Love Arranged (Lakefront Billionaires, #3)(37)

To see one of them in his home, located right by the stairs so he walks by them every day…

Who’s to say he didn’t put them there this morning to look like a good boyfriend?

The thought sours whatever little happiness I felt.

I ignore the emotion clogging my throat. “Never expected you to be the kind of guy who likes fresh flowers in his house.”

He shuts the door behind me without answering.

“Where’s the other one?” I ask because I can’t resist.

“Somewhere.”

I roll my eyes at his vague response and step toward the table to remove a few dead leaves, only to stop when he asks, “Do you mind taking off your shoes?”

I look down at my sandaled feet and grimace.

“Floors were cleaned this morning,” he says when I don’t move right away.

With the way it gleams, I’m inclined to believe him, but that’s not my issue. “But my feet get cold.”

“Let me get you some socks.” He heads upstairs and disappears without waiting for me to deny his request.

“Hey!” Willow pops out of a room and heads over to greet me. “Happy you made it.” She pulls me into a hug.

“Anything sounded better than hanging out with my family today.”

She winces. “How’s that going?”

“About as good as expected.”

“Should I bring out the wine?”

“Uh…”

Willow laughs.

“No wine,” Lorenzo grunts from the staircase landing. I look up to see his bare feet slapping against the stairs.

“Catch.” He tosses a pair of black ankle socks my way.

I look at them with a scrunched nose.

He frowns. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing.” I kick off my first sandal and slip a sock on.

“Is there something wrong with them?” he asks.

“Do I need another reason besides them being yours?”

He crosses his arms.

Tough crowd today.

I place my sandals neatly beside a new pair of male running shoes and Willow’s flats. “I’m more of a ruffled-sock kind of girl.”

“A what?”

“You know, cute little socks with ruffles? I’ll show you a photo later.”

“Ruffles…on socks?”

“Bonus if they have bows or something fun embroidered on them.” The comment slips out before I remember myself.

“Noted for next time.”

Something flutters in my stomach at his use of next time.

You’re going to have a hard time adjusting to this whole fake relationship if you get all hot and bothered at the mere idea of spending more time with him.

Willow is about to say something before all our noses twitch from the scent of something burning.

“The bread!” She takes off toward what I assume is the kitchen.

Lorenzo plugs his nose. “I swear that woman would burn water if it was possible.”

I rub my rumbling stomach. “Now I’m wishing I had eaten before.”

“I’d never let her cook me a meal.” He turns and heads down the same walkway as Willow, silently ordering me to follow.

The extravagant interior is everything I’d expect from a Lopez Luxury build. From the conversation pit and stone fireplace to the imported marble floors, I can’t help noting all the little details that make Julian’s homes so popular among the rich.

I follow Lorenzo through a hallway. There are large photo frames hanging on both walls, all featuring different cars.

I stop to check out one of them. “I don’t know what I expected when I first saw your house, but the lonely bachelor aesthetic isn’t it.” I motion toward all twenty frames.

“Who said I was lonely?”

“An educated guess based on how you don’t have a single photo of you with someone else.” I drag my finger across the bottom of the frame. I don’t find a single speck of dust, much like the rest of this place.

We continue walking, and I only stop one more time to point at a car I’ve seen around town with the doors that swing up toward the sky. “I didn’t realize this one was yours too.”

“Most of the cool ones around here are.”

I laugh without meaning to. “How many do you have now?”

He tucks his hand into his pocket—a habit I notice but never comment on. “Twenty.”

I turn back to the photos to stop myself from staring at his sharp jawline. “Are you on the hunt for number twenty-one?”

He nods, his lips twitching like he wants to smile. “I’m currently searching for a Dawn Drophead.”

I stare at him blankly.

“A Rolls-Royce. Preferably either from 1951 or 1953,” he adds.

I let out a whistle. “Fancy.”

“There’s only a few in the US, but I’m in contact with someone in Europe who might be interested in trading cars.” He sounds…excited, and it knocks at least five years off him in that moment.

“Is the person a fellow car collector?”

“He’s known for it.”

My brows rise. “I wasn’t aware that was something one could become famous for.”

“Only when their name is Santiago Alatorre.”