“The Tower.”
He nods. “So what is your vision for the Tower?”
Grateful for the change in subject, I slip back into work mode. “Luxury treehouses. Baby boomers and Gen X may want comfort and ease when they travel, but Millennials and Gen Z love experiences like sleeping in a tree or taking a hot bath surrounded by redwoods.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to forest bathing,” he says.
I pass him my phone. “Here are some pictures for inspiration.” Edward scrolls through the photos.
“I would love to stay there.” He says pointing to an interior with a woodburning stove and a snug bed and rain lashing on the windows. As I lean in for a better look, he edges closer so I can see. I’m not sure if it’s on purpose or if he’s even aware that my right arm is now up against his left one. I’m certainly not going to draw his attention to the situation—I’m quietly savoring it while pretending not to notice.
As he passes my phone back our hands touch, and I swear his hand lingers. We look at each other for a moment too long. His eyes fall to my lips—just as they did on the staircase last night. And now I can’t help but look at his, which are just the right mix of soft and firm—and this is utter insanity.
“What do you think?” I ask a little nervously.
“I like it. It has real promise. These treehouses are great. I would love to design one.” He pulls a small leather notebook and a Blackwing pencil out of his pocket.
“Nice notebook,” I say, watching him sketch.
“Another old-fashioned habit I picked up from my grandpa.” He taps the notebook. “I always carry it with me.”
“What sort of notes do you take?”
“All kinds—lists, ideas, inspiration, things I want to remember. Like what I’m sketching now.” He glances down at the page. “You gave me an idea for a treehouse.”
“You draw?”
“No, not really. But I wanted to be an architect. My mom and grandpa hated the idea. According to them, architects don’t make enough money. I’m not sure why I listened. Maybe because my mom was paying for my tuition. And...” He shrugs. “It wasn’t that strong of an inclination. Actually, after working on several large projects, I think I should have been a landscape architect. I love the nexus between indoor and outdoor living. So this treehouse idea is my personal catnip.”
It’s strangely endearing, this glimpse of the life Edward might have chosen. I want to ask him more about his dreams. But I should at leasttryto keep things professional, as hard as that may be.
He sketches while a woodpecker rat-a-tat-tats in the distance, and the feathery boughs of the tree sway in the sea breeze.
After working for a few minutes he asks, “Want to see?”
“Of course!” He passes me the journal. He’s sketched a quaint cottage built between two trees. It’s simple and perfect. “Wow, I love it!”
I’m also curious about the words on the opposite page:
J.J.—Front Desk
Virgil—Possum
Lady Whimple
I point to them. “And these?”
“Like I said, I take notes on things I want to remember.”
“Should I be offended that you wrote down J.J.’s name and not mine?” I tease.
“Don’t be silly. I write down things I might forget.”
I catch the compliment. But also, I have no idea what to do with it. So I carry on pretending he didn’t just say something that makes my heart purr.
“This is perfect.” I point back to his drawing. “I really like how simple and serene it is. It’s rustic, whimsical luxury.”
“Thank you. I was thinking of the other cottages. They do have a certain rustic charm. This place has definitely captured my imagination. I can see why you love it here. It feels a little like living in a dream.”
