Chapter 10
Lila
Ifiddled with my laptop, clicking through the last updates as Samantha lounged on her couch, her swollen feet propped on a mountain of pillows.
“That’s all I’ve got left on the Hendersons’ living room redesign,” I said, setting the laptop down on the glass coffee table. “That wraps up the current projects. Tomorrow I’m meeting with Serena Miller.”
She pulled a hair tie from her wrist and twisted her curly hair into a messy bun atop her head. “Ah yes, the full kitchen renovation on a shoestring budget.”
“That’s the one. I’ve watched you finesse more money out of clients so many times that I should be an expert by now. But I’m dreading that meeting.”
“You’ll be fine.” She offered a comforting smile. “And if she can’t raise the budget, it doesn’t make sense for us to take the job.”
“I know.” I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. “Speaking of client relationships… I have a, um, hypothetical question.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A hypothetical? This I’ve got to hear.”
I took a breath, trying to sound casual. “What would you think of an interior designer going on a friendly outing with one of her clients?”
“It’s McHottie Mason with the sex dungeon, isn’t it?” Samantha squealed, sitting up straighter despite her enormous baby bump.
I gaped at her. “How did you know?”
She smirked, looking far too pleased. “Oh, please. You’ve been acting cagey about him ever since you realized those sexy photos you framed for his bedroom were of Mason himself. I could tell you were holding something back.”
Heat crept up my neck at the memory of Mason catching me mid-fantasy, sprawled on his bed. And now? I had a full-blown crush. Every interaction with him felt like walking a tightrope.
“Fine, you caught me,” I admitted, rolling my eyes. “I’m attracted to the guy. But is there, like, a company policy against dating a client?”
“There is absolutely no fraternization policy,” Sam said with a wink. “And let’s be real, Mason is hot as hell. I’ve seen the evidence. Zoomed in on it. Lila, please tell me you’re fraternizing.”
I laughed, the confession loosening something inside me. “There’s just something about him that gets me all frazzled. You don’t think it’s a big mistake?”
“Are you kidding? Why would it be?” She propped herself up on her elbows, eyes gleaming. “Now spill everything. What’s been happening? I’m living vicariously through you, so don’t skimp on the details.”
I filled her in on everything except the shameful bed incident: our charged chemistry, the flirty banter, and the night out we had planned with his quirky assistant, Gideon.
“We’re hitting a new club in South Beach tonight, and tomorrow, it’s just the two of us, exploring the city.”
Samantha’s eyes widened. “Girl, that is not a hypothetical outing. That is a full-blown date.”
“It’s not a date,” I protested weakly, though my stomach fluttered at the thought. “We’re just... hanging out.”
“Uh-huh.” She was unconvinced. “So what are you wearing for this ‘not a date’?”
I bit my lip, trying to suppress a grin. “I may have bought a new dress…”
Sam practically bounced with excitement. “Spill! I need details.”
“Well…” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It’s a fun, flirty number in this shimmering coral fabric that fits me just right. The neckline says ‘I’m here to party,’ but the length says ‘don’t get any ideas.’”
She let out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You’re not playing around.”
“Says the woman who looks like a glowing fertility goddess,” I teased, gesturing to her round belly.
“Trust me, there’s nothing goddess-like about being on bed rest with twins using my bladder as a trampoline,” she groaned, shifting with difficulty. “Ugh, I am so jealous of your life right now. So, what’s the plan for the sightseeing?”
“That’s where I could use some help,” I admitted.
We brainstormed a list of date-worthy spots—a sunset stroll on the beach, the botanical gardens, maybe even a boat tour around Biscayne Bay.
“Alright, missy,” Sam said, waving me off playfully. “Go get ready for your ‘not-a-date’ night out with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious.”
I gathered my things, my mind already racing with possibilities for the evening. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”
She smiled and leaned back. “Promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Have fun,” she said, grinning wickedly. “And maybe confirm whether those abs are as rock-hard in person as they look in those photos.”
I laughed, nerves fizzing under my skin in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
Waving goodbye, I called over my shoulder, “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“I’m counting on it,” she called back.
Sliding into the back of a cab, excitement fluttered low in my chest, light and reckless. The driver pulled away from Samantha’s house, and we headed toward my apartment. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the city, making everything look sun-kissed and cinematic.
As we cruised through traffic, my mind drifted to Mason. That rugged jawline. Those smoldering eyes. The way he looked like he belonged on a movie poster instead of in my actual life.
I shook my head, forcing my focus back to reality.
A towering billboard loomed into view ahead, its bold letters shouting, “RISE TO THE CHALLENGE.”
I blinked. Then squinted.
No.
There was no way.
Mason.
On a billboard.
Six stories tall. Fifty feet wide.
Chiseled abs. Broad shoulders. That dangerously familiar smolder.
Wearing nothing but snug black boxer briefs.
I made a strangled sound in the backseat. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Did you say something, miss?” The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Uh, no. Nothing. Just... admiring the view,” I mumbled, hating how breathy I sounded.
I sank back into my seat, too flustered to breathe properly. Mason wasn’t just hot. He was billboard-hot. He was a professional model.
The cab continued down the street, but my eyes remained glued to the billboard until it finally slipped out of sight.
I fanned my face, trying to compose myself.
But the universe wasn’t done mocking me yet.
Moments later, a city bus rolled by, plastered with yet another photo of Mason, this time leaning against a gym wall, sweat glistening on his skin, accentuating every inch of his godlike body.
Those muscular thighs. That torso. And…well. Everything else.
My breath hitched. I slumped deeper into the cab’s leather seat, mind spinning.
Seriously? How many of these ads were there?
I was pretty sure I was about to spontaneously combust.
How was I supposed to look Mason in the eye tonight and pretend I hadn’t seen that? Pretend I hadn’t already imagined running my hands over those sculpted abs or tracing the contours of that Adonis belt with my tongue?
It was all too much for my poor, sexually deprived brain.
And tomorrow? I’d be spending the entire day with him, touring the city like a normal human while his half-naked body stared down at me from billboards like a Greek god.
Every corner we turned, there he’d be, reminding me just how out of my depth I was.
How was I supposed to function? I’d be a blushing, stammering disaster.
Get it together, Lila. I tried to summon the pageant-girl composure I’d spent years perfecting.
He’s just a guy. A ridiculously hot, underwear-modeling guy. No big deal.
The swarm of butterflies in my stomach disagreed.
Maybe I should cancel. Call it off before I completely embarrassed myself. Could I even survive a night out with that much hotness? Did I honestly think I could handle it?
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering. I could text him. Say I had a headache. Or a work emergency. Or my cat died.
Except I didn’t have a cat.
I sighed and slipped the phone back into my purse.
The cab pulled up to my apartment, and I stepped out, lingering for a moment before heading inside.
I was in so much trouble. And I couldn’t wait.