Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Knox
The next morning, I knock on Winter's office door.
"Come in."
She's at her desk, surrounded by fabric samples and vendor catalogs, but she's staring at her laptop screen with an expression I recognize. Stress. Frustration. The kind that comes from dealing with something that should be simple but isn't.
"Everything alright?" I ask, closing the door behind me.
Winter glances up. "Fine. Just apartment hunting is more complicated than expected."
I cross to her desk. "The realtor I mentioned—"
"I appreciate it, but I can handle this myself."
There's an edge to her voice that wasn't there yesterday at lunch. Something's changed between then and now.
I study her for a moment. "You're staying in a hotel."
It's not a question.
Winter's head snaps up, her eyes sharp.
"How did you know that?"
"Marcus mentioned he had documents delivered to your office when he needed a signature. When he inquired about a second mailing address for future correspondence, it came up. Your assistant gave the hotel as a billing address on the contract."
Winter sets down the pen she was holding.
"I didn't realize you paid that much attention to contract details."
"I pay attention to everything."
Silence stretches between us. She's not meeting my eyes now, just staring at the fabric samples on her desk like they require her complete focus.
"It's temporary," she says finally. "Until I find the right place."
"How long have you been in a hotel?"
"Three weeks."
The timeline clicks into place immediately.
"Three weeks," I repeat. "Since you started this project."
Winter doesn't respond, which is answer enough.
I should drop it. This is personal, not professional. None of my business what her living situation is as long as the work gets done. But I don't drop it.
"What about Rowan?" I ask, and I can hear the shift in my own voice. Careful now. Treading into territory I shouldn't.
"I had heard you were living with him in the Gramercy apartment."
I realize I'm prying. But I can't seem to stop myself. Winter's jaw tightens.
"I don't live there anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because we broke up."
The words hang in the air between us.
I process them slowly. Winter and Rowan broke up. My brother and the woman sitting across from me are no longer together.
"When?" I ask.
Winter looks at me directly now.
"The night before I accepted your project. Now can we please discuss the three-bedroom unit staging?"
"No."
Her eyebrows raise. "Excuse me?"
"You've been living in a hotel for three weeks while working on my project and you didn't think to mention this?"
Winter stands, her hands flat on her desk.
"It's personal. Not relevant to the work. And honestly, it's not really any of your business."
There's defiance in her voice now, irritation cutting through the professional veneer.
. "It's absolutely relevant. You need stability to do your job well," I say.
"I assure you, my living situation hasn't affected my work. The project is ahead of schedule."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is you shouldn't be living in a hotel. Let me help." My words ring more like a command than a plea.
Winter crosses her arms. "I don't need help."
"I have corporate apartments. Fully furnished, move-in ready. You can use one until you find permanent housing."
"That's not necessary."
"It's practical. And it's already decided."
Winter's eyes flash. "You can't just decide—"
"I can, and I did. Marcus will have the details by the end of day."
She stares at me, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes. Pride versus practicality. Independence versus accepting help she clearly needs.
"I don't take charity," she says, her voice tight.
"It's not charity. It's a business resource I'm offering to someone working on my most important project. You want to refuse, fine. But explain to me how living in a hotel for weeks makes more sense than accepting a temporary apartment at no cost to you."
Winter's mouth opens, then closes. She can't argue with the logic, and we both know it.
"I don't—" she starts.
"Please."
The word stops her mid-sentence.
I don't use that word often. Don't ask when I can direct. Don't request when I can demand.
But I use it now.
"Please," I say again, quieter this time. "Let me help."
Winter looks at me for a long moment. I can see her resistance wavering, practicality winning over pride.
"Fine," she says finally.
"Temporary. Until I find my own place."
"Agreed."
She sits back down, her shoulders releasing tension I didn't realize she was carrying.
"Thank you."
I nod. "I'll have Marcus contact you by this afternoon with options."
"Options?"
"We have several corporate apartments. Different neighborhoods, different layouts. You can choose the one that works best."
Winter's expression softens slightly.
"That's... very considerate."
"It's practical," I say, repeating my earlier statement. But we both know it's more than that.
I head toward the door, then stop with my hand on the handle. "Winter."
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry. About Rowan."
She looks surprised that I said it. "Thank you. But I'm not."
There's something in her voice—relief, maybe, or liberation—that makes me want to ask more questions. I want to know what happened. I want to understand why she left. But I don't ask.
"The three-bedroom staging," I say instead.
"We can discuss it later. Take the morning to sort out the apartment situation."
"I can work and apartment hunt at the same time."
"I know you can. But you don't have to."
I leave before she can argue, closing the door behind me.
In the hallway, I pull out my phone and text Marcus.
Knox: Corporate apartment for Winter Hayes. Chelsea, Flatiron, Greenwich Village -check where we have availability. Send her some options by COB today.
Marcus: On it.
I pocket my phone and head back to my office.
The following week arrives..
After a few morning calls finish, I need an espresso badly.
The office kitchen is empty when I walk in. I start the espresso machine, wait for it to heat up, and pull out my phone to check emails while the shot pulls.
The door opens behind me. I turn and see Winter standing there. She stops just inside the doorway, clearly not expecting anyone to be here. For a second, neither of us says anything.
"Sorry," she says finally. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not. Just making coffee." I gesture to the machine.
"Want one?"
"No, thank you. Just grabbing water."
