Chapter 3
I woke up with the memory of Tariq’s mouth on mine and immediately pulled a pillow over my face.
Excellent. Exactly what I needed before a full day of work with the man.
So far, I wasn’t having much luck.
I shoved the pillow aside and sat up.
The guest suite was quiet except for the soft rush of air-conditioning. Tariq hadn’t followed me last night. He hadn’t sent a message afterward or found some excuse to appear at my door.
He’d listened when I said the speed made me nervous.
Then, when I still chose to kiss him, he’d kissed me until I could barely remember my own name and stopped before either of us went farther than I was ready for.
Remembering that he’d stopped sent a low, traitorous warmth through me.
I swung my feet to the floor.
“Work,” I told myself.
That was a safe subject.
Campaign strategy didn’t have Tariq’s dark eyes, a deep voice, or a kiss that had nearly buckled my knees.
My phone started ringing.
Amanda’s name lit the screen.
I grabbed it.
“Good morning.”
“Please tell me you’re awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“Are you dressed?”
I looked down at the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in.
“That feels like an unnecessarily strict definition of prepared.”
“Chrissy.”
“I have plenty of time.”
“You have a client meeting.”
“I know. I’m getting up now.”
“You just said you were awake.”
“I was awake horizontally.”
Amanda sighed.
“Fine. Tell me how yesterday went.”
I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear and crossed into the sitting room.
“Good. Really good, actually. We rebuilt most of the guest-experience section around arrival and anticipated needs. Two of the concepts moved into the next creative revision.”
“Two of yours?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause, but not a bad one.
“Good.”
Warmth spread beneath my ribs.
Amanda wasn’t generous with praise because she generally assumed competent adults should be competent. Coming from her, good had weight.
“The accessibility treatment is stronger too,” I said. “Less explanatory. More about showing people moving through the space normally instead of making accommodation the point.”
“That’s smarter.”
“We also pulled one late-night-service promise until Elias verifies consistency across the property.”
“That’s also smart.”
I smiled.
“I’m enjoying this conversation.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“That sounds more like you.”
Amanda laughed under her breath.
“Send me the revised deck before lunch. I want enough time to review before I fly in.”
“You’re still coming the day after tomorrow?”
“Day five, as planned. I’ll be there for final prep, the presentation, and the gala.”
I glanced at the date on my phone.
“And your return flight is still the following morning,” she added. “I checked the itinerary last night.”
“I have it.”
“Good. I don’t want you losing track of time because the client keeps adding work.”
My gaze drifted toward the closed door leading from my guest wing to the rest of the residence.
I turned away from the door.
“That won’t happen.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
I thought of kissing Tariq.
“No, nothing else.”
The answer came quickly enough that I immediately felt guilty, even though my private life wasn’t a line item on Amanda’s project brief.
“The team’s in good shape,” I added. “I’ll send the deck.”
“Do that. And Chrissy?”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing well.”
I stopped moving.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. Now get dressed.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone for a second.
Then I smiled.
Amanda had sent me because I knew the account and could get on a plane in forty-eight hours. Now she was telling me I was doing well because I actually was.
I wanted more of that.
The thought stayed with me as I picked up the house phone and pressed the button marked RESIDENCE DESK.
A woman answered immediately.
“Good morning, Ms. Campbell. How may I assist you?”
“Could I get coffee and something light for breakfast?”
“Of course. Would you prefer service in your sitting room?”
“Yes, please.”
She asked how I took my coffee and gave me several breakfast choices without sounding as though the kitchen would collapse if I requested something outside them.
I chose eggs, fruit, and toast.
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in a pale coral sleeveless blouse with a cream A-line skirt and nude flats, I sat at the little table in my private sitting room with coffee hot enough to restore civilization.
There was no Tariq, no ceremonial breakfast table, and no flying melon, which was probably safer for everyone.
I ate while reviewing the deck, made three notes, changed one sentence, and managed almost seven consecutive minutes without thinking about his hands on my waist.
By eight-thirty, I was downstairs in the working room with my laptop open and most of my attention on the campaign.
Then Tariq walked in, and my progress ended.
He wore a charcoal suit today, crisp white shirt open at the throat without a tie. His hair was controlled, his beard immaculate, and the sight of him sent a slow warm pull through my belly before he’d said a word.
His attention found me almost immediately, subtle enough that no one else would notice.
