Love Arranged (Lakefront Billionaires, #3)(34)

Julian made it nearly impossible to buy a house, either by outbidding me or using his connections to convince the buyer to sell to him instead. He was motivated to make sure I didn’t own a property within the town’s limits so I’d be ineligible to run for mayor, but I was fueled by more than the need to avenge my parents.

If Lily’s the people’s princess, then I’m the petty prince, living in a house I dislike strictly because it pisses the designer off.

It was so much more satisfying to outsmart him by purchasing the lakefront property through a trust before transferring the title over to myself—even if I loathe everything about the mid-century modern mansion.

All the clean lines, warm wood tones, and floor-to-ceiling windows remind me too much of my uncle’s home in Vegas, but I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. If I did, I would’ve chosen my parents’ older but modest home.

But oh, wait, Julian tore it down before I had a chance.




I’m annoyed when Lily doesn’t text me when she gets home. I don’t have a real reason to be, other than her not listening to me, so I try to rationalize what could’ve happened.

She probably thought I was joking or putting on a show for the crowd, which technically is true.

Or maybe something bad happened to her. That same oily voice comes back, although this time it’s concerned about Lily’s safety, not my own.

Fuck. No.

This is your OCD talking. Lily is fine.

I screw my eyes shut and push the image of her being crushed to death inside Dahlia’s car out of my mind, but once it pops up, I can’t get it out.

Text her to check in. It’s a common courtesy after tonight’s events.

ME

Are you home?

There. Was that so hard?

When she doesn’t answer immediately, the image of her being injured returns, the details far sharper than before. Blood oozes from a head wound, and her breathing is labored, as if her lung has collapsed.

I nearly rip my hair from the roots with how hard I tug on the strands, but no amount of pain will block me from sending Lily another message.

ME

If this is going to work between us, I expect you to answer me when I text you.

Shit. I sound way too controlling, but I can’t send a third text without looking like I care too much, so I sit around and wait for her to answer.

Time passes by slowly, like I’m standing in the middle of an hourglass, counting each individual grain of sand.

Two minutes feel like ten by the time a new text pops up.

LILY

Yes. I’m home.

I want to throw my phone across the room because how can three words have the same effect over me as an emergency Xanax?

ME

Next time do what I say and text me when you get home.

LILY

Sure, baby.

ME

I hate the nickname, by the way.

Only because my heart does this little jolt every damn time she uses it.

LILY

Good. Now I love it even more.




I don’t get ten minutes to myself the next morning before my doorbell goes off. A quick glance at the security app makes me consider ignoring the visitor, but then Willow yells, “Open up, or else I quit!”

I open the door to a red-faced Willow.

“What the hell, Lorenzo?!” she shouts.

I shut the door before any of my neighbors can hear us. “I can explain.”

She barrels into my home like a hellhound, banging into the entryway table and nearly tipping over the vase with one of Lily’s bouquets. The pink clashes with all the earthy tones in my house, but it reminds me of my mom and all the fond memories I have of my father surprising her with weekly bouquets.

The memory makes my chest tight, and I slip my hand into my front pocket and start counting the numbers on the dice to calm my racing mind.

“Lorenzo?” Willow waves her hands. “Are you even paying attention to me?”

I’m dragged out of the mental fog. “What?”

“How did you ever get Lily to agree to being your fiancée?”

“Girlfriend,” I correct. “At least for the next two months before we begin Phase Two.”

“There are phases now?”

“Apparently so.”

Her lips purse. “You know what? I don’t care what you label it. Just tell me how it all went down and why she would ever agree to being your fiancée after the Eros app incident.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She sounds as surprised as she looks. “What do you mean?”

Willow isn’t going to let this go easily, so I lead her to my living room, where we both take a seat on chairs across from each other.

I tap my fingers against my thigh. “She mentioned not liking the Ludlows, but we were interrupted before I had a chance to push for more information.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Willow’s lips thin. “I don’t know if I believe that.”

What if she’s doing this to get revenge? The worry grows like a virus, making me feel sick in the head.

I can’t think of a better way for her to get back at you about the Eros app.

She’s like a Trojan horse, destined to be the downfall of your campaign. Don’t trust her.