It’d been five years, and God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. More sophisticated and self-assured. Time had sculpted her features into a masterpiece, and her slim figure had blossomed with curves. She was no longer a girl but a woman—one who sent desire curling through his gut even as his heart ached.
Farrah, on the other hand, hadn't so much as looked at him since he sat down.
“So.” Landon filled the silence. “Farrah, as I mentioned in our call, Blake is looking for a designer for his new condo. Two bedrooms, two baths, in the West Village. It'll be his primary residence from now on so he needs someone to spruce it up. Make it feel like home.” He nudged Blake. “Right?”
"What? Oh, uh, yeah."
Get your shit together, man.
“Right.” Landon's gaze ping-ponged between Blake and Farrah. “About the compensation. Since this is so last minute, Blake will pay twenty percent above—”
"I can't do it." Farrah’s quiet refusal brought the conversation screeching to a halt. She kept her focus on Landon as she explained, “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I appreciate you thinking of me, and I’ll pay you back for this meal. But I just remembered I have, um, another project I need to work on and I won’t have time for this. In fact, I should probably—“
“Double.”
Farrah stiffened at Blake’s offer. “What?”
“I’ll pay you double your rate if you agree to work with me.”
“That’s not going to—“
“Triple.”
Farrah’s gaze slammed into his. Her eyes smoldered with disbelief, and Blake couldn’t fight the small grin of victory on his lips. Finally. A reaction.
“You don’t know how much my rate is.”
“How much is it?”
After a beat of hesitation, she said, “$300 an hour.”
“I’ll pay you $900 an hour. But it has to be exclusive. You’ll work only on my apartment for the duration of our contract period.”
“Jesus, Blake,” Landon breathed.
Across the table, Farrah’s lips parted with shock.
$900 an hour was a shit ton of money, but Blake could afford it. He wasn’t as rich as Landon, but thanks to both Legends’ success and a slew of smart investments over the years, he had enough of a financial cushion to absorb the cost. Besides, he didn’t care about the money. He cared about Farrah.
He’d bitten the bullet and asked Sammy for her number over the weekend. Sammy had been wary of Blake’s sudden desire to reconnect with her, but being the good friend he was—as well as the only one in their old Shanghai group who knew the truth about what happened with Cleo and Blake’s feelings for Farrah—he’d relented.
Blake had stared at the ten digits all weekend, trying to work up the courage to call her. He’d chickened out every time, but now here she was, right in front of him.
It was like the universe had tired of his waffling and gave him the kick in the ass he needed.
This was a sign.
Of all the designers in all the world, she was the one Landon invited here.
Two people in a city of eight million, reunited against all odds.
Coincidence? Hell no.
Farrah was the one who’d taught Blake to believe in fate, and like everything else about their relationship, he’d carried it close to his heart all these years.
“Do we have a deal?” Blake kept his tone even, but inside he was a chaotic storm of need and emotions.
Say yes. God, if she says yes, I will never ask you for anything else ever again. Except maybe for a team other than the Patriots to win the Super Bowl, but I’m willing to negotiate on that front.