Page 54 of The Silver Fox Brother

"Six months is tight," she says, her finger tracing the timeline on one of the documents.

"But manageable."

"For the right team, yes."

"Do you have the right team?"

She glances up. "I do."

"Then it's manageable."

We discuss logistics for the next twenty minutes. Budget contingency. Creative control—I tell her she'd have full autonomy within the approved aesthetic direction. Material sourcing timelines. The coordination between design and construction schedules.

She asks intelligent questions. Challenges assumptions. Pushes back on timeline constraints in ways that show she understands project management at a level most designers don't.

I'm impressed. More than impressed. At some point during the conversation, her name slips out.

"Winter, if we build in a two-week buffer between design approval and procurement—"

She notices. I see it in the slight pause, the way her eyes flick to mine for half a second. I don't correct myself. Neither of us acknowledges it. But something shifts again. The formality cracks slightly.

We keep talking. By the time we've covered the major logistics, it's been nearly forty minutes. The afternoon light has shifted, pouring through the western windows now, turning everything in my office golden.

I lean back, study her across the table.

"I want you to see the actual space," I say.

"Not just renderings."

She sets down the document she was holding.

"When?"

"Now. If you have an hour."

Winter hesitates. I can see the internal debate—the professional curiosity warring with... something else. Caution, maybe. Awareness that saying yes pulls her deeper into this. But she's curious. I can tell.

"We can be back within forty-five minutes," I add.

"The site is in Tribeca. Fifteen minutes there, fifteen back, fifteen on-site."

She looks at me for a long moment.

Then she nods. "Alright. Let's go."

The elevator ride down is forty floors of glass and steel, the city dropping away beneath us as we descend. It's one of those high-speed elevators that makes your ears pop, the kind that tourists ride just for the experience.

Winter stands near the back wall, portfolio held against her body like a shield. I'm closer to the control panel, watching the floor numbers tick down in rapid succession. The space feels smaller than it should.

Summer afternoon light pours through the glass walls, illuminating everything in that golden pre-evening glow. Manhattan spreads below us—buildings and streets and the organized chaos of the city at midday.

I steal a glance at her. In the heels, she's taller than I expected. Brings her closer to my eye level—maybe five-nine with the Louboutins. Her posture is perfect, shoulders back, chin level. The way she holds that portfolio suggests she's more comfortable with something to do with her hands. She's looking at the elevator numbers, not at me.

I notice her scent for the first time in the confined space. Subtle. Sophisticated. Something floral mixed with something warmer—vanilla, maybe, or amber. The kind of perfume that doesn't announce itself but lingers.

"The site is about fifteen minutes from here," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched too long.

"Depending on traffic."