Choosing Ms. Everhart

Chapter Two: Mr. De Vera

VALENTINA ELISE

“I’m choosing now to be single, Miss Everhart.”

For a moment, I simply looked at him, unsure of what I had expected him to say when I asked about Lora. Whatever answer I had prepared myself for, it certainly wasn't that. There was something almost final about the way he said it, as though he had repeated those words enough times to himself that they no longer required an explanation, yet hearing them from him somehow made me want one.

I glanced toward the ocean, following the direction of his gaze as the afternoon light began to soften across the water, turning its surface into shifting shades of blue and silver. It was beautiful enough to distract anyone from an uncomfortable conversation, and perhaps that was exactly what he intended.

“So you never got back together?” I asked carefully.

“No.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure what to do with the information. For years, I had carried an uncomplicated version of their story in my head. They had loved each other, they had broken up, and I had given them an opportunity to find their way back to one another. Somewhere along the way, I had simply assumed they had taken it.

“I see.”

I didn't. Not really. But I wasn't about to interrogate my client about a relationship that had ended five years ago. Whatever had happened between him and Lora was his business, and I had no right to pull at a thread simply because curiosity made me want to know what was underneath it. Besides, there was something in his expression that told me he wasn't inviting further questions, so I simply smiled, closed my folder, and allowed the subject to end there.

For now.

“Well, then. I suppose I should stop expecting to meet someone who isn't here.”

His eyes shifted toward me, and for the briefest moment, something almost amused appeared in them.

“That would probably be wise.”

I laughed softly.

“Noted.”

The tension between us eased, although I wasn't entirely sure whether it was because the subject had changed or because we had both silently agreed to leave the past where it belonged. Lucien eventually glanced toward the villa, and I followed his gaze, wondering what had caught his attention.

“You haven't eaten yet, have you?”

I blinked.

“I'm fine.”

“That wasn't my question.”

I looked at him, mildly offended by how easily he had managed to sound authoritative without actually raising his voice.

“I had coffee.”

“That's not breakfast.”

“It was a large coffee.”

“That makes it worse.”

I couldn't help laughing, already shaking my head at him.

“I've been here for less than an hour, and you're already criticizing my diet.”

“I'm criticizing your definition of breakfast.”

“There's a difference?”

“Yes.”

He started walking toward the villa, and after a moment, I followed, my amusement making it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

“You always this bossy with your architects?”

“Only the ones who arrive without eating.”

I shook my head, though a smile had already betrayed me.

“I didn't realize the client was going to feed me.”

“I didn't realize the architect was going to argue with everything I say.”

“You haven't known me long enough to make that assumption.”

“I've known you longer than you think.”

I glanced at him, but he didn't elaborate. After a brief moment, I decided not to ask.

Inside the villa, breakfast had already been prepared on the long wooden table overlooking the sea. It was simple but elegant: fresh bread, fruit, eggs, coffee, pastries, and a few dishes I couldn't immediately identify. I sat across from him, placing my folder beside me but keeping it close enough to reach.

I wasn't entirely sure why I still felt the need to be so careful. Perhaps because sitting across from Lucien without a camera between us made the memory of that television stage feel strangely intimate. Eight years ago, I had known him for perhaps an hour when I decided to interfere in his love life. Now I was sitting across from him, discussing the architecture of his future home.

Life had a peculiar sense of humor.

“You've changed the orientation of the main residence,” I said after opening the preliminary drawings.

Lucien poured himself coffee.

“I have.”

I looked at the marked-up plans.

“The original proposal had the house facing southeast.”

“I changed it.”

“Why?”

“The morning light.”

I studied the notes he'd written along the margins. They were precise, almost annoyingly so.

“You want the bedrooms facing the sunrise.”

“Yes.”

“That means the main living areas will lose some of the afternoon light.”

“I don't mind.”

“I do.”

He looked up, and I pointed to the plans.

“The house is supposed to be lived in, not simply photographed at sunrise. If we orient the entire residence toward the east, we'll compromise the way the interior works throughout the day.”

“I want the bedrooms facing the ocean.”

“They can still face the ocean without sacrificing the western exposure.”

“How?”

I turned the plans toward myself and reached for a pencil.

“By shifting the central axis.”

