But her greeting died a quick death when she saw the tall, gorgeous blond striding toward them.
No.
Cold tendrils of shock slithered down Farrah’s spine as the temperature plunged to sub-zero levels. She was imagining things. There was no way that was him. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel.
But there was no denying those ice-blue eyes. The cut-glass cheekbones. The deep dimples that faded as disbelief replaced his smile. He looked as stunned as she felt.
The twist in Farrah’s heart confirmed what her brain refused to acknowledge.
That was him.
The first—and only—man she’d ever loved.
The one who broke her heart.
The one she thought she’d never see again.
Blake Ryan.
Chapter Four
The chatter in the dining room faded as blood roared in his ears. His stomach plunged into free fall…and all Blake could do was stare, stupefied, at the brunette seated across the table from his best friend.
I’m hallucinating.
His brain must have associated “interior designer” with the only interior designer he knew and conjured up the illusion to torture him. The deep chocolate eyes, soft red lips, and faint scent of orange blossoms mixed with vanilla…she seemed so real it was cruel.
How many times had Blake dreamt of her, only to wake up to an empty bed, plagued with regrets over what could’ve been?
A deadly python of emotion constricted his chest and dripped poison into his veins, gluing his feet to the floor. The deafening thump-thump-thump of his heart drowned out every other sound in the restaurant.
I’m going crazy.
"Blake, this is Farrah. Farrah, this is my friend, Blake." Landon’s introduction sailed through Blake's haze of consciousness. His friend’s voice sounded far off, like the people you heard in dreams. The ones that try to shake you awake when all you want to do is sink deeper into your delusion.
Landon gave Blake a frown that said, Why the fuck are you acting so weird?
Meanwhile, Farrah sat, eyes wide, fingers strangling the black leather portfolio in her lap. Her face matched the color of the white linen tablecloth.
Blake’s breath hissed out in shock. This was real.
He’d fantasized about their reunion a million times, but now that it was happening he had no clue what to do.
He just stood there, gawking at her like an idiot.
Say something. Anything.
"You haven't aged a day.”
Anything but that.
Landon choked on his water while pink rose on Blake’s cheekbones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this flustered. He felt like a damn schoolboy with a crush, one who’d waited five years to see the girl of his dreams again, only for his first words to her be…you haven’t aged a day.
He wanted to die.
Landon’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, but Farrah’s expression remained smooth and hard as stone.
“Thanks,” she said. Zero emotion, not even sarcasm.
The Farrah Blake knew would’ve called him out on his lame-ass greeting faster than a teenager could text in class, but the Farrah he knew also used to look at him like he hung the stars in the sky—until he fucked it all up.
"Do you know each other?" Landon asked, controlling his mirth long enough to ask the world’s most obvious question.
Blake forced his legs to move. He sank into the chair next to Landon and tried not to shake too much as he lifted a glass of water to his lips. "We studied abroad together in Shanghai."
He felt Landon's sharp inhale beside him. He'd told Landon about Farrah one drunk night after he and Cleo split for good. Blake had been spiraling, drowning in guilt and regret and booze, and his usual filter had been down for the count. In its absence, confessions about Farrah and what happened in Shanghai tumbled out. Blake hadn’t divulged Farrah’s name, but Landon was a smart guy. Blake could tell by the look in his friend’s eyes that Landon had already pieced the puzzle together.
The waiter showed up and took their orders. Blake didn’t remember what he ordered. He didn’t care; he was too busy staring at Farrah.
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 Blake’s feelings for Farrah and what happened with Cleo—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 given 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.