The server arrives, and Alex orders a double scotch, neat. When she leaves, he loosens his tie slightly.
"So," he says, "how's the Brooklyn project coming along?"
"Breaking ground next month," I reply, watching him carefully. "Actually, I'm meeting with that designer you recommended. Camille Montclair."
The change is subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders stiffen slightly, his jaw tightens. "Good. She's talented."
"So I've heard," I say, exchanging a quick glance with Tristan. "Tristan met with her earlier today."
"Did you?" Alex turns to Tristan, his tone deliberately casual. "And?"
"I'm considering hiring her for the Park Avenue project." Tristan watches Alex over the rim of his glass. "You were right about her eye for minimalist spaces."
"I’m always right." Alex accepts his drink from the returning server, taking a substantial swallow. "About business matters, anyway."
There's a story here, begging to be uncovered. I've known Alex for seven years—long enough to recognize when he's deflecting. "How was Antigua, anyway?"
"Hot. Beautiful. Profitable." He shrugs. "Everything a Caribbean luxury property should be."
"And Camille's work there? Satisfactory?" Tristan presses.
Something dangerous flashes in Alex's eyes. "Her designs exceeded expectations. Why all the questions about Camille?"
I lean forward, abandoning subtlety. "Because you're acting weird as hell, mate. You recommend this designer to both of us with glowing praise, but you flinch every time we say her name."
"I don't flinch," he snaps, then immediately composes himself. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."
"Right," I drawl, unconvinced. "Nothing to do with whatever happened between you two in paradise?"
Alex's glare could freeze hellfire. "Nothing happened. She's a talented designer who understood the vision for the resort. End of story."
The denial is too vehement, too rehearsed. Tristan and I exchange another look.
"Is that why you practically fled the island without saying goodbye?" Tristan asks, voice mild but eyes sharp. "Very professional."
Alex's knuckles whiten around his glass. "How did you?—"
"Your assistant mentioned it to my assistant," Tristan says. "Apparently there was some last-minute scramble to prep the jet."
"I had urgent business in New York," Alex says flatly.
"So urgent you left a note instead of speaking to her directly?" I can't help pushing now, fascinated by this crack in Alex's usually impenetrable armor.
He drains his glass and stands abruptly. "I didn't realize my travel arrangements required your approval. I have a meeting to get to."
"At eight?" I raise my eyebrows. "With whom?"
"Investors. Tokyo market." He's already signaling for the check.
I watch him sign the bill without looking at the total. "You just got here, Alex. Have one more drink."
"Can't. We'll do it again soon." He straightens his already-perfect tie. "Let me know how it goes with Camille, Julian. I'm sure she'll do excellent work for both of you."
Without waiting for a response, he strides toward the elevator, cutting through the crowd with the frictionless efficiency of someone who expects—and receives—a clear path through the world.
When he's gone, Tristan and I sit in silence for a moment.
"Well, that was subtle," I finally say. "Think we touched a nerve?"
