Page 55 of The Silver Fox Brother

Winter glances at me. Brief.

"That's fine. I have time."

"Good."

The elevator continues its descent.

"What made you choose Tribeca for this project?" she asks, still looking at the numbers.

Professional question. Safe territory.

"Location," I say. "Proximity to the Financial District without being in it. The neighborhood's established but still evolving. River views, good schools, the right demographic."

She nods slowly. "High-net-worth professionals. Finance, tech, law."

"Exactly."

"They'll want luxury, but they'll also want livability. Spaces that justify the price point beyond just square footage and finishes."

I turn slightly toward her. "Which is why I need a designer who understands that balance."

"Statement pieces that don't sacrifice comfort," she says, her fingers tapping against the portfolio.

"Spaces that photograph well but also function for actual living."

"Yes."

The elevator slows as we approach the ground floor. Winter shifts her weight slightly—a small adjustment, but I notice it. Notice the line of her calf in those heels, the way the pencil skirt moves with her. I look back at the elevator numbers as the doors open to the lobby. I gesture for her to exit first.

"After you."

She steps out. I follow, close enough to catch that scent again. Close enough to be aware of her height, her presence, the careful distance she maintains.

Marcus has the car waiting by the time we reach the lobby. Victor, my driver, is at the curb with the black Mercedes sedan, engine running. He sees us approaching and moves to open the rear door.

"Ms. Hayes," I say, gesturing toward the car.

She doesn't hesitate. Slides into the back seat with practiced ease, the pencil skirt riding up slightly before she adjusts it, portfolio settling on her lap. I follow her in, and the space immediately feels smaller than it should.

The back seat is designed for two—a bench configuration, not the typical opposing seats. Which means when I settle in beside her, there's less than a foot of space between us.

I'm aware of it immediately.

The proximity. The warmth. The way her shoulder is almost—but not quite—touching mine.

Victor closes the door, gets in the driver's seat, and pulls into traffic without a word.

The summer heat outside is oppressive—the kind of July afternoon where the pavement shimmers and the air feelsthick. Inside the car, the AC is a sharp contrast. Cool. Almost cold.

Winter sets her portfolio on the seat between us. A buffer.

"Tribeca," Victor says from the front.

"Yes. Sterling Tower site."

The car navigates through Midtown traffic with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this route a thousand times. We head south on Madison, then cut west toward the river.

"Tell me about your vision for the building," Winter says. She's looking out the window, watching the city pass.