Marcus and I both turn.
Working boots, caked in dried mud. That's the first thing. Then legs, tanned and long in proportion to her frame, bare below cargo shorts that end mid-thigh. A worn white T-shirt,pulled loose at the collar. Hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head, brown strands escaping at her temples.
Then her face. Big brown eyes. Full lips, parted slightly in a smile that sits deeper on the left side, a single dimple that changes the geometry of everything around it.
The want is immediate and specific. Not a complication I was accounting for.
She extends her hand. "Sienna Cross."
The name connects. William's target. Adrian's fixation.
My hand closes around hers. Her grip is sure and warm. I should shake and release. Instead, I pull her forward a fraction. Just enough to close the distance. Just enough to watch her pupils widen and the pulse at her collarbone quicken.
"Carter Hill." I hold her gaze. "You're early. I didn't expect you until nine."
She doesn't pull away. "You know what they say. Being on time is ten minutes too late."
We stay like that. Hands clasped. Her eyes on mine, direct and unguarded. And for a while the construction site, Marcus, the schedule, the fact that this woman is standing here because William needs leverage. All of it recedes.
Marcus clears his throat.
I let go. The absence of her hand is immediate and felt.
"Sienna, this is Marcus Hale, project lead for Sycamore Design." I keep my voice even. "Marcus, Sienna Cross, Viridian Landscape Services. She'll be handling the secondary project I mentioned."
Marcus nods. His jaw is tight. Sienna doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care.
She turns to survey the front entrance where Marcus's team has been working. Rolls of sod staged along the gravel path. A precision-graded foundation for a formal boxwood arrangement. She takes it in, head tilting once to the left.
"Have you considered replacing the lawn sections with creeping thyme? Drought-resistant, low maintenance, supports pollinators. Plus, it smells incredible when people walk on it."
Marcus opens his mouth. But I think he is too shocked to speak.
"Marcus." I step forward, positioning myself between them without making it obvious. "Let's reconnect this afternoon. I'll walk Sienna through her section and send you the updated site plan before end of day."
He holds still for a moment, eyes on Sienna. Then nods. Turns. Walks toward the east terrace where his crew is stacking materials.
I watch him go. Then I turn to her. "Walk with me. I'll show you the space."
We move through the property side by side, following the service path that wraps behind the main building and descends toward the restaurant terrace. The terrain is mostly untouched here, native scrub and oak trees and a slope that catches the morning light in a way the architects spent six months trying to frame. Dust kicks up under our boots. The excavator has gone quiet. The only sounds are birdsong and the distant metallic ring of scaffolding being assembled on the upper floors.
"The vision for The Vale Hotel is that the landscape does the talking," I say. "Every other hotel in the portfolio leads with architecture. This one leads with the land."
Sienna nods, slow. "I can see it. The bones are good. The terrain, the orientation, the way the building sits below the ridge line instead of competing with it." She pauses. "Most of it is working."
"Most?"
"The front entrance is fighting the site. You've got a Mediterranean climate, natural chaparral, native oaks, andsomeone decided the first thing guests should see is a formal English parterre."
She's right. But it was intentionally designed that way.
"It’s intentional. For the wow factor when guests arrive," I say, "you sometimes need something that reads as luxury at first glance."
"Sure. But luxury doesn't have to mean high-maintenance." She glances at me, and the left-side dimple appears. "Just a thought."
We reach the back terrace. The restaurant footprint is marked with orange stakes and survey tape, the kitchen entrance visible through the framed-out wall. Behind it, a half-acre of open ground slopes gently toward a row of citrus trees.
I walk her through the project. The kitchen garden, the herb beds, the service corridor planting. Timelines, budget parameters, coordination with the head chef on ingredient selection. She listens without drifting, questions arriving before I finish sentences. At one point she stops mid-path and crouches down, presses two fingers into the soil, rubs them together. Then stands and makes a note.
