Love Redesigned (Lakefront Billionaires #1) by Lauren Asher

“Great.”

He readjusts his headpiece over his dark blond hair. “Oh, and then, when you have some free time, call Lake Aurora’s mayor. He had a few questions about the town’s infrastructure and wanted to run an idea by you.”

“Thanks.” I rub my eyes. Despite getting eight hours of sleep last night, I still feel tired.

When the Dwelling shares were listed on the New York Stock Exchange and our company went public a few years ago, I was invigorated by my newfound billionaire status and the prospect of turning my father’s struggling construction company into Lopez Luxury. But now that I’ve accomplished everything my father dreamed of and more, I’m uninspired, exhausted, and growing resentful of every project I take on.

I’ve considered different options to reignite my passion, such as taking on an individual project again or changing up my team of designers, but I never seem to follow through. Part of me is afraid that I’ll never return to the office once I remember what it feels like to invest my blood, sweat, and tears into a project.

Last night proved that. Dahlia wasn’t the only one who had a spark in her eye at the prospect of fixing up the Founder’s house.

I did too.



After a long day full of meetings, I’m relieved to return to my isolated mansion on the northