5. CARTER
CARTER
"...someone we don't know, who doesn't know our design language, who hasn't seen the material boards or the grading plans, and you want to bring them in at this stage?
" Marcus Hale, from Sycamore Design, is standing two feet closer than necessary, clipboard angled toward me like a weapon.
"I've been on this project for weeks. My team has soil samples, drainage assessments, a full planting schedule.
And now I'm supposed to accommodate a second firm? "
The morning sun sits low over the Ojai valley, catching the scaffolding on the east wing and throwing long shadows across the exposed foundation beds. The air smells like dry earth, cut lumber and diesel from the excavator idling near the north terrace.
Three months. Maybe four, with delays. Then The Vale Hotel opens, and MH Group adds its fifth hotel to the portfolio.
This one is my personal project.
William built the brand, set the standard for the clubs and restaurants, but the hotels carry my fingerprint. Our other properties lean toward spectacle, controlled luxury, the kind of polish that tells a guest they're paying for perfection.
The Vale is different. Understated. The architecture steps back to let the landscape lead.
Oak groves, herb gardens, outdoor dining under trellis structures that follow the natural slope of the terrain.
The building serves the land, not the other way around.
It took me two years to find this specific parcel and another eight months to convince the right architect.
I'm proud of it. I don't say that often.
Almost ten years of building with William. And to think it started on the worst day of my life. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you is the catalyst for something better. Something with purpose.
"Mr. Hill?"
Marcus is waiting. I've been looking at the eastern ridge for longer than the conversation allows.
"The secondary firm will handle the kitchen garden," I say. "The area behind the restaurant and the orchard maintenance. Your scope doesn't change."
"With respect, it's not about scope. It's about coherence. Two different design philosophies on the same property will read as disjointed. I've seen it happen and it's never—"
"I guess it will work out by contrast." The voice comes from behind us. Female. Clear. Carrying a dry precision that makes Marcus stop mid-sentence.
"In the front, a landscape manicured to the point where it's not sustainable. In the back, a slow-gratification garden built for low maintenance and meant to last."
Marcus and I both turn.
Working boots, caked in dried mud. That's the first thing. Then legs, tanned and long in proportion to her frame, bare below cargo shorts that end mid-thigh. A worn white T-shirt, pulled loose at the collar. Hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head, brown strands escaping at her temples.
Then her face. Big brown eyes. Full lips, parted slightly in a smile that sits deeper on the left side, a single dimple that changes the geometry of everything around it.
The want is immediate and specific. Not a complication I was accounting for.
She extends her hand. "Sienna Cross."
The name connects. William's target. Adrian's fixation.
My hand closes around hers. Her grip is sure and warm. I should shake and release. Instead, I pull her forward a fraction. Just enough to close the distance. Just enough to watch her pupils widen and the pulse at her collarbone quicken.
"Carter Hill." I hold her gaze. "You're early. I didn't expect you until nine."
She doesn't pull away. "You know what they say. Being on time is ten minutes too late."
We stay like that. Hands clasped. Her eyes on mine, direct and unguarded. And for a while the construction site, Marcus, the schedule, the fact that this woman is standing here because William needs leverage. All of it recedes.
Marcus clears his throat.
I let go. The absence of her hand is immediate and felt.
"Sienna, this is Marcus Hale, project lead for Sycamore Design." I keep my voice even. "Marcus, Sienna Cross, Viridian Landscape Services. She'll be handling the secondary project I mentioned."
Marcus nods. His jaw is tight. Sienna doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care.
She turns to survey the front entrance where Marcus's team has been working. Rolls of sod staged along the gravel path. A precision-graded foundation for a formal boxwood arrangement. She takes it in, head tilting once to the left.
"Have you considered replacing the lawn sections with creeping thyme? Drought-resistant, low maintenance, supports pollinators. Plus, it smells incredible when people walk on it."
Marcus opens his mouth. But I think he is too shocked to speak.
"Marcus." I step forward, positioning myself between them without making it obvious. "Let's reconnect this afternoon. I'll walk Sienna through her section and send you the updated site plan before end of day."
He holds still for a moment, eyes on Sienna. Then nods. Turns. Walks toward the east terrace where his crew is stacking materials.
I watch him go. Then I turn to her. "Walk with me. I'll show you the space."
We move through the property side by side, following the service path that wraps behind the main building and descends toward the restaurant terrace.
The terrain is mostly untouched here, native scrub and oak trees and a slope that catches the morning light in a way the architects spent six months trying to frame.
Dust kicks up under our boots. The excavator has gone quiet.
