Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Knox
*ONE WEEK LATER*
The weather is perfect for golf—clear sky, mild temperature, just enough breeze to keep it comfortable.
I'm standing on the eighth hole at the Winged Foot Country Club with Fletcher and our mutual friend David, who's been complaining about his swing for the last twenty minutes.
"I'm telling you, it's the new driver," David says, lining up his shot.
"The weight distribution is completely off."
Fletcher leans on his club, watching with barely concealed amusement.
"Or maybe you just need to actually practice instead of blaming your equipment."
"Says the man who plays twice a week."
"Exactly. Which is why my handicap is better than yours."
David swings and the ball hooks left, landing in the rough about thirty yards short of the green.
"Perfect," he mutters.
I step up to the tee, set my ball, and take my stance. The familiar weight of the club in my hands, the quiet focus before the swing—this is the kind of routine that keeps me sane when everything else feels chaotic.
I swing clean and the ball sails straight down the fairway, landing just short of the green.
"Show-off," David says, but he's grinning.
Fletcher steps up next and drives his ball nearly as far as mine, just slightly right of center.
"Not bad," I say as we head down the fairway.
"Not bad?" Fletcher scoffs.
"That was textbook."
We play through the next few holes with the usual banter—Fletcher giving David grief about his form, David insisting his clubs are sabotaging him, me staying mostly quiet and focused on my game.
By the time we reach the twelfth hole, the conversation shifts to business.
"How's the Riverside development coming?" I ask Fletcher as we wait for David to take his shot.
Fletcher runs a hand through his hair.
"Ahead of schedule, surprisingly. The contractor we brought in from Boston is worth every penny we're paying him. We broke ground three weeks ago and we're already at foundation stage for the first building."
"That's good progress."
"Better than good. If we maintain this pace, we'll be ready for the luxury condo presale by next spring instead of summer." He pauses, then adds, "What about you? How's the Tribeca project? I haven't gotten a full update in a few weeks."
I line up my putt, focusing on the slope of the green.
"It's coming along. Record timing, actually."
"Yeah? Winter Hayes living up to the hype?"
I sink the putt and straighten up.
"She's exceeded expectations."
Fletcher raises an eyebrow.
"High praise coming from you."
I shrug and walk toward the next hole without elaborating.
David catches up to us, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Speaking of developments, did either of you see the article in the Journal about the new zoning proposals downtown? Could affect a lot of upcoming projects."
Fletcher launches into a discussion about zoning regulations and political maneuvering, and I'm grateful for the redirect. We play through the next several holes debating city planning, market trends, and which investors are worth courting for future projects.
By the time we finish the eighteenth hole, I'm feeling more centered than I have in days. Golf does that—forces me to focus, clears my head, reminds me there's a rhythm to things even when everything feels unpredictable.
We head back to the clubhouse and David checks his watch.
"I need to get going," he says, pulling out his phone.
"Denise has got that charity thing tonight and I promised I'd be home by three to help set up."
"Charity thing?" Fletcher asks.
"Some fundraiser for the children's hospital. She's on the board, so I'm contractually obligated to show up and smile at rich people."
I shake his hand. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks. Next time, I'm bringing my own clubs. These rentals are garbage."
Fletcher laughs. "Sure, David. That's definitely the problem."
David flips him off good-naturedly and heads toward the parking lot. Fletcher turns to me.
"Lunch? I'm starving and you look like you could use a drink."
I hesitate for half a second, then nod.
"Yeah. Let's do it."
One hour later, we settle into a corner table in the clubhouse dining room—dark wood, leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the course. The kind of place where deals get made over scotch and cigars.
Fletcher orders a burger. I order the steak and a scotch, neat. The waiter disappears and Fletcher leans back in his chair, studying me.
"Alright, what's going on?"
I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"You've been distracted all morning. Quiet, even for you. Something's up."
"I'm fine."
"You're full of shit." Fletcher grins.
"Come on. We've been friends for fifteen years. I know when something's bothering you."
The waiter returns with our drinks. I take a long sip of the scotch, letting the burn settle in my chest before I answer.
"The Tribeca project," I say finally.
"It's more complicated than I expected."
