Chapter 3 #2
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 see his name 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.
And just like that, my mind catapults back to the disastrous interview, to the moment when I fell forward and my hand landed—
No. Nope. Not going there.
But my traitorous brain is already replaying the scene in vivid detail: the solid warmth beneath my palm, the momentary shock in those green eyes, the way his voice dropped when he said, "Careful, Camille. Some lines, once crossed, can't be uncrossed."
My face heats at the memory. Is he deliberately trying to remind me of that humiliation? Is this some kind of power play, forcing me to meet him in a location that emphasizes our awkward history?
Or maybe it's simply a practical matter—perhaps he's inspecting the bathroom facilities and wants my immediate input. That would be the logical explanation.
"The men's bathroom," I murmur to myself as we make our way back toward the lobby.
"Pardon?" Mr. Emerson glances over.
"Nothing! Just, um, thinking out loud about... bathroom design elements. Mr. Kingsley wants me to meet him at the men’s bathroom."
I force my breathing to slow, remembering Izzy's pep talk from this morning. I'm here because I'm talented.
But as we approach the lobby, I feel like I’m about to jump out of my own skin. In a few minutes, I'll be face to face with him again.
"The men's room is just past the reception area," Mr. Emerson says, gesturing to our right. "Would you like me to continue the tour after your meeting with Mr. Kingsley?"
"Yes, please," I say automatically, though I'm not sure how much more information I can absorb today. My brain is already overflowing with design possibilities, color palettes, material options—and now, the impending meeting with Alexander.
As Mr. Emerson heads toward the administrative offices, promising to return in half an hour, I check my reflection in one of the mirrored panels that will eventually frame the reception desk.
My hair is still reasonably smooth despite the humidity, and my light linen blouse and tailored pants look professional without being stifling in the heat.
I take one last deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and head toward the men's bathroom, reminding myself with each step that I am a grown woman who can absolutely handle meeting her intimidating client in a bathroom without thinking about the fact that her hand has been on his—
Damn it. Get it together, Camille.
I hesitate outside the men's bathroom, my hand hovering near the door. With a deep breath, I knock lightly on the door. "Mr. Kingsley? It's Camille Montclair."
"Come in," his voice calls from inside, that deep baritone sending an involuntary shiver through my body.
I push the door open slowly, as if something might jump out at me.
Alexander Kingsley stands in the center of the unfinished bathroom space, hands in the pockets of perfectly tailored gray trousers.
My pulse skitters as my eyes snag on his rolled-up sleeves, forearms bronzed and corded with muscle.
My mouth goes dry. He, on the other hand, looks completely at ease, as if meeting in bathrooms is the most normal thing in the world.
The door clicks shut behind me, and it’s suddenly far too quiet. I’m alone in a men’s bathroom with a man who makes me think about things I shouldn’t. A man whose reputation is as sharp and cold as the marble he builds his empire on.
"Ms. Montclair," he says, his expression neutral. "I trust your flight was comfortable?"
"Yes, thank you." I step fully into the room. "It was... extremely generous of you to arrange private transportation."
One corner of his mouth quirks up. "I don't do commercial flights. Neither does anyone working directly with me."
He says it so matter-of-factly, as if private jets are as commonplace as Ubers. I wonder briefly what it must be like to inhabit his world—where luxury isn't a treat but a baseline expectation.
"I apologize for the short notice," he continues, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "When I make decisions, I implement them immediately."
His words shouldn’t sound suggestive, but the low rumble of his voice makes me think of decisions that have nothing to do with floor plans and everything to do with what he might do to me if I let him.
"It was... unexpected," I admit, trying to keep my tone professional. "I had to reschedule several client meetings."
His green eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "Was that a problem?"
There's a subtle challenge in his question. The unspoken implication: if you can't adapt to my timeline, perhaps you're not right for this project.
"Not at all," I say, lifting my chin slightly.
