Chapter 4 #2
I’d visited the place so many times that most of it existed to me as function.
The west terrace was positioned to lose direct sun by late afternoon.
Deep overhangs and overhead fans kept the courtyard usable even at the height of summer.
The private guest rooms were positioned away from the main suite so visitors had privacy without feeling isolated.
Chrissy stopped beside a small pot of pale flowers against a stone wall and noticed the chilled towels that appeared after we crossed an exposed stretch of courtyard.
She also noticed a bench placed precisely where the shade reached it and the staff member who set a fresh carafe of water on the terrace, then disappeared before she could thank him.
She touched one of the flowers with the tip of her finger.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned to me.
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You own it.”
“I own the estate. I don’t personally interview the plants.”
She laughed.
“They’re tiny.”
I glanced at the pale yellow blossoms.
“I can see that.”
“You walked past them.”
“I’ve walked past them many times.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I’ll apologize.”
“To the flowers?”
“If necessary.”
She took out her phone with a smile.
She photographed the plant.
“For the campaign?” I asked.
“Maybe the flowers belong in it.”
“You want to put flowers in the campaign.”
“I want to remember the scale.”
I waited.
She crouched slightly to photograph the blooms against the stone.
“The hotel keeps showing huge things—huge suites, huge lobbies, huge views, huge cars, huge everything.”
“That’s because the things are huge.”
“I know.”
She stood.
“But this is the part I keep noticing.”
“You mean the flowers?”
“The water. The shade. The way nobody hovered after they brought it. That little towel that magically appeared before I admitted I was hot.”
She tucked her phone away.
“The expensive part isn’t always what makes the experience feel expensive.”
“What does?”
Chrissy turned toward the shaded terrace.
“Somebody paying attention.”
We had lunch beneath the broad awning on the shaded terrace.
Overhead fans kept the air moving. Lunch was simple by the standards of my household: grilled fish, rice, vegetables, flatbread, yogurt, fruit.
Chrissy surveyed the table.
“I’m beginning to distrust the word simple around you.”
“This is simple.”
“There are six serving dishes.”
“There were more at breakfast.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
I smiled.
She filled her plate, then opened her notebook beside it.
“Should we work first?”
“We eat first.”
She raised her head.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
“I’m going to ignore the tone and agree with the content.”
“That’s very generous.”
She ate several bites before touching the notebook.
I did the same.
Finally, she tapped her pen against the page.
“I think we’ve been framing this wrong.”
“You mean the campaign?”
“Not entirely wrong. Just too much from the hotel’s side.”
I waited.
“Every draft starts with what Al-Hadid provides—the suite, the car, the dinner, the service.”
“That’s what we sell.”
“No. You sell what those things do to someone.”
She pointed her fork toward the courtyard.
“I didn’t care that someone carried a cold glass out here. I cared that it was waiting before I realized how thirsty I was.”
“And how would you show that?”
She thought while she chewed.
“A guest comes in from the heat. She reaches toward a table without even breaking conversation because the drink is already there.”
“That’s subtle.”
“It should be.”
She made another note.
“Or a family gets to a room and the connecting door is already open because they requested it. Nobody needs a staff member standing there saying, ‘Look how personalized we are.’”
I nodded slowly.
“The service disappears.”
“Exactly. That’s it.”
“What is it?”
“The bigger the luxury, the less the guest should have to notice the work underneath it.”
I leaned back.
Chrissy kept going.
“The campaign doesn’t need to keep proving that you can afford beautiful things. Everyone knows you can. It needs to show that your scale lets you pay attention better, not just bigger.”
I stayed quiet.
She pushed a loose strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear and looked down at the page.
Chrissy lifted her head.
“What is it?”
I hadn’t realized how long I’d been quiet.
“It’s nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing face.”
“What does a nothing face look like?”
“It wouldn’t look that intense.”
She studied me.
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I’m going to use this.”
“You mean the campaign idea?”
“Yes, I mean the campaign idea.”
“Good. I’m glad you see it.”
“And I’m going to use you.”
Her brows rose.
“That sentence sounds terrible out of context.”
I laughed.
“I mean professionally, in the company.”
Her smile faded slightly.
“I’m talking about your work tomorrow, in the presentation.”
She studied me for a second.
Then she nodded.
“All right, then.”
I reached across the table and touched the back of her hand.
Her fingers turned beneath mine.
We stayed like that for several seconds.
Then Chrissy glanced at the notebook.
“I should probably make this legible before Amanda gets here tomorrow.”
“You have time.”
She held my gaze.