The only sounds are birdsong and the distant metallic ring of scaffolding being assembled on the upper floors.
"The vision for The Vale Hotel is that the landscape does the talking," I say. "Every other hotel in the portfolio leads with architecture. This one leads with the land."
Sienna nods, slow. "I can see it. The bones are good. The terrain, the orientation, the way the building sits below the ridge line instead of competing with it." She pauses. "Most of it is working."
"Most?"
"The front entrance is fighting the site. You've got a Mediterranean climate, natural chaparral, native oaks, and someone decided the first thing guests should see is a formal English parterre."
She's right. But it was intentionally designed that way.
"It’s intentional. For the wow factor when guests arrive," I say, "you sometimes need something that reads as luxury at first glance."
"Sure. But luxury doesn't have to mean high-maintenance." She glances at me, and the left-side dimple appears. "Just a thought."
We reach the back terrace. The restaurant footprint is marked with orange stakes and survey tape, the kitchen entrance visible through the framed-out wall. Behind it, a half-acre of open ground slopes gently toward a row of citrus trees.
I walk her through the project. The kitchen garden, the herb beds, the service corridor planting.
Timelines, budget parameters, coordination with the head chef on ingredient selection.
She listens without drifting, questions arriving before I finish sentences.
At one point she stops mid-path and crouches down, presses two fingers into the soil, rubs them together. Then stands and makes a note.
"We want the restaurant to be farm-forward. Local sourcing, seasonal menus. That's why we want the garden functional, not decorative."
"Good. I'll need to sit down with the chef before I finalize the planting plan. Growing season, preferred herbs, whether he wants edible flowers for plating." She makes another note. "And I'll want to test the soil pH myself. Whatever data Sycamore has is for ornamentals, not food production."
Every time she speaks, her left hand moves, punctuating ideas.
When she's certain, the gestures are small and precise.
When she's working something through, they widen.
I track the pattern without meaning to. The way her eyes narrow on a detail.
The way she pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear and it escapes again immediately.
The faint sunburn across the bridge of her nose.
I'm noticing too much. I'm aware that I'm noticing too much. And I can’t seem to make it stop.
"I think I have what I need to start." She taps the iPad against her thigh. "I'll have preliminary plans within a few days."
"Good."
I start walking her back toward the parking area. The path takes us through the citrus grove, Valencia oranges glowing against dark leaves, and the scent hits warm and bright, cut with the mineral smell of dry soil.
Sienna slows. She's looking up at a branch just above her reach, one heavy orange at the end of it. She rises onto her toes, fingers stretching. The hem of her T-shirt lifts. A strip of bare skin at her waist, tanned and smooth.
My blood reroutes. Fast. Decisive. Entirely unhelpful.
She can't reach it. She goes up again, and the branch sways away from her fingers.
My feet move first. I close the distance, my arm going around her waist from behind, and I lift her. She's light. Her body presses back against my chest, the curve of her spine aligning against me.
She reaches up and plucks the orange from the branch with a small sound of satisfaction.
I lower her slowly. Feel her slide against me inch by inch, the soft give of her body registering along the entire length of mine. Her shoulder blades against my chest. Her hair close enough that I get the scent of something green and clean.
My arm is still around her waist. Her feet are on the ground. Neither of us moves. I can feel the pace of her breathing. I can feel the exact moment she decides not to step away.
"Valencia oranges are my favorite." Her voice huskier than it was a moment ago.
My mouth is near her ear. "Then we need to make sure these trees are part of the landscape design."
She exhales. The sound moves through me.
I step back. Release her. The sounds of the site fill the space between us, hammers, birdsong and the creak of scaffolding in the breeze. I can still feel the specific weight of her, the exact line of her spine where it met my chest.
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
Her truck is parked at the end of the access road. An old Ford, rust climbing the wheel wells, the bed scarred with use. But there's a sticker on the driver's side door, brand new, bright against the faded paint: Viridian Landscape Services. Clean design. Professional.
The corner of my mouth lifts. I know what it means to build something from nothing and put your name on it before you can afford anything else.
I open the door for her. She climbs in, settles behind the wheel. The window is already down. She rests her arm on the frame and looks at me, and whatever is happening between us sits in the open air of that look, unaddressed, unnamed.
"I'll be in touch," she says. "Soon."
I tap the roof twice. Step back.
She pulls away. The truck kicks up a thin trail of dust that hangs in the morning light, and I watch it until it reaches the main road and turns south.
I stay on the dirt road. Hands in my pockets.
William asked me to come here to find her weakness. I think the only weakness I've found is mine.