Fletcher's expression shifts to concern.
"Complicated how? Budget issues? Timeline problems?"
"No. The project itself is fine. Ahead of schedule, like I said."
"Then what's the complication?"
I set down my glass and meet his eyes.
"Winter Hayes."
Fletcher's eyebrows shoot up.
"Your designer? What about her?"
I don't answer immediately. The words feel heavier than they should, like admitting this out loud makes it more real.
"We had dinner about a little over a week ago," I say carefully.
"It was supposed to be about the penthouse design. A working dinner."
"Okay..."
"It wasn't just about work."
Fletcher's eyes widen slightly, and then a slow grin spreads across his face.
"Wait. Are you telling me—"
"We ended up at the construction site afterward. There was a disagreement about a design element. We went to settle it."
"And?"
"And things got out of hand."
Fletcher leans forward, his grin widening.
"Define 'out of hand.'"
I take another drink.
"We had sex. At the site. In the penthouse."
For a second, Fletcher just stares at me. Then he bursts out laughing.
"You dog!" He's still laughing, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Knox Sterling, the man who never mixes business with pleasure, hooked up with his designer on a construction site?"
"It's not funny."
"It's hilarious. And also completely unlike you." Fletcher's laughter subsides but the grin remains.
"So what happened? How did this even start?"
I run a hand through my hair.
"We had wine at dinner. Too much wine. The conversation got personal. She told me about what happened with Rowan—"
Fletcher's expression shifts.
"Your brother?"
"They broke up. Weeks ago, actually. Before she even started working on my project."
"Wait, Winter and Rowan broke up?" Fletcher processes this.
"And you didn't know?"
"Not until recently."
Fletcher whistles low. "That's messy."
"I'm aware."
"So you had dinner, she told you about the breakup, and then what? You just decided to—"
"It wasn't planned. We went to the site to resolve a design disagreement. One minute we're arguing about window placement, the next minute..." I trail off.
Fletcher is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"And now?"
"And now I don't know what happens next."
"Have you talked to her since?"
"No."
"Are you planning to?"
I don't answer immediately. The truth is, I haven't stopped thinking about Winter since she got in that elevator. The way she looked at me. The way she felt. The way everything changed in the span of an hour.
Fletcher takes a drink of his beer.
"Do you want it to happen again?"
I cock an eyebrow and take a slow sip of my scotch, considering the question.
"I'd be open to the possibility," I say carefully.
"But this is uncharted territory for me. I've never gotten involved with someone I'm working with. Never mixed personal and professional like this."
"Yeah," Fletcher says, his tone more serious now.
"That's the cardinal rule. Don't sleep with contractors, don't sleep with employees, don't complicate business relationships with personal entanglements."
"I know."
"But you did it anyway."
"I did."
Fletcher studies me for a long moment.
"So what's different about her?"
The question catches me off guard.
What is different about Winter Hayes?
Everything.
The way she challenges me. The way she doesn't back down when I push. The way she looks at design the same way I look at development—like it's not just a job but a calling. The way she walked into my conference room and demanded to be taken seriously. The way she felt in my arms.
But I don't say any of that out loud.
"She's talented," I say instead.
"Professional. Good at what she does."
Fletcher gives me a look that says he knows I'm not telling him everything, but he doesn't push.
The waiter arrives with our food and sets the plates down. I cut into my steak, grateful for the distraction.
"So what are you going to do?" Fletcher asks after a few bites.
"About what?"
"About Winter. About the fact that you clearly want to sleep with her again but you're worried about crossing professional lines."
I set down my fork. "I don't know yet."
"Well, you better figure it out. Because if you're working together every day and you're both pretending nothing happened, that's going to get complicated fast."
"It's already complicated."
Fletcher grins. "Yeah. But that's never stopped you before."
I shake my head and return to my steak. He's right, of course.
I need to figure this out. Need to decide what happens next with Winter, whether we will eventually acknowledge what happened or pretend it was a one-time lapse in judgment.
The time has been passing, and we have not addresses it at all.
But sitting here in the country club with Fletcher, eating lunch and drinking scotch, I already know the answer.
I want her again.
And that's a problem I have no idea how to solve.
***