Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Winter
Iarrive at Sterling Luxury at nine-thirty Tuesday morning, coffee in one hand and my laptop bag in the other.
The office Knox gave me yesterday is exactly as I left it—empty desk, bare walls, windows overlooking the city. My team won't be here until this afternoon to set up the larger work table and equipment, so for now it's just me and the basic furniture.
I set my coffee on the desk and pull out my laptop, but before I can open it, there's a knock at the door. Marcus appears, tablet in hand.
"Morning, Ms. Hayes. I have the building access information you requested, and I wanted to coordinate on Mr. Sterling's availability for your meetings this week."
"Thank you." I take the folder he's holding.
"I mentioned to Knox yesterday that I'll need morning sessions for at least the first week or two to review designs and specifications. Eleven or eleven-thirty works best for my schedule."
Marcus taps something on his tablet.
"Mr. Sterling asked me to let you know he'll arrange his schedule as needed to accommodate your preferred times. If 11 AM works best for you, he'll make that work."
Something about that statement makes me pause. Knox Sterling rearranging his schedule around mine feels... significant. More accommodating than I expected from someone with his reputation.
I don't let it show on my face.
"That's very considerate. For today, would his office or mine work better?"
"Let me check." Marcus scrolls through the tablet.
"He has back-to-back meetings until ten-forty-five, then he's clear. Your office would probably be easier for him."
"Perfect. My office at eleven, then."
Marcus makes a note.
"I'll confirm with him. Is there anything else you need to get set up?"
"The access codes and server login should cover it. My team will be here this afternoon with equipment."
"Great. I'll make sure security knows to expect them." He heads toward the door, then stops.
"And Ms. Hayes? Welcome to the team. Everyone's excited about the Sterling Tower project."
"Thank you, Marcus."
He leaves, and I'm alone again with my coffee and the empty office.
I spend the next hour unpacking my laptop, connecting to the network, and pulling up the project files.
By eleven, I have material samples spread across the desk—stone selections for the two-bedroom unit, fabric swatches, paint chips, tile options for the bathroom.
I'm deep into comparing two different marble options when there's a knock at my door.
I don't look up. "Come in."
"Morning."
Knox's voice.
I glance up. He's standing in the doorway in a dark suit, no tie, looking like he just stepped out of a board meeting. Which he probably did.
"Morning," I say, setting down the marble samples.
"Thanks for making time."
"This project is priority." He steps further into the office, his eyes scanning the materials on my desk.
"What do we have?"
"Material selections for the two-bedroom unit. I want to lock down the primary palette this week so we can start sourcing."
Knox walks over and picks up one of the marble samples I was just comparing. Studies it in the light from the windows, turns it over to see the back.
"This for the bathroom?" he asks.
"Kitchen counters. Calacatta with gold veining. Pairs with the white oak cabinetry I'm proposing."
He sets it down and picks up the other option—a cooler-toned marble with gray veining.
"And this one?"
"Statuario. Cleaner, more modern. Less warmth but more dramatic."
"Which one are you recommending?"
"The Calacatta. The warmth keeps the space from feeling too sterile."
Knox studies both samples again, and I can see him running the calculation. He sets down the Statuario and picks up the Calacatta again.
"The veining is inconsistent," he observes.
"You'll have matching issues across multiple slabs."
He's not wrong. Calacatta is notoriously difficult to book-match because of the natural variation.
"That's why I'm specifying vein-cut slabs with sequential numbering," I say.
"The fabricator will map the pattern before cutting to ensure visual flow across the island and perimeter counters."
Knox's eyebrow raises slightly.
"That's expensive."
"It's worth it. The kitchen is the first thing people see when they walk into that unit. It needs to be flawless."
He sets down the sample and picks up a fabric swatch from the pile. Navy linen with a subtle texture.
"Living room?" he asks.
"Accent pillows on the sofa. Brings in the coastal influence without being literal about it."
Knox rubs the fabric between his fingers, testing the weight and texture. Then he sets it down and picks up a paint chip—soft warm white with the slightest hint of gray.
"Wall color?"
"Main living spaces. It's warm enough to feel inviting but neutral enough to let the furniture and art be the focus."
He holds the paint chip up to the light, examining how it looks in natural illumination versus the overhead office lighting. This is what I didn't expect. I respect it more than I want to admit.
"What about the tile?" he asks, gesturing to the samples I haven't shown him yet.
