas about minimalist design. "I'm here."
"No, you're not. You're a million miles away." Kate's voice sharpens with interest. "What's going on? You're distracted. You're never distracted."
"Nothing's going on. I just had a meeting."
"With...?" She draws the word out, scenting blood in the water like the shark lawyer she is.
"A designer. For the penthouse project."
"A female designer?" Kate pounces immediately.
I sigh. "Yes, Kate, a female designer. It's a professional relationship."
