I realize I've been chewing on my bottom lip, a nervous habit I've never managed to break. "No, no problem. Just... taking it all in."
We pull up to a building set slightly apart from the others, its clean lines and walls of glass creating a perfect frame for the ocean view beyond. This isn't just any accommodations—this is clearly one of the premium suites.
"Here we are," the attendant says, stopping the cart. "Someone will bring your luggage shortly. Mr. Kingsley has requested that you settle in and refresh yourself. He's in a meeting right now but will be in touch about the project schedule soon."
I step out of the cart, my legs slightly wobbly after the flight and the champagne.
"Thank you," I tell the attendant, forcing my professional smile back into place.
As he drives away, I take a deep breath of the flower-scented air and square my shoulders. I've got this. I've prepared as much as possible in the limited time I had. I'm good at what I do. Andif Alexander Kingsley didn't think I could handle this project, I wouldn't be standing here now.
Time to prove him right.
The resort manager introduces himself as Michael Emerson, a trim man with salt-and-pepper hair and the easy confidence of someone who's been in the hospitality business for decades. "Mr. Kingsley asked me to show you the property while he attends to some business matters," he explains, leading me through the main lobby—an airy, unfinished space with soaring ceilings and massive windows that frame the ocean like a painting. Even with construction materials scattered about and temporary lighting, I can feel the potential of the space.
"The lobby will be our guests' first impression," Mr. Emerson says. "Mr. Kingsley wants it to make a statement while still feeling welcoming."
I nod, already mentally cataloging possibilities. The height of the space demands something dramatic—perhaps a custom chandelier that catches both natural and artificial light. Something organic that references the surrounding landscape without being too literal.
"How many guests are you anticipating at full capacity?" I ask, shifting into professional mode. This is what I'm good at—seeing spaces not as they are, but as they could be.
"One hundred and twenty suites, though we expect an average occupancy of around two hundred guests." He leads me toward a hallway lined with unfinished walls. "These will be our premium ocean-view suites."
We step into the first room, and I have to catch my breath. Even without furnishings or finishes, the space is stunning.Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of turquoise waters and pristine white sand. The room is positioned to maximize natural light while still providing privacy—a delicate balance that most resorts get wrong.
"The structural elements are mostly complete," Mr. Emerson explains. "We're waiting on your designs before finalizing materials and finishes."
I run my hand along the wall, feeling the texture of the raw surface. "What's the overall vision for the resort? I know Mr. Kingsley's properties tend to blend luxury with local elements, but each has its own distinct character."
"Modern luxury with authentic Caribbean influence," he says. "Mr. Kingsley doesn't want it to feel like guests could be anywhere—he wants them to know they're in Antigua specifically, not just any tropical location."
I pull out my tablet, making quick notes. This aligns with my initial concepts—spaces that honor local traditions and materials while providing the sophisticated experience Kingsley Resorts clientele expects.
"And the sustainability initiatives?" I ask, remembering a brief mention in the project overview.
Mr. Emerson's expression brightens. "A priority for this property. We've already implemented water conservation systems and solar panels. Mr. Kingsley is interested in sustainable materials for the interiors as well, though never at the expense of luxury or durability."
We continue through the property—a restaurant with breathtaking views, a spa complex nestled among tropical gardens, outdoor spaces designed to offer both privacy and community. Despite the construction dust and exposed wiring, I can see the bones of something extraordinary taking shape. Alexander Kingsley may be intimidating as hell, but his vision is impeccable.
"The bathrooms in the guest suites will be a particular focus," Mr. Emerson says as we pass through a partially constructed suite. "Mr. Kingsley believes they should feel like a private spa experience."
I make another note, already envisioning natural stone, custom lighting, perhaps a freestanding tub positioned to capture ocean views while maintaining privacy.
We're walking through one of the garden paths when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at it automatically, expecting another frantic text from Izzy asking if Alexander has "made a move" yet—as if this were a romantic comedy and not a professional assignment.
Instead, I seehisname on my screen, and my heart does a strange little stutter-step.
Meet me in 10 minutes at the men's bathroom in the lobby.
I stop walking abruptly and Mr. Emerson continues several steps before realizing I'm not beside him.
"Is everything alright, Ms. Montclair?"
"Yes, sorry." I blink at the message again. The men's bathroom? Why on earth would he want to meet there? "It seems Mr. Kingsley needs to see me in ten minutes."
"Ah," Mr. Emerson nods knowingly. "He mentioned he might need to interrupt our tour. Shall we head back to the main building?"
I nod, still staring at the text message as if it might transform into something that makes more sense if I look at it long enough.