I pull out the bathroom tile selections.
"Master bath. I'm proposing large-format porcelain that mimics limestone. Subtle, sophisticated, timeless."
Knox picks up the sample, feels the texture, examines the finish.
"This isn't real limestone."
"No. But it's more durable, easier to maintain, and won't etch from acidic cleaners. Buyers want the look of natural stone without the upkeep."
"You're assuming buyers care about maintenance."
"I'm assuming buyers are smart enough to know that eight-million-dollar properties require practical luxury, not just pretty surfaces."
Knox looks at me for a beat longer than necessary, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Then he sets down the tile sample.
"Send me the full specifications," he says.
"Material types, sources, lead times, costs per square foot."
"I'll have it to you by end of day."
"I need approval by Thursday to keep the timeline," I add.
"You'll have it."
He moves toward the door, then stops and turns back.
"The Calacatta is the right choice. But make sure the fabricator understands the book-matching is non-negotiable. I don't want to see mismatched veining."
"Already specified in the RFP."
Knox nods and leaves. I glance at my watch: 11:35.
Our planned fifteen-minute meeting just stretched to thirty-five minutes, and neither of us acknowledged it.
The rest of the week falls into a rhythm..
Wednesday morning, 11am in Knox's office.
We stand at his conference table reviewing updated renderings for the three-bedroom unit, our shoulders nearly touching as we lean over the plans.
I can smell his cologne—clean, masculine, with a hint of aftershave that does something to my focus I refuse to acknowledge.
When Knox points to a detail on the rendering, his hand comes close to mine.
I shift slightly away and refocus on the budget allocation discussion.
"This is where we'll see the biggest impact," I say, indicating the custom millwork specifications.
Knox approves the increased budget without hesitation. He trusts my judgment, which I appreciate more than I should.
As I'm gathering my materials to leave, Knox mentions,
"I'll be in Dallas most of next week for another site visit. I trust you'll make progress and have everything ready to go?"
"I'll be ready."
Thursday morning brings another meeting in my office. Knox arrives while I'm on the phone with a difficult tile supplier, and he waits without complaint, watching me negotiate until I get exactly what I need.
"Sorry," I say when I hang up.
"Tile supplier being difficult."
"Did you get what you needed?"
"Always do."
We review the three-bedroom schematics, and I spread fabric swatches across my desk. Knox reaches for one at the same moment I do. Our hands brush—just fingertips, barely contact—but we both freeze for half a second.
I pull back first. "This one for the master bedroom."
Knox refocuses on the fabric, but the awareness lingers in the air between us.
I notice the way he listens when I talk, the way his hands move when he gestures to illustrate a point.
He notices things too—I catch him looking when I tuck hair behind my ear, when I tilt my head to consider a color combination.
Neither of us acknowledges any of it.
By Friday afternoon, we're back at the construction site for the second visit of the week. Progress is visible—the two-bedroom unit has drywall now, the three-bedroom has rough electrical, and the penthouse level is taking shape.
My team disperses to document the changes while Knox observes from across the space. I'm directing a placement discussion with one of the contractors when I feel his gaze on me. Again.
I walk over. "Problem?"
"Just observing."
"See anything you like?" The question comes out with more edge than I intended.
Knox's expression doesn't change.
"The progress is good."
We end up walking the penthouse level together, and I describe my evolving vision for the master suite. The late afternoon sun pours through the window openings—the same golden light from our first visit—and we stand in what will eventually be the bedroom.
"This is where the magic happens," I say, gesturing to the space. "When someone walks in here, I want them to feel..."
"What?"
I turn to look at him.
"Home. Not impressed. Just... home."
Knox holds my gaze.
"That's what I want too."
The moment stretches between us—understanding, connection, something I'm not ready to name—before Tom calls Knox over to review a mechanical issue.
I return to my team and finish documenting the progress.
By 5 pm, we're wrapping up. Teams dispersing, everyone heading into their weekends.
Knox and I end up near the entrance at the same time.
"Have a good weekend," he says.
"You too. Safe travels to Dallas."
"Thanks."
We leave separately—him to his car, me to mine.
The weekend stretches ahead. For the first time in a week, I won't see Knox Sterling tomorrow morning at eleven.
Won't review materials across a conference table, won't catch myself noticing the way he listens, won't feel that awareness that's been building with every meeting, every interaction, every moment we pretend isn't happening.
I should be relieved. But I'm not.