I did.
“Good morning, Chrissy.”
“Good morning.”
Somehow, my voice sounded normal.
He took his seat without a private smile, a reference to last night, or any indication that his tongue had been in my mouth and his body hard against mine the night before.
I wanted to throw a pen at him.
The session began.
For the next two hours, we actually worked.
The revised campaign sequence opened with a guest arriving after a long flight, moved through small moments of anticipated need, and used the hotel itself as the setting instead of the subject.
I presented three alternate messaging directions.
One of the Al-Hadid executives preferred the safest.
I didn’t.
“The first line is cleaner,” he said, “and more traditionally luxurious.”
“It is,” I agreed. “But it takes us back toward describing the property instead of showing the experience.”
He looked toward Tariq.
Tariq didn’t rescue me.
“What would you keep?” he asked.
I pulled the second concept onto the screen.
“This one. It lets the guest remain central.”
“Even though it’s less formal?”
“Because it’s less formal.”
The executive frowned thoughtfully.
I continued.
“People who can afford luxury already know what marble looks like. They don’t need us to explain expensive things to them. We need to show them why this hotel makes their trip better.”
Tariq leaned back in his chair.
“What happens if the campaign becomes too approachable?”
I met his eyes.
“We don’t make the hotel less exclusive,” I said. “We make the service more emotionally legible.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Explain.”
“The guest still sees the suite, the driver, the dining room, the view. We just stop expecting those things to create the entire feeling by themselves.”
“And what creates it?”
“It comes from attention.”
The answer came out before I could overthink it.
I kept going.
“The luxury works because somebody noticed what the guest needed before it became a problem.”
Nobody laughed.
Nobody looked at Tariq.
The marketing lead nodded slowly.
“That gives us a clearer through-line.”
We kept the second concept.
He was across the table, but he was also the CEO asking useful questions while I defended work I believed in.
When he disagreed, he said why.
When I disagreed back, he listened.
He didn’t praise every sentence I produced as though I were a clever pet performing for him.
We broke for lunch shortly after noon.
The team ate in one of the hotel’s private meeting rooms while reviewing revised visual treatments.
I was halfway through grilled chicken and a salad when Tariq stopped beside my chair.
“Do you have plans this evening?”
My fork paused.
Several people remained within earshot.
His tone was neutral enough to be professional.
My pulse raced anyway.
“No, I don’t.”
“I’d like you to have dinner with me.”
I looked up.
“Is this work?”
“No, it isn’t.”
Well, there went neutral.
I set my fork down.
He didn’t add a justification, a campaign deck, or a pretend reason for putting us together privately.
“Where do you want to go?”
“On the rooftop terrace.”
The rooftop was in the same residence, private and very close to my room.
My skin warmed.
“You’re asking me on a date.”
“I am.”
The corner of my mouth lifted.
“You know, most people usually build up to that part.”
“I kissed you yesterday. I assumed the build-up was sufficient.”
A laugh escaped me.
“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”
“Is that a yes?”
I met his eyes. Like last night, he waited for my answer without crowding me.
“Yes, it is.”
His jaw flexed once.
“I’ll see you at eight.”
“All right.”
He inclined his head and moved away.
I stared after him for exactly one second too long.
Then I picked up my fork.
One of the women from the creative team sat across from me, deeply interested in her tablet.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly.
By four, we had a revised deck ready to send to Amanda and three visual sequences moving into final development.
At four-fifteen, a woman from the hotel’s luxury retail team appeared beside my chair.
“Ms. Campbell?”
“Yes?”
“I’m here regarding evening wardrobe options.”
I blinked.
She smiled.
“We were told your travel was arranged on short notice and that you may need appropriate clothing for the gala and other evening events. We can bring selections to the residence, or you’re welcome to view them privately downstairs.”
Of course they could.
This hotel could probably produce a ball gown, a helicopter, and a string quartet with forty minutes’ notice.
“Who arranged this?”
“The residence authorized access.”
Maybe Tariq had authorized it without turning it into a personal shopping expedition.
If so, that was smart.
“I’d like to choose downstairs.”
“Of course.”
Thirty minutes later, I stood in a private fitting room surrounded by dresses that almost certainly cost more than my first car.
I rejected three immediately.
One made me look like I was auditioning to become someone’s wealthy aunt.
Another had enough structural engineering in the chest to qualify as commercial architecture.