“That’s what you pay me for.” She rose before pausing at the door. “And, Chase? The cabanas will be spectacular. Stop worrying.”
After she left, I turned back to the blueprints with fresh eyes. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was overthinking this.
The notification sound from my computer interrupted my thoughts. I glanced at the screen, where a new email had appeared in my inbox. The sender’s name caught my attention immediately. Harper Coleridge. The subject line readPool Renovation Materials Question.
My pulse ticked up a notch.Professional, I reminded myself firmly.This is a professional relationship.
I clicked the email open. Harper’s message was brief and to the point, asking about the possibility of substituting a different wood for the cabana framing. She’d seen something at another property that might work well and wanted my opinion. Simple. Straightforward. Nothing to warrant the way my heart rate had accelerated.
And yet.
I checked my watch. Just past eleven. The construction crew would be on site now, likely working on the footings if they were keeping to schedule. Harper would probably be there too.
I could reply to the email with my thoughts. That would be the efficient choice. The professional choice.
Instead, I found myself gathering the plans, then sliding them into a carrying tube. Some things were better discussed in person. Especially when they involved wood selections that needed to be seen in the right light. At least that’s what I told myself as I headed for my SUV, plans in hand.
The construction site hummed with activity as I approached. The sharp tang of wet concrete mixed with salt air, a combination I’d always found oddly satisfying. Workers moved with purpose around the cabana footings, the percussion of hammers and drills creating a chaotic counterpoint to the steady rhythm of waves in the background. I spotted Harper immediately, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with one of the foremen. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the breeze had teased a few strands loose. Even from this distance, her focused intensity was evident in the set of her shoulders and the precise gestures that accompanied her words. Ignoring the way my skin heated up, I tucked the plans securely under my arm and headed her way.
The once-tranquil pool area of Sunset Siesta was transformed into an organized battlefield of construction materials and equipment. A separate section that moved depending on the work being done was kept open for guests, along with a free drink to minimize complaints. Eight weeks in, and the project was taking shape exactly as I’d envisioned thanks to good planning and better execution.
Harper noticed my approach and wrapped up her conversation with a nod to the foreman. She turned to meet me, a smile warming her delicate features. Her snub nose had just a touch of sun and her gorgeous cheekbones held a shade of pink that had nothing to do with makeup. “Chase. I wasn’t expecting you today. Got my email about the wood?”
“I did.” I unrolled the plans on a nearby table with an umbrella providing shade, then weighed the corners with small clamps I kept in my pocket for exactly this purpose. “Thought it would be easier to discuss in person. Show me what you had in mind.”
She moved beside me, her shoulder nearly touching mine as she leaned over the blueprints. The faint scent of her shampoo—something citrusy and clean—momentarily derailed my thoughts before I pulled myself back to focus.
“Here.” Harper pointed to the floor plan for a cabana. “I was at The Sandpiper last week, and I was drawn to the wood in their restaurant. It has this beautiful, variegated pattern that would tie in wonderfully with our existing wood accents at Driftwood Grill.” She pointed toward the main resort restaurant and its screen of vertical planks framing the entrance. Then she handed me a sample board.
I ran a hand over the smooth surface, considering. “Coastal Blend, right? Good quality.”
“The lumberyard is running a promotion right now. Thirty percent off for commercial orders over five hundred square feet.” She glanced up at me, a hint of triumph in her expression. “Which we’d easily clear with six cabanas.”
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m not just a pretty face,” she deadpanned, then smiled to soften the words.
“You’ve proven you’re much more than that.” The response came automatically, but I quickly redirected. “It’s a solid suggestion. The Coastal Blend would work well with the overall aesthetic.”
Harper nodded before turning back to the plans. “That’s what I thought. It has these subtle grains running through it that would look great in the sunlight.”
We spent the next few minutes discussing various options and placement details. Harper had an eye for design that went beyond mere aesthetics—she understood functionality, durability, and the practical needs of a busy resort.
“If we shift the service access point to this side”—she indicated a spot on cabana five—“it would be less visible from the pool deck but still give staff easy entry.”
I evaluated the suggestion, mentally reconfiguring the layout. “That would work. Good catch.”
“I’ve spent enough years watching servers struggle with awkward access points.” She shrugged. “Makes more sense to design it right from the start.”
“And that’s why client input is invaluable.” I made a notation on the plans. “You see things from an operational perspective that I might miss.”
“Is that your diplomatic way of saying I’m picky?”
I looked up to find amusement dancing in her eyes. The sunlight caught the warm undertones in her hair, making it glow against her tanned skin. For a moment, I forgot we were standing in the middle of a busy construction site. I forgot how to breathe.
“I’d say discerning,” I replied, my voice dropping a little. “It’s a quality I appreciate.”
Something shifted in her expression, a subtle softening, a flicker of awareness that mirrored my own. For a heartbeat, we weren’t resort manager and architect, but simply a man and woman standing close enough to feel the warmth between them.
