Because it reminds me of you.
“Because it’s important to me.”
His response soaked into the air and charged it with electricity. He could feel the shift on his skin and in the pulsing of his veins.
Farrah’s cheeks tinted pink. She opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head and replied in a professional tone that didn’t match the sparks crackling between them. “I think I have everything I need.” She tucked her notebook into her bag, and Blake detected a slight tremble in her hands. “I’ll work on the sketches and call if I have any further questions. In the meantime—”
“Farrah—”
“Send me photos of any interiors you like,” she rushed. “You can email them, or I can create a shared Pinterest board. The Pinterest board is easiest.”
“It’s great seeing you again.”
You could hear a pin drop in the silence.
Farrah hoisted her bag on her shoulder, her face hard. “This is a professional relationship.”
“Never said it wasn’t.”
“Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you—” She stopped. “Just don’t. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. If you try to cross the line between client and consultant, I will walk off this project no matter how much you’re paying me. ‘Either party may terminate this agreement for any reason with ten business days’ notice.’ That’s in the termination clause of our contract. Am I clear?”
Blake raised his hands in defeat. “Crystal. But—no, hear me out first—we’ll be working together for a while, and we have history. We don’t have a typical freelance relationship. I promise I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable, like try to kiss you—” Even though I want to. “—or braid your hair while we gossip over Chinese takeout—” He grinned when Farrah’s mouth edged up into a smile. “—but we can talk about stuff other than, I dunno, leather patterns.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Leather patterns?”
“Are they a thing? Doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is, there’s a big gap between professional and overly personal.” Blake’s voice softened. “I know we didn’t end things on a great note in Shanghai, but that was a long time ago. I’m not the jerk I used to be. We can have a fresh start.”
Farrah pressed her lips together. “Fine, as long as you’re aware of what the boundaries are.”
“I got the map drawn up and tattooed on my brain.”
“Good.”
Farrah’s phone buzzed right as they exited the bedroom. When she read the incoming message, her eyes lit up and a delighted smile stretched across her face.
Jealousy smashed into Blake—sudden, fierce, and potent. She used to smile like that for him. Who’s the fucker texting her?
Was it her boyfriend? She wasn’t married—he’d checked for a ring at The Aviary. But maybe she was dating someone. She was beautiful, smart, witty, kind. She must have men beating down her door.
Green smoke clogged his throat and made it hard to breathe. Blake couldn’t expect Farrah to have remained single and celibate all these years—it wasn’t like he had—but he still wanted to tear the head off any asshole who’d touched her or so much as breathed in her direction.
Irrational? Yes.
Did he care? Fuck no.
But asking her about her love life definitely crossed the boundaries they’d just discussed, so Blake fumed in silence while Farrah responded to Fuckface’s text.
“I have to go.” Farrah looked up, that smile still lingering on her lips, and the fire in him stoked hotter.
Don’t ask, you idiot. Do. Not. Ask.
“Date with your boyfriend?”
His question landed with the subtlety of a pile of bricks.
Farrah flashed him a warning glance but didn’t dignify his obvious fishing with an answer. “I’ll call you when the sketches are ready.”
It wasn’t a no.
The front door shut behind her, leaving silence and a seething, jealousy-riddled Blake in her wake.
Chapter Seven
The smell of booze and fries hit Farrah the second she entered Tavern 14, a happy hour favorite in the heart of the East Village. Per usual, it was packed with people eager to take advantage of half-off drink specials and $2 sliders.
Farrah pushed her way through the crowd and searched for her date. She was about to text and ask if he’d arrived yet when the group of beanie-wearing artist types in front of her parted, and she saw him at a high top in the corner, sipping a beer and scrolling through his phone.
A grin took over her face. It had been too long.
“Sammy!” Farrah raised her voice so he could hear her above the noise.
Happiness flooded Sammy Yu’s sculpted features when he saw her. “Farrah!” He stood up and walked around the table to hug her. He smelled like soap and fresh laundry, and the scent was so familiar she choked up. Nostalgia was getting the best of her these days. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Likewise. It’s been, gosh, two years since we last saw each other?” Farrah and Sammy kept in touch via text and social media, but he lived in San Francisco and in-person meetups were rare. The last time they’d caught up in person was when she flew to California to work on a boutique hotel project for KBI. Sammy had visited New York a few times since then, but they’d both been so busy they couldn’t align their schedules.
“Two years too long. How’ve you been?”
“Good. You? Still taking SF by storm?” Farrah teased.
Sammy’s cheeks colored. With his deep brown eyes, chiseled face, and tall, muscular body, he was as gorgeous as ever, but now he had an additional draw: his bakery, Crumble & Bake, had become a major attraction in San Francisco and had garnered him praise from foodies and celebrities alike. It was so popular he’d recently opened a branch in L.A., where the line on opening day wrapped around the block. Farrah saw photos of the spectacle online.
Sammy himself had become a quasi-celebrity among the food crowd, with more than a million Instagram followers and a booming YouTube channel where he posted baking tutorials.
Farrah knew he’d encountered major resistance from his family when he ditched his math degree and a NASA career for baking, but Sammy was crushing it.
“Hardly. I’m just a baker, not Mark Zuckerberg.”
“Mark Z. can kiss my ass. You’re much better.”
Sammy cracked a smile. “Thanks. Hey, you want a drink? On me.”
“I got it. Don’t argue,” Farrah warned. “You’re the guest.”
He laughed. “Fine. But I got the next round.”
“Deal.”
Once they got their drinks, Farrah and Sammy snagged one of the few booths in the bar right after it opened up and caught each other up on their lives. She told Sammy about quitting KBI, her birthday trip to Jamaica, and the time she accidentally crashed a Met Gala afterparty. Sammy told her about his San Francisco exploits and the ups and downs of running a famous bakery—including hundreds of propositions and NSFW (Not Safe For Work) images from rabid, sugar-crazed fans.