“That sounds perfect.”
“Now we just have to find some friends to fill the place up,” I say sarcastically.
“What about Stella Ravage?”
“Yes, but she’s myonlyfriend. And I’m pretty sure she only took pity on me because she designed the dress I wore to that gala last year, we both happen to be British, and we live in the same city.”
“But you like her, right?”
“Oh, she’s fabulous. But…” I look around. “I don’t know. I know we’ve already been here for two months. It’s just that reality is setting in, and I miss my friends in London.”
Julian smooths a hand over my hair as he pulls me into his hard body for a hug. His hand continues to stroke the back of my head, and I hum contentedly, going completely limp in his arms.
“I know.”
“Do you have any friends we can invite to this hypothetical housewarming party?”
He stiffens slightly—enough for me to notice.
I pull away. “What about that friend you had growing up? Isn’t he related to Stella, somehow?”
Julian’s blue eyes narrow slightly. “Malakai Ravage? Yeah, he’s Stella’s husband’s younger brother. We used to be close, but it’s been almost two decades.”
“You guys didn’t keep in touch after you moved back to London?”
“No.”
The change in his temperament is apparent, but just as I open my mouth to ask about Malakai, he takes a step back.
“I should get back to work. Need anything before I go?”
I shrug. “Another expensive hobby? A career? Perhaps an invisible friend?”
He huffs a laugh. “You know I’d fully support anything you wanted to do. I’ve been telling you for years to get a job or go back to school.”
I place a hand over my heart. “And send my mother to an early grave? Never,” I add, speaking in my mother’s posh, aristocratic accent.
He gives me a roguish smile. “Fuck her.”
I snort. “For now, I’ll settle for toiling away with riding, reading, renovations, and this housewarming party.”
He winks as he begins walking out of the kitchen area. “It’s going to be the best party ever if you’re the one holding the reins.”
“You know it will be.”
“Love you,” he calls as he walks through the house.
“You too,” I say to myself.
Once he’s gone, I sigh and look around the mess. Grabbing the brass handle, I pass it between my hands. I let my thumb brush over smooth curves before setting it down again. I know I can’t hurry up the renovations. I can’t force the workers to show up faster or make the house look like the magazine spreadsJulian envisions. But I can dosomething.A drawer. A room. One small thing at a time.
I set the handle down carefully—like I’ve made a decision, even if I’m not sure what it is yet.
Walking out of the kitchen, I make my way up the stairs to my office.
It’s one of the only finished rooms in the house, and it’s a soft, pink color. I love it, but I have no idea what to do with it. My stomach does that fluttery, butterfly thing when I think of what Iwantto do. I want to start my own business. I want to work my way up, put in long hours, and attend meetings. I want tocreatesomething I’d love as a consumer.
I just don’t know what that is yet.