She crosses to the refrigerator, and I turn back to the espresso machine as it finishes. The silence feels heavier than it should.
Winter closes the refrigerator, bottle of sparkling water in hand, but doesn't leave immediately.
"By the way," she says, and I look up.
"Thank you. For the apartment. For helping with all of that."
"You went with the Greenwich Village place?"
"Yes. I moved in over the weekend."
There's something in her expression—pleased, maybe relieved—that makes me set down my espresso cup.
"And it's working out?" I ask.
Winter nods, then pauses. "Actually, it's kind of a coincidence. I used to live two blocks from that apartment. So I'm back in the neighborhood I loved."
Something in my chest tightens at that. I thought of the Greenwich Village location because of proximity to her studio and the Tribeca site. Pure logistics. But somehow I managed to put her back in the neighborhood she wanted.
"I had no idea," I say.
"I know. But I'm glad it worked out that way." She smiles—just slightly, but it's there.
"So thank you. Really."
"You're welcome."
We stand there for a moment, the kitchen suddenly feeling smaller than it is. Winter's fingers tighten slightly around the water bottle, and I realize I'm just staring at her.
She clears her throat. "I should get back to work."
"Right. Yes."
Winter leaves, and I'm alone with my espresso.
A few hours later, I'm walking back from a meeting with Tom when I see Winter coming down the hallway from the opposite direction, phone to her ear, clearly in the middle of a conversation with a vendor.
We pass each other. She gives me a brief nod, still talking, and I catch her perfume as she walks by. I resist the temptation of turning around.
Later that afternoon, Tom stops by to give project updates in the main conference room. It's an informal gathering—just department heads and a few project managers—and I decide to join to hear the status on some of the other developments.
I don't expect Winter to be there, but she walks in a few minutes after the meeting starts, taking a seat across the table.
Tom must have invited her to get the Sterling Tower construction updates directly.
Tom presents progress on three different projects.
I try to focus on the data, the timelines, the budget projections but my eyes keep drifting across the table.
Winter is taking notes on her tablet, completely focused on the presentation. Our eyes meet once. Twice. Three times during the forty-minute meeting. Each time, the look holds just long enough that I lose track of what Tom is saying.
The meeting ends. People start gathering their materials, conversations breaking into smaller groups.
I'm talking with two of my associates about the Naples development when I see Winter in the corner, speaking with Tom.
He's explaining something, gesturing with his hands, and she's listening with the same focused attention she gives everything.
Tom says something that makes her laugh. I should be paying attention to what my associates are saying, but instead, I'm watching Winter interact with Tom, trying to understand why seeing her laugh at something he said bothers me more than it should.
"Knox?"
I refocus on the conversation in front of me.
"Sorry. What was the question?"
We finish the discussion, and I head back to my office.
Marcus patches through a call with investors for the Dallas project. We spend thirty minutes reviewing quarterly projections and market positioning. When I hang up, there's an email waiting from another investor group asking for updated timeline documentation for the Tribeca project.
I need the updated file from Winter. I pick up my desk phone and dial Marcus.
No answer.
I try again.
Still nothing.
He must have stepped away from his desk.
Instead of waiting for his return, I know what I'm doing by going myself. But I go anyway. I stride down the corridor and turn the corner where I see Winter's office door is open. I knock once and walk in without waiting for permission.
She looks up from her laptop.
"Do you ever wait to be invited in?"
"I need the updated timeline for the Tribeca project. Investor inquiry."
Winter sets down her pen.
"I would have had it ready for you if I'd known you needed it."
"That's fine. I just need it now."
She stands and crosses to the file cabinet against the wall, pulling open one of the drawers. She rifles through folders for a moment before extracting a thick file. She walks back toward me, extending the file.
As I reach for it, our fingers brush and the papers slip—not from my hands, but from hers. Pages scatter across the floor, some sliding under her desk, others fanning out across the hardwood.
"Damn it," Winter mutters, immediately crouching down.
I crouch beside her without thinking. We both reach for the same sheet. Our hands collide—fingers brushing, then tangling over the paper.
Winter looks up.
We're close. Only inches between us, both kneeling on her office floor, hands still touching. I can see the exact moment she realizes how close we are. Her breath catches, pupils dilating slightly, lips parting.
I don't move and neither does she. The air between us feels heavy, charged with something neither of us is saying. Her perfume is stronger this close—subtle but there, and I'm suddenly very aware of the fact that if I leaned forward just slightly—
Winter pulls her hand back.
She breaks eye contact, looks down at the scattered papers, and starts gathering them with hands that aren't quite steady. I help in silence, collecting pages and handing them to her until everything is back in order.
We both stand. Winter smooths the papers into a neat stack, not looking at me.
"Here." She extends the file toward me, careful this time to make sure our fingers don't touch.
I take it. "Thank you."
"Anything else?"
Her voice is professional, controlled, but there's an edge underneath that wasn't there before.
"No. This is what I needed."
I walk out the door and head back toward my office. I close the door behind me and set the file on my desk.
Winter Hayes has been working on this project for a while–and somewhere in that time, proximity became awareness. Awareness has become attraction. And attraction is becoming a problem I don't know how to solve.
I pull out my phone and dial into the investor call. But my mind is still on Winter's office floor, on the way she looked at me, on the fact that neither of us moved for far longer than we should have.
This is getting dangerous..but I'm not sure I care.