Chapter 5
Alexander
I've rearranged my entire day to avoid her. Shuffled meetings, rerouted site inspections, confined myself to the opposite end of the property—all to put distance between myself and Camille Montclair.
It's pathetic, really. I've never run from anything in my life, but here I am, a thirty-nine-year-old man playing hide and seek with a designer almost half my age because I can't trust myself around her.
Because I can still feel her body pressed against mine in that darkened hallway.
Because I've spent the night thinking about what would have happened if the lights hadn't come back on when they did.
My phone buzzes with another email from New York.
Good. Work is the perfect distraction. I've built my empire by maintaining focus, by never allowing personal entanglements to cloud my judgment.
I've had relationships—calculated affairs with women who understood the parameters, who wanted the same things I did. Uncomplicated. Finite.
Camille Montclair would be none of those things.
"The structural engineer has confirmed the change to the roofline won't compromise integrity," my project manager reports, sliding blueprints across the table in the temporary office we've set up on the west side of the property—far from where I know Camille is working with the local artisans today.
"And the timeline?" I ask, forcing my attention to the plans in front of me.
"Still on schedule, assuming the materials arrive next week as expected."
I nod, making a note. Focus. This is what matters—the project, the deadlines, the flawless execution that has made Kingsley Resorts synonymous with luxury. Not blue eyes that widen when I stand too close. Not the soft curve of lips I'm fighting not to kiss.
The day passes in a blur of conference calls, site inspections, and meetings with contractors.
By late afternoon, I've almost convinced myself that I've been overreacting.
The attraction is merely a product of proximity and circumstance—nothing that can't be managed with some basic self-discipline and professional distance.
I check my watch as I wrap up a call with my CFO. Just enough time to review the changes to the spa complex before dinner. I stride toward the elevator bank, mentally cataloging the points I need to discuss with the spa consultant tomorrow.
And there she is.
Camille stands by the elevator doors, struggling with what appears to be a massive portfolio case and several large fabric sample books.
The weight is clearly too much for her—she shifts awkwardly, trying to press the elevator call button with her elbow while maintaining her grip on the unwieldy load.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. She looks different today—her hair loosely tied back with a white ribbon, tendrils escaping around her face. She's wearing a simple sundress that falls just above her knees, revealing legs that are tan and toned.
"Let me help you with that," I say, closing the distance between us before I can think better of it.
"That’s okay. I've got it," she protests automatically, then wobbles as one of the sample books starts to slip.
I catch it before it can fall, my hand brushing against hers in the process. That brief contact shouldn't feel electric, but it does. "Clearly," I say dryly.
A flush creeps up her neck, but she surrenders half the load to me. The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and we step inside together. The space immediately feels too small.
"Which floor?" I ask, reaching for the panel.
"Fourth," she says. "I'm setting up in the corner suite to lay everything out. There's better natural light there."
I press the button, hyperaware of her presence beside me. The elevator begins its ascent, humming softly in the silence between us.
"I didn't see you today," she finally says.
"Meetings," I reply, the single word a pathetic excuse for my deliberate avoidance. "The storm set us back on some of the electrical work."
She nods, eyes fixed on the floor indicator as it climbs. "Is everything okay now? With the generator, I mean."
"Yes. The wiring issue has been fixed." I shift the weight of the sample books in my arms. "What's all this for?"
"I'm narrowing down the final selections for the guest suites.
" There's a subtle shift in her voice when she talks about her work—a confidence that emerges, replacing the nervous energy that seems to surface whenever we're alone together.
"I've been working with the local artisans you arranged to meet with.
They have some incredible handwoven textiles that would be perfect for the accent pieces. "
The elevator reaches the fourth floor, doors sliding open. I gesture for her to exit first, following her down the corridor to the corner suite. She walks with purpose, her earlier nervousness seemingly forgotten as she tells me about what she learned today.
"The contrast of hand-finished pieces against more polished elements creates this beautiful tension," she explains, her voice now excited. "It feels authentic without sacrificing the sophistication your clients expect."
I find myself caught between watching her lips form the words and actually processing what she's saying. Both are equally compelling.
She pushes open the door to the suite with her hip, revealing a space already transformed into a makeshift design studio.
Fabric swatches and material samples are arranged on every surface, grouped by color and texture.
Her tablet sits open on a side table, displaying rendered images of the guest suites.
"Just set those on the bed, please," she instructs, placing her own load on a cleared space.
I do as she asks, then turn to find her already sorting through one of the portfolios, completely absorbed in her task. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she absently tries to blow it away, her hands occupied with organizing swatches.
Before I can stop myself, I step closer and reach out to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear.
She goes still at my touch, her eyes lifting to meet mine. My fingers linger at her jaw, tracing the delicate curve. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb—a rapid flutter that matches the acceleration of my own heartbeat.
"Alexander," she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips is intoxicating.
I should step back. I should make an excuse and leave. I should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I close the distance between us, my mouth finding hers with a gentleness that surprises me. Her lips are soft, yielding, her breath catching in a way that sends heat spiraling through my body. She tastes like mint and something sweeter—perhaps the tropical fruit from lunch.
For a moment, she's frozen, and I wonder if I've misread everything. Then her hands move to my chest, not to push me away but to steady herself as she rises slightly on her toes, pressing closer. The kiss deepens, her lips parting beneath mine, allowing me to taste her more fully.
My hands find her waist, pulling her against me. She curls her fingers into my shirt—completely unrestrained and eager. Nothing like the practiced seduction I'm accustomed to.
My hand slides down her side and begin slowly pulling up the hem of her dress. My fingers just lightly skim the bare skin of her thigh. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half gasp, half moan—that nearly undoes me.
But as my hand moves higher up her thigh, I feel her tense slightly.
Her movements, while enthusiastic, have a tentative quality that tugs at my awareness.
She kisses with passion but not technique—responding to my lead rather than asserting her own desires.
And suddenly, pieces click together: her nervousness, her guarded reactions, the lack of practiced seduction.
I pull back slightly, my breathing ragged. "Camille," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "You have done this before, right?"
Her eyes widen, a deeper flush spreading across her cheeks. She bites her lower lip—that habitual gesture that's been driving me to distraction since the moment I met her.
"Not... exactly," she admits. "I'm not... that is, I haven't..."
Understanding dawns like a bucket of cold water on my crotch. "You're a virgin."
It's not a question, but she nods anyway, her eyes never leaving mine. "Does that... change things?"
"Yes," I say quickly, forcing myself to put space between us. "It changes everything."
"Why?" There's a hint of defiance in her voice now. "I know what I want."
My thumb traces her cheekbone. "Because you deserve better than a hotel room in the middle of a work trip. Because your first time shouldn't be with someone who's so much older than you. Because—" I pause, honesty forcing its way past my usual barriers. "Because I don't do commitment, Camille.”
She frowns slightly. "What does that mean?"
I step back, creating distance that feels both necessary and painful. "It means you think you want this now, but you have no idea what you're getting into. With me. With what I would expect."
"So you're making my decisions for me?" Her chin lifts, challenge flashing in her eyes.
"No," I correct her. "I'm making mine."
I move toward the door, each step an exercise in restraint. "Let’s pretend that this never happened."
"And if I don't want to pretend?" she calls after me, her voice steadier than I expected.
I pause in the doorway, allowing myself one last look at her—flushed and beautiful, lips still reddened from my kiss, eyes bright with a mixture of desire and frustration.
"That’s not an option," I say forcefully.
I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I gather my composure. This has become far more complicated than I anticipated.