Chapter 27
SOFIA
Man I Need – Olivia Dean
Sat in the makeup chair, Sofia was as fidgety as ever.
She had never done anything like this before, pretending to kiss, cuddle, and smooch with her fake boyfriend in a barely-there swimsuit on a surfboard in the middle of the ocean, or posed all over him on the beach like they were a real couple living out a sun-drenched love story.
Panic was rising in her chest, thick and hot, because her feelings for Ilias had become painfully, stupidly real.
She'd come to accept that she liked being around him.
No, scratch that, she needed him around.
His warmth. His optimism. His sharp insights when he dropped them like they were bombs.
The parts of him still hidden behind his easy grin and that teasing tone?
God, those intrigued her more than she'd ever admit out loud.
Not even Thomas had ever made her feel like that.
Do not compare.
“I love your videos,” said the Aussie makeup artist with a bright smile. Blue pixie cut, piercings, black winged eyeliner. Her name was Jenny, and she was gorgeous in a way Sofia couldn’t even resent.
“Do you?” Sofia replied, trying her best to sound cool and not like a woman five minutes from a meltdown.
“The whale ones are my favorite. The music, the way it’s all edited, it’s so soothing. I fall asleep to the sound of whales sometimes.”
Sofia perked up, clinging to the distraction like a life raft.
“I’m actually doing research on that. How whale calls and water sounds affect the human nervous system.”
“Seriously?” Jenny gasped. “That’s so cool. One day, I’d love to do one of your tours in Ericeira.”
Sofia smiled, but her gaze slid sideways, straight to him.
Ilias was sitting in the makeup chair next to hers, talking to the other stylist, who was—fucking hell—cutting his curls.
She heard him explaining how he wanted a subtle mullet.
Slightly shorter on the sides, longer at the back.
And the way he was casually chatting about it, with that half-smirk and lazy confidence, had her thighs pressing together under her robe before she even realized it.
Focus, focus, FOCUS.
“I’d love to see you there,” Sofia managed to say. “Ericeira’s perfect for diving. Do you dive?”
“Yes! Anything water-related, I’m all in.”
“Then we could definitely be friends,” she said with a grin, grateful Jenny hadn’t noticed she was eye-fucking her own fake boyfriend between every other sentence.
But Ilias noticed. Of course he did. His eyes found hers through the mirror and narrowed just slightly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but edged with something darker.
“Yep. Todo bien,” she lied.
But nothing was todo bien. Absolutely nothing was fine.
How the hell had she gone from the Hamptons, billion-dollar boyfriend with Ferraris and Lamborghinis and tailored pants and slicked-back hair to a pro surfer who walked around barefoot, wore half-buttoned linen shirts, had wild stubble most of the time, and was now rocking a subtle mullet?
Do not compare, she thought again.
But how could she not when Ilias stood up, all long limbs and sun-warmed skin, fresh haircut making him look even more sinful than usual, and her thighs clenched like traitors.
No man had ever made her body respond like that. Not even close.
Was it the fact that it was supposedly fake, and they had to act it out for the others, that made it so damn sexy?
Her mind was spinning when Jenny finally stepped back and smiled. “All done.”
Sofia glanced at her reflection. The mirror showed a slightly more polished version of herself, still her, just..
. styled. For the first time since she’d left Milan, her hair was perfectly waved, framing her face with that easy, controlled kind of beauty she hadn’t felt in months.
She almost didn’t recognize herself, and she didn’t know she liked it completely.
Her salty hair version was her favorite lately.
Then Ilias appeared behind her, and her breath hitched.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His chest, firm and warm, pressed into her back. His presence was so solid, so intimate, it sent a ripple through her whole body.
He kissed her cheek, light, lingering. Closer to the corner of her mouth than it had any right to be. Then he whispered into her ear, voice a dark promise: “You are extremely gorgeous, habiba. You should be illegal.”
Heat climbed up her neck to her face. Her cheeks flushed, and then he kissed her again, just as Jamie burst into the room.
“Look at those two.” Jamie grinned, addressing Jenny and her colleague. “Aren’t they adorable together?”
Both stylists nodded like it was obvious.
“Alright,” Jamie continued. “You’ve got your outfits ready. We’ll start with the beach set. Verena’s your photographer, she’s Spanish, like you two, so you’ll have fun.”
Verena breezed in with a sunbeam of a smile, immediately throwing compliments in rapid-fire Spanish.
Ilias slipped his arm over Sofia’s shoulders as they leaned over the photoshoot ideas.
They both nodded along, but Sofia’s fingers kept fidgeting with Ilias’ silver ring.
Something about it—about him—steadied her.
Anchored her. But it also made her pulse thrum harder.
When Verena told them to get changed and meet her at the beach, Ilias leaned in close, voice low.
“You alright?”
“Just nervous about pulling it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper.
“You’re stunning, habiba,” he said, brushing his nose gently along the curve of her neck. “You’ll kill it out there.”
“It’s not that.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her.
“We’ll have to kiss,” he asked. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” she replied too quickly. Then cleared her throat. “I mean... yes. But I’m nervous.”
Ilias didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped in closer and gently took her chin between his fingers. His gaze flicked to her lips for a split second, and then he kissed her.
No hesitation. No warm-up. Just mouth on mouth.
Her lips parted for him instinctively, like it was second nature. His tongue slid in to meet hers, stroking like he owned her. Her hand shot up into his freshly cut curls, threading through them as she pulled him impossibly closer.
His hands gripped her waist, tight. Their hips met, pressed together, and joder, he was hard for her.
Her body lit up like a live wire. There was nothing fake about the way he kissed her. Nothing fake about how he moved, how he tasted, how he felt against her. It was fire and salt and sun and lust wrapped up in a kiss that was definitely not written into the PR contract.
And then, just as suddenly, it ended.
He pulled back with maddening ease, lips swollen, eyes dark with amusement.
“We needed that,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Takes the edge off.”
Then he winked, and walked out of the room, headed to the changing area.
Leaving her standing there, breathless.
Ruined. And so incredibly not ready to fake anything.