Something that might be approval flickers in his eyes. "Good. I don't have patience for hesitation or indecision."
I bet you don’t, Alexander.
I think about my conversation with Izzy earlier. About how rich people do exactly as they please and don’t care how others feel about that.
"So," I say, gesturing to our surroundings, "the men's bathroom?"
"And the women's," he says, moving toward a connecting door. "I want to start with these public spaces. They're often overlooked in resort design—treated as necessities rather than opportunities."
I follow him, my designer's eye already assessing the rough space. He's right—public restrooms are typically an afterthought, designed for function with minimal attention to aesthetics.
"The experience of luxury should be uninterrupted," Alexander continues, pushing open the door to the women's bathroom. "Even in spaces like this—especially in spaces like this."
I nod, beginning to understand why he wanted to meet here specifically. "Most designers focus on the showpieces—lobbies, restaurants, guest suites. But true luxury is in the details."
His gaze sharpens. "Exactly. I don't want a single corner of this resort to feel less than exceptional." He gestures to the rough concrete walls. "What do you see here?"
The question sounds innocuous, but there’s an edge beneath it. Like he’s not just testing my design skills… he’s testing me.
"I see an opportunity to surprise and delight," I say finally.
"Most resort bathrooms aim for clean and forgettable.
But this could be memorable—in a good way.
Materials that feel luxurious to the touch.
Lighting that flatters rather than just illuminates.
Subtle scents that complement the overall sensory experience of the resort. "
Alexander watches me, his expression unreadable. "Go on."
"The mirrors could be statement pieces, not just functional elements. Perhaps custom designs," I continue, warming to the subject.
As I speak, I notice smudges of dirt on my hands from earlier in the tour—probably from touching unfinished surfaces or examining building materials. I move toward one of the partially installed sinks, turning on the water without breaking my train of thought.
"Acoustics are important too," I add, rinsing my hands. "The sound of water should be soothing, not—"
The water pressure suddenly surges, spraying forcefully against the basin and splashing back up—directly onto the front of my white blouse.
I gasp and jump back, but it's too late. Cold water soaks through the thin linen, the fabric molding to my skin. I feel my nipples pebble instantly, and I’m certain they’re now visible through the sheer material.
"Shit!" I blurt, grabbing frantically for the paper towel dispenser, which of course is empty because this bathroom isn't actually functional yet.
His gaze drops, just for a second, before he drags it back up to my face. His expression is blank, but his voice is thicker when he finally speaks.
"The plumbing is a bit unpredictable at this point," he says simply.
I cross my arms over my chest, mortification burning through me. First the dildo website. Then the spewed coffee. The accidental groping. And now this. At this rate, I'll somehow end up naked in the lobby by the end of the week.
"I have a change of clothes in my room," I say, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity. "I can go change quickly and then continue our discussion."
Alexander's gaze drops briefly to my chest, then back to my face. "That won't be necessary. We're discussing bathrooms, Ms. Montclair, not attending a black-tie event."
His casualness somehow makes it worse. I want him to be flustered, to be something other than perfectly composed while I'm standing here with my bra visible through my wet shirt.
"I'd be more comfortable changing," I insist.
He considers me for a moment, then gives a slight nod. "Very well. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes."
"Thank you," I breathe, backing toward the door, still keeping my arms firmly crossed.
"And Camille?" he adds as I reach the exit.
I pause. "Yes?"
"Try not to get distracted by any more... party supply shopping... while you’re in your room." The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize with a fresh wave of horror that he's referring to the dildo website from the interview.
He remembers. Of course he remembers.
"I'll do my best," I manage, then flee before I can embarrass myself further.
As I rush back toward my suite, I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve this karmic punishment.
Whatever it was, it must have been truly terrible.
Because the universe seems determined to make sure I can't spend more than five minutes in Alexander Kingsley's presence without humiliating myself in some new and creative way.
And I have an entire week of this to look forward to.