Page 11 of Chilled and Thrilled

Again and again, I swipe to the left, scrolling through women in search of wide green eyes and light brown hair. With each new face, my heart sinks lower, an unexpected sensation I’m not entirely comfortable with. Am I disappointed?

More faces, more flicks to the left, and just as I’ve decided to set my phone aside and accept I got the result I wanted, I freeze. An unfamiliar ache spreads outward from the center of my chest, my finger poised above the screen.

The woman in the image is wearing a baseball cap, smiling at the camera as wind from the ocean behind her whips her hair to the side. She’s dressed in a bikini that rests high on her hips, secured with little bows just begging to be pulled open. Her breasts are perky and full, covered only partly by the bright blue bathing suit.

I’ve spent the last year studying this woman, and yet I’ve never seen so much of her.

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I slam my phone face down on my desk, blood rushing in my ears and my limbs going weak as shocked disbelief sets in. This isn’t… no. I have to be wrong. This is wishful thinking, or some kind of mental break, or a glitch in the goddamn app.

Possessed by the need to know for sure, I seize my phone again. When I turn it over, I’m able to make out the name beneath the picture.

Sophie (24) —Lives in your city! 94% YUM Match!

This doesn’t… even if we are compatible, even if she is attracted to me, she may still be uninterested in anything more. Maybe she, like me, is struggling with the implications of what any kind of relationship between us would mean for her friendship with Honor. There’s every chance that she wouldn’t take the risk.

Never in my life have I miscalculated so badly. My actions of the last few minutes were a gamble, driven by the emotional need to free myself from this attraction, and now I’m paying the price for it. Far from putting distance between us, now I have to contend with the knowledge that she needs exactly what I want to give her.

Sophie, on her knees, dragging her tongue over the underside of my—A knock on the door makes me jump, whipping around in time to see one of the senior architects on my team, Kesha, peering at me cautiously. “Um. Just a reminder we have the Wilders coming in at ten to sign off on the final plans for their project. Did you want me to meet with them?”

I shake my head, already on my feet and moving toward the door, grateful for the distraction. Work, I can do. This is what I’m good at. Holden and I built this company from the ground up, and we didn’t become the most in-demand architecture firm in the state, the one best known forinnovative design and implementing green technology, by accident.

Our latest VIP client, a well-known science fiction author who is building a house for his fiancée, is discerning and will undoubtedly require my full attention. With any luck, this meeting will take hours, and I’ll be able to make it through until the end of the day without touching the cell phone—turned ticking time bomb—in my pocket.

For God’s sake, why couldn’t I just leave it?

Completely distracted, I stride down the long balcony and back downstairs, heading for the conference room where we typically entertain our higher-profile clients.

“Mr. Wilder,” I say as I step inside, shutting the door behind me, stretching out my hand to the dark-haired man seated at the conference table.

He stares at it, unmoving, and seconds later, a small, female hand takes mine instead.

“Pleasure, Mr. Vogel.” Wilder’s pink-haired fiancée beams at me from the seat beside him.

They’re an odd pair. Where he is about my age, stiff and unsmiling, the woman at his side is considerably younger, good-natured, and so colorful she stands out vividly against the neutral palette of the conference room. I correct course, addressing her instead. “Miss Laurence. A pleasure to see you both again.”

She laughs, “Oh god, call me Savvy, please. Are you doing anything fun for the holiday, Mr. Vogel?”

I clear my throat, disarmed by the wildly different temperaments represented before me. “Ah, yes. It will be nice to get a break. And yourself?”

“Looking forward to celebrating in our new home next year,” cuts in Wilder, his tone calm but businesslike.

His fiancée lands a playful swat on his arm. “Small talk is a thing, Dar.”

“I’m aware of the tedious custom, I just choose not to participate,” he replies dryly, but there’s no mistaking the affection in his expression when he looks at her.

Savvy, who is utterly unfazed, turns back to me. “We are so excited to see it. Seriously, I know we’ve been pains in the ass, but it’s super appreciated.”

Wilder snorts. “The amount we’re paying them accommodates a certain degree of discomfort.”

I can’t help but chuckle, powering on the large television centered at the end of the long table. A 3D rendering of their home appears, complete with landscaping and an estimation of where the tree line will be. Their property, which sits close to a local lake, has a good deal of natural stone formations, which we wanted to work into the exterior design.

While Savvy gushes over everything, Wilder doesn’t say a word as I explain the modifications to the last version of the design, how I couldn’t work in one of their requests but managed to find an alternative, and finally round the whole presentation out with a digital walk through. After months on this project, I’ve learned that he seems to take his cues from his fiancée. If she’s happy, he’s satisfied. If she’s even mildly displeased, he will tear it apart with the ruthless efficiency of an apex predator.

Once, I would have rolled my eyes at men like him, who are so obviously besotted with their partners they will base huge decisions on what will make them happy. Now, just for a moment, I allow myself to imagine sitting in Wilder’s place with Sophie at my side.

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