Page 99 of The Silver Fox Brother

"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.