“I don’t have much.”
Tomorrow the presentation would end.
The gala would end.
The following morning, a car was still scheduled to take Chrissy to the airport.
I tightened my fingers around hers once, then released them.
“Finish your notes.”
She raised her eyebrows at me.
“You’re very bossy at lunch.”
“I’m told it’s part of my charm.”
“I’ll ask Goblin when we get back.”
“She has poor judgment.”
“She chose me.”
“So did I.”
Chrissy went still.
Then she dropped her gaze to her notebook again, smiling.
***
By late afternoon, the worst of the direct sun had eased from the pool terrace.
Chrissy closed her laptop and stretched both arms above her head.
“You’ve been working for two hours,” I said.
“So have you.”
“I’m at my own estate.”
“That doesn’t make spreadsheets recreational.”
“I wasn’t using a spreadsheet.”
“You were answering emails with a face that suggested someone was about to lose a building.”
“No one lost a building.”
“Good. Productive day.”
I laughed.
She stood.
“What happens now?”
“Nothing for an hour.”
Chrissy stared at me.
“You mean nothing?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There’s a pool.”
Her attention moved toward the private terrace.
“I saw it.”
“Did you bring swimwear?”
Her mouth tilted.
“I was told Dubai had pools.”
I smiled.
“An impressive piece of research.”
“I’m very thorough.”
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting beneath the shaded end of the pool terrace when Chrissy stepped outside.
She wore a dark teal one-piece swimsuit.
The suit was simple.
There was nothing simple about what it did to me.
It cupped her breasts, drew in at her waist, and left her thick thighs bare from the hip down.
She stopped just outside the door.
Her hands moved automatically toward her stomach.
Then they stopped.
Chrissy lowered them.
I stood.
Her gaze flicked over me.
I wore black swim shorts and nothing else.
“That seems unfair,” she said.
“What does?”
“You do.”
I smiled.
“That’s very specific.”
“I’m trying not to encourage you.”
“You’re failing.”
She walked toward me.
Her pace slowed when my attention moved over her body.
For one second she turned toward the pool instead.
I stepped closer.
“Chrissy, look at me.”
She looked back.
I touched one finger to the curve where her swimsuit met her hip.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Trying to decide whether you should hide from me.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“No, you’re not.”
I traced the edge of the fabric.
“You stopped yourself.”
She held my gaze.
“I’m working on it.”
“That’s all I want.”
Her brows lifted.
“You’re not giving me a speech?”
“Not this time.”
“No explanation about how I’m objectively wrong?”
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
My palm settled over her hip.
“But I’m going to keep wanting this.”
Her breath changed.
I slid my hand over the soft curve of her stomach.
“And this.”
Then I moved my hand around to the fullness of her ass.
“And definitely this.”
Chrissy laughed, but it came out breathless.
“That last one sounded less therapeutic.”
“I’m not trying to be therapeutic.”
“Good.”
I bent and kissed her.
She came against me immediately.
The swimsuit between us did very little to disguise what her body did to mine.
Her hands slid over my shoulders.
I kissed her until she was breathing hard, then made myself step back.
Chrissy blinked at me.
“You’re stopping?”
“Yes, for now.”
She glanced toward my shorts.
“That seems uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
She smiled slowly.
“I could help with that.”
“Later.”
Her eyes darkened.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
She laughed.
Then she walked past me toward the pool.
I followed.
We stayed there for almost an hour.
We swam.
Chrissy floated on her back until she drifted into me.
“You’re in my way.”
“You drifted into me.”
She splashed me, and I caught her around the waist.
She shrieked loud enough that someone inside the house probably heard.
When we finally went inside to change, I watched water run down her back and thought of her on my rug that morning with Goblin in her arms.
The thought had no business following me into a moment when Chrissy was wet and mostly naked.
It did anyway.
From the first day, I’d wanted Chrissy in my bed.
Now I could picture her in my company too—at my breakfast table arguing about food, on my terrace photographing flowers, on the floor naming stray animals.
I wanted her inside every room that had felt complete before she entered it.
Visiting those moments wasn’t enough.
I wanted them to become ordinary.
Dinner was served on a smaller terrace on the west side of the house.
Chrissy wore a loose pale blue dress that fell below her knees. Her hair was still slightly damp, curling more around her face than it had that morning.
We ate grilled lamb, vegetables, bread, and fruit.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I asked.
“I think so. Amanda gets in tomorrow, and then we present.”
She took another bite and shook her head.
“Goblin’s going to ruin something expensive.”
“She already attacked a cushion.”