I sketched over the preliminary layout, explaining how the private areas could remain oriented toward the water while the living spaces opened toward the western light. I spoke quickly at first, then slowed when I noticed that Lucien wasn't interrupting.

He was watching the drawing.

Not me.

The drawing.

That somehow made it easier to speak.

“If we create a courtyard here, we can control the exposure without closing the house off. The courtyard becomes a transition between the private and public areas. It also gives us another opportunity for landscaping.”

He leaned forward.

“And the wind?”

“Filtered through the courtyard.”

“During winter?”

“We'd need a more protected opening on this side.”

He pointed to the plan.

“Then we'd lose the view.”

“Not if we use recessed glazing.”

He looked at me.

I looked back.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “You're assuming I want the view from every room.”

“Don't you?”

“No.”

That surprised me.

“Then what do you want?”

“Privacy.”

I sat back slightly. It was such a simple answer, but something about it made me reconsider the entire project.

“You want the house to feel private even when the resort is operating.”

“Yes.”

“So the house isn't the center of the resort.”

“No.”

I glanced at the project brief.

“The residence is physically at the heart of the property.”

“Physically,” he said. “Not socially.”

I studied him for a moment, realizing that the distinction mattered.

Most wealthy clients wanted their private residence to be the visual centerpiece of everything they owned. They wanted people to see it. They wanted scale, spectacle, something impressive enough to remind everyone who had paid for it.

Lucien seemed to want the opposite.

He wanted the house to disappear into the landscape.

“You don't want people to know where you live,” I said.

“I don't want them to feel like they're living around me.”

That answer stayed with me, and I looked down at the plans again.

“Then the resort needs its own identity.”

“Yes.”

“And the residence needs to feel like a retreat rather than an extension of the resort.”

“Yes.”

I nodded slowly.

Now I understood.

It wasn't simply a dream house.

It was an escape.

Perhaps that was why he had chosen this particular piece of coastline. Far enough from Paris to feel removed from everything, but still accessible. Surrounded by water and natural formations, protected by distance and landscape.

“You've thought about this a lot,” I said.

“I've had the property for three years.”

“Three years?”

He nodded.

“And you've only started construction now?”

“I wasn't ready.”

I looked at him, but he didn't explain what he meant. Once again, I resisted the urge to ask and returned my attention to the drawings.

“There's something else.”

“What?”

“The guest villas.”

He waited.

“I think they're too close together.”

“They follow the existing road.”

“I know. That's the problem.”

I pointed toward the site plan.

“If we keep them here, they'll feel like a hotel. You told me you wanted privacy, but guests will be able to see one another from their terraces.”

“They're private villas.”

“Private doesn't mean separated by three meters of landscaping.”

His expression tightened slightly.

“They're staying.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“That's not how this works.”

“It is if I'm paying for the property.”

I stared at him.

There it was.

The wealthy client.

The part of him I had been waiting for.

I placed my pencil down carefully, refusing to let the irritation in my chest reach my voice.

“And I'm the architect you're paying to tell you when your idea doesn't work.”

His gaze remained fixed on mine, and for a second, the room felt completely still. I wondered whether I had gone too far.

Then he leaned back in his chair.

“Good.”

I frowned.

“Good?”

“I don't need an architect who agrees with me.”

The irritation I'd been preparing to defend myself with slowly disappeared as I looked at him.

“If I wanted someone to tell me everything I designed was beautiful, I could have hired someone much cheaper.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“That might be the nicest insult I've received from a client.”

“It wasn't an insult.”

“No?”

“No. I hired you because Elodie said you wouldn't be afraid to disagree with me.”

I went quiet.

There was no flirtation in his expression. No hidden smile.

He was simply being honest.

And somehow, that affected me more than anything else he had said that afternoon.

Because attraction was easy to dismiss. A handsome man could make you nervous without meaning anything by it. A familiar face could awaken memories you had buried. A low voice could make you notice things you had no business noticing.

But professional trust was different.

That had to be earned.

And Lucien had just told me that he trusted me enough to challenge him.

I looked down at the plans again.

“I still think the villas should be separated.”

“They can be.”

I looked up.

He pointed toward the site plan.

“Show me.”

A smile slowly formed on my lips.

“You're letting me change it?”

“I'm asking you to convince me.”

That was different.

I picked up the pencil again and I leaned over the plans then began explaining my idea.