I’m suddenly stunned silent because I’d swear Alec’s eyes just drifted down my frame. He just checked me out. No, that can’t be right.
I clear my throat, trying to recover.
“Umm… I hear the storm’s pretty bad—”
Oh my god. He did it again. I look down at myself in my cream, off-the-shoulder sweater and dark skinny jeans, wondering what’s happening as he makes his way in front of me.
There has to be something wrong with my outfit. He can’t be checking me out. It’s not my usual work attire, but we’re in the mountains, and it’s cold. What does he expect me to wear? I open my mouth to finish, but he ignores me, speaking instead.
“The room’s perfect. Almost as gorgeous as you—”
He pauses in that way again before inhaling slowly and letting it drift out, adding, “I can’t wait to discover all the other talents you’re hiding from me.”
The gravel in his voice spreads over my skin, leaving hidden goosebumps, making me shiver. Close your mouth, Samantha. My lips fold under my teeth as I try to unscramble my brain. But I’m not even a little successful because all I can manage is a breathless, “Other talents?”
What the hell is happening?
I’ve fallen off the ladder and hit my head. That’s it. This is one of my dreams.
Next, he’ll tell me to drop to my knees because he wants to feed me his big ol’ candy cane.
Alec motions toward the trees. “I didn’t know Christmas trees counted as décor. I thought I’d walk into red plaid and holly, but this is exceptional. You’re the total package.”
I melt into a chuckle. “Right. Trees. Mm-hmm.”
Of course, trees. What the hell did I think he was talking about? I blame my sister for her stupid comments. I’m blushing, but I keep my smile fixed as I turn to take it all in and hide.
“Well, Mr. Price, it’s easy to decorate such a beautiful home. These open layouts are my favorite designs for making a large space feel cozy. And these Douglas firs”—I turn back—“are girthy, really nice to handle.”
Jesus, is it hot in here? And did I just say girthy? Stop being a whore. JUST STOP BEING A WHORE.
I adjust the neck of my sweater as he looks down at me with a grin.
“Call me Alec.” Our eyes connect. “And Samantha, you can handle my girthy tree anytime.”
“Got it,” I answer, shooting out finger guns.
Fuck me running. What am I doing? I officially hate myself. How am I allowed to be in my thirties and this awkward?
In my defense, this man is hot. Six foot four and not an inch shorter. His shoulders are so broad that it’s a foregone conclusion that he played professional football. And that jawline. It makes Superman look soft. Sorry, Henry Cavill, Alec’s a better version.
And he exudes this presence. It’s not overwhelming or intimidating. More like his attention is a caress. Every look from those crystal blue eyes feels intentional, and that’s sexy because it’s as if you were meant to be in that exact spot at that very moment. Just for him to look at.
Alec’s basically sexy as fuck.
I press my lips together because the embarrassment I’m steeped in is camouflaged by surprise as the front door flies open again. Bringing with it more snow and more men.
Gorgeous, charming rogues, more like.
That’s the best way to describe Alec’s friends. In the year I’ve been their designer, I’ve witnessed enough moments to solidify that judgment. They’re beautiful bastards with terrible ideas and the perfect smiles to sell you on all of them.
They’re the kind of men you’d happily let destroy you because it’s better to get them for one night than for none at all. But that’s all you’d get—one night.
From what I’ve seen, nobody double dips. Ever.
“Holy fuck, Alec. It’s a straight-up blizzard out there.”
That’s Reed.
He’s the blond one. But like the only blond guy you’d actually fuck.
Armed with golden-tanned skin, as if he’s just back from sailing, he has the kind of looks that belong in a J.Crew ad. His teeth are so white you’re surprised he even drinks coffee. And his fuck-me green eyes are paired with perfectly coiffed hair that exudes the kind of sex appeal that makes you wish he’d invite you to remove your panties. Because after a minute with him, you’d only need an invitation.
Reed’s more charming than his bank account, and that’s massive.
And if I remember correctly, and I do, Reed sleeps in the nude.
I found out one morning when I arrived early to start work on his bedroom.
He wasn’t supposed to be home. The man stood, smirked, and walked lazily to his bathroom as he gripped his impressive morning wood, saying, “Good morning, Sammy. I was just dreaming about today.”
I swallow, remembering how I just stood there, staring like I’d never seen a dick before. But, like, his dick is impressive, the unicorn of dicks. Girthy. Jesus, let me never think that word again.
Another voice fills the room, pulling me back into the present.
“That shitty townie liquor store only had the cheap stuff, but the good news is the party’s canceled, so it won’t matter.”
Hello, Cole.
We’ve only met once. And that was enough to make quite an impression. First, there’s the way he fills out a suit—he feels severe. That’s the only way to describe it, like a character out of Peaky Blinders. Every crease is sharp and measured, created to make women breathless and men shrink.
Second, he knows it because it’s clear that Cole controls all. Period. The end.
I restored a Victorian he owns across from Alamo Square Park in San Francisco. He took me on a single tour, had me take extensive notes, then looked them over before making me correct my punctuation.
It was high-handed, dickish, and so very condescending. And weirdly, I swear those chocolate bedroom eyes burned with pleasure at each reprimand.
If I’m being honest, I may have played his secretary in my dreams. Crawling across the room to get spanked by his massive hands for forgetting the comma before and.
After I finished the job, he only showed his approval by sending me a gorgeous bouquet of all-white calla lilies. With a note that read: You exceeded my expectations. Looking forward to playing house again.
Yeah, I may have that note hidden in my lingerie drawer.
Suddenly, what Cole just said smacks me in the face, pulling me from the memory I’m in. He’d said, Canceled.
I turn and look at Alec.
“The party’s canceled? It’s the weather, right? I need to pack up and head for dodge before—”
I’m interrupted by a set of dimples hard to forget.
“No need to explain, Sam. Let me help you.”
Jace.
Jace is the golden retriever energy of the group. And the youngest, as in a hair under forty.
I was hired to design the interior of a house on the Bay he’d bought his mom and dad. Jace had moved them from Boston. It was the sweetest experience. They were so grateful and honestly salt of the earth kind of people. I could see how Jace turned out the way he did.
Even if he seems less polished. With wavy black hair and tattoos covering his body, he’s a walking temptation. My favorite tattoo is on display above his collar, covering his throat—a set of angel wings.