"And design that makes them want to stay."
She turns her head, looks at me directly. We're close now—maybe two feet apart, both illuminated by that high-altitude summer sun.
"You really care about this," she observes.
"It's not just a project to you."
"It's never just a project."
"Why?"
I consider the question. It's more personal than anything she's asked so far, but the answer feels important.
"Because buildings outlast us," I say finally.
"What I build now, people will live in for decades. Raise families in. Build lives in. That matters."
Winter holds my gaze. Something shifts in her expression—the professional assessment giving way to something else. Curiosity, maybe. Interest beyond the project specs.
"Not many developers think that way," she says.
"You've mentioned that before."
"Because it's true." She pauses, then adds, “It's also why you need the right designer. Someone who understands that buildings are more than just square footage and finishes."
"Is that you?"
The question hangs between us.
Winter doesn't answer immediately. She looks back at the view, at the city sprawling below, at the rivers catching afternoon light.
"It could be," she says finally.
Not yes. Not no.
Could be.
I want to push. Want to ask what it would take to turn "could be" into "yes." Want to know what she's thinking behind that carefully controlled professional exterior.
But I don't.
Instead, I pull my phone from my pocket, check the time.
"We should head back. I promised you'd be back within forty-five minutes."
Winter nods. "Right. Yes."
We walk back toward the construction elevator. Tom is waiting there, having given us space to discuss the master suite privately.
As we descend, Winter is quieter than she was on the way up. Looking at the building falling away around us, but I can see her mind working. Wheels turning behind those blue eyes.
Processing. Weighing. Deciding.
At the fifteenth floor, she asks one more question.
"The timeline," she says.
"Six months from contract to installation. That's firm?"