Love Redesigned (Lakefront Billionaires #1) by Lauren Asher

Everything stops. My heart. My lungs. My ability to speak.

“I don’t expect you to say it back, but I didn’t want another day to go by without you hearing it.” His confession pulls at every single one of my heartstrings.

His selfless, understated kind of love is the one I spent years searching for but never found—until now.

Julian wasn’t the only one living through a ten-year blackout.

I was too.

I fight a battle against my tear ducts and lose with a sniffle.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying…” My voice wavers.

“It sounds like it to me.”

“Shut up and say it again.”

“It sounds like—”

“No. The other thing.”

“Don’t cry?”

If he were here, I’d kiss the smile right off his face.

“Forget it,” I huff.

“I love you. Good night,” he repeats before hanging up the phone.

After Julian’s confession, I can’t fall back asleep, so instead, I obsess over our conversation until I’ve gone over it a hundred times.

With every fiber of my being, I know he loves me, and it’s time I showed him I feel the same way, even if it means putting my heart on the line once more. Experiencing Julian’s love for a moment is far better than me spending a lifetime without it, wondering what might have happened had I given him a chance.



My phone pings the next day with a text from my agent asking if I am going to this Saturday’s party.

ME

What party?



She attaches a photo of the Creswells’ fifth annual postproduction party.

JAMIE

I thought that’s why you wanted to meet with Archer this week as opposed to next.



ME

My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.



JAMIE

Shit. You’re on the RSVP list.



My phone vibrates from an incoming call.

“Hey, Jamie.”

“Fuck them!”

My eyes go wide as saucers.

“You didn’t know about this?”

“I mean, I’ve been to them in the past, but I thought they wouldn’t host one this year after everything.”

“Those assholes.” She seethes through the phone.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! They did this on purpose to embarrass you.”

“Only if I let them.”

Her heels click against the floor from her pacing. “You’re not thinking of going, are you?”

I stay quiet.

“Dahlia, you can’t be serious. You’ve come so far since the first time we met. No need to threaten all that progress.”

When I first met Jamie, I had a breakdown in her office after telling her the story of how my previous agent dropped me as a client. At the time, I was depressed without knowing it, and my lack of control over my emotions was at its all-time low.

But look at you now.

“I want to show them they didn’t break me.” They might have come close, but I’m still here, fighting for myself and the future I deserve.

“Do you want me to be your plus-one?”

I consider it for a moment before thinking better of it. “Actually, I already have a date.”

“Is he hot?”

“Absolutely,” I say before laughing.

“Smart?”

My nose wrinkles. “Annoyingly so.”

“Please tell me he’s rich.”

“He makes Oliver’s inheritance seem like play money.”

Jamie whistles. “Good for you. He sounds like a keeper.”

I know, and it’s time I told him so.





CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


Julian


My phone rings, interrupting me in the middle of slicing through a block of wood.

I answer. “Dahlia?”

“So, feel free to say no, but I have this crazy request—”

“Done.”

Her laugh is the sweetest sound.

She composes herself before saying, “You haven’t heard what it is.”

“Do I need to?”

She grumbles something under her breath that I can’t make out.

My brows pinch together. “What?”

“The Creswells are throwing their annual postseason wrap party, and I conveniently ended up on the RSVP list.”

I’m not the slightest bit surprised. With the media rallying behind Dahlia after Oliver’s Vegas drive-thru wedding and the disaster of their last season, the Creswells need some major damage control.

“When is it?” I toss the wood post to the side and start cleaning up my station.

“Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Should I bring a tux or a suit?”

“Julian.”

“Good call. I’ll pack both, and you can pick between the two.” I wipe my sawdust-sprinkled hands down my shirt.

“You seriously want to go?”

“Do you plan on attending?”

She pauses for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then, yeah, I want to go.”

“Thank you,” she whispers before hanging up.



Last time I was in San Francisco, I could barely afford an economy ticket to get home for the holidays, yet here I am now, parking my private jet on a secluded landing strip.