Page 5 of Her Every Fantasy

Straight. Sharp. To the point beforezàijiàn.Sayonara.Goodbye.

Easily accomplished in any language and as effective here as in my office half a mile away. So I’d arranged for my executive chef to prepare lunch here.

In my private space.

Where she could read into it. Where signs of my existence were everywhere. Where everything now seemed...way too personal.

Clever,cleverBryce.

I grimaced at the very vocal inner voice and pressed the button that activated my private lift. The ding sounded in seconds. My stomach muscles tightened as I pulled the door open and awaited my first glimpse of Savannah in three and a half years.

The lift doors parted.

My first reaction was a filthy curse at the internet for the shoddy portrayal of the woman who would turn heads wherever she went. Because the real-life version was so much better than the pitiful digital imitation.

Vibrant. Vivacious. So fucking beautiful.

Dressed in a blush-pink floaty top and skin-tight, chocolate-coloured leather trousers, she was a magnificent vision, powerful enough to slacken my jaw before I caught myself and pressed my lips into appropriately neutral, downrightunfriendlylines. Her curvy hips and endless legs were balanced on sky-high heels matching her trousers and, with that combined with her bouncy curls and flawless make-up, I felt my breathing fracture into useless silent hiccups as I stared.

Mine was the only apartment on this floor, a request I’d worked into the architect’s plans when I’d built the luxury complex. It meant that, with over seventeen thousand square feet to play with, the distance from the lift to my front door was substantial. Long enough to broadcast any nerves from my visitor.

There were none.

She effortlessly projected an ingrained confidence and inner strength I’d secretly envied for a long time before finding my own rightful place in the world. She’d exuded that same vibe on her debut runway show, earned herself positive adoration and cemented herself on the fashion landscape in one fell swoop.

That had been my one and only attendance of her show, and I’d silently watched, smiled proudly and applauded her then.

I wasn’t applauding now as I watched Savannah saunter towards me, that heart-stopping smile curving her luscious lips.

I stayed put, let her come closer, looked deeper into her stunning eyes to spot the first signs of wariness.

Three feet from me, she stopped. ‘Hello, Bryce.’

I shoved my hands into my pockets and narrowed my eyes, almost deluding myself that minimising my vision would lessen her physical impact. ‘Hi, yourself.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ she murmured and I gritted my jaw against the evocative effect of her voice. Warm honey. Sultry nights. Hot tangled sheets. The stuff of a thousand wet dreams.

All forbidden best-friend territory.

Except we weren’t best friends any more. Hell, we weren’t even friends.

So I raised an eyebrow, deliberately, but didn’t answer. The faintest flush stained her cheeks.

A little appeased at that reaction, I waved towards the open door. ‘Come in. Lunch is just about ready and I need to get back to work within the hour.’

She studied me for one second longer, either reacquainting herself with my face or assessing my mood before walking past me into my personal domain. My involuntary swallow at the rich, flowery scent that trailed her was annoying but I gave myself a pass, extracting a hand from my pocket long enough to shut the door before I jammed it back into safety.

I arrived in the living room to find her examining every square inch of it. Yeah, definitely the wrong move, bringing her here. When she was done, she faced me with another tentative smile.

‘Your place is amazing. Very stylish. Very...suave.’

I nodded briskly, totally dismissing the pulse of warmth that attempted to steal through me. ‘Thanks. Would you like a drink? I have white wine chilling. Or I can offer you something else?’ No reason not to be civil before the takedown began.

She shook her head. ‘White wine is fine, thank you.’

My living room was a wide, open space with the dining table tucked beneath a slanted floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Currently at a setting that dulled the blinding sun’s raysby a fraction, the glass threw back a dozen perfect reflections. Through one, I saw her staring after me as I went to the silver ice bucket set up on its pedestal next to the dining table. Saw her avert her gaze as I plucked the Chateauneuf from the ice and turned around. I uncorked the bottle, poured two glasses and returned to the living room.

‘Sit down, Savannah.’

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