Page 56 of The Silver Fox Brother

"Beyond the specs. What do you want people to feel when they walk into these spaces?"

I consider the question. It's a good one—better than the typical designer queries about finishes and layouts.

"I want them to feel at home," I say.

"Not impressed. Not intimidated. Home."

She turns her head slightly, glances at me.

"That's not typical for luxury developments."

"I'm not interested in typical."

"No." A slight smile touches her lips.

"I'm gathering that."

The car slows for a red light. Summer sun streams through the window on her side, catching her hair, illuminating the side of her face.

I look away before she catches me staring.

"Most developers at this level are selling aspiration," Wintercontinues. Her hands gesture as she talks—small, elegant movements.

"The penthouse you can't quite afford, the lifestyle you're reaching for. It's about status."

"And that doesn't interest you?"

"It interests me professionally. I know how to design for it." She pauses, choosing words.

"But it's not what I prefer to create."

"What do you prefer?"

She shifts in her seat, turning slightly toward me. The movement brings her closer—still not touching, but I'm aware of the decreased distance.

"Spaces that feel personal," she says.

"Livable luxury. The kind of home where you can walk in after a terrible day and actually relax, not worry about sitting on the furniture or touching the art."

"That's exactly what I want for Sterling Tower."

"Then we're aligned."

The light changes. The car moves forward, cutting through the edges of Chelsea now, heading toward the West Side.

We talk for the next ten minutes. Professional conversation—my vision for creating warmth in high-end residential spaces, her approach to balancing beauty with functionality, the way good design should be invisible until you start noticing all the intentional choices.

But I'm aware of other things too. The way her hands move when she's explaining a concept—graceful, expressive, the kind of gestures that suggest she thinks with her wholebody, not just her mind. The curve of her neck when she turns to look out the window.

Her legs, crossed at the ankle, the line of her calf in those heels. The summer light streaming through the car window, catching strands of blonde hair that have escaped her ponytail.

I force my attention back to the conversation, back to the safe territory of budget allocations and procurement timelines.

But I notice when she steals a glance at me. Quick. Subtle. Her eyes flicking to my profile when I'm looking ahead, talking about the penthouse's southern exposure.

I notice when her gaze drops to my hands—resting on my knee, gesturing occasionally when I'm making a point. I notice the small pause before she responds to something I've said, like she's caught herself thinking about something other than the project. Neither of us acknowledges any of it. The conversation stays strictly professional. But the air in the car feels thicker than it should. The pauses stretch slightly longer than necessary. We're both careful not to look directly at each other for more than a few seconds at a time.

I'm hyperaware of the proximity. Of the fact that if I shifted my shoulder an inch to the right, we'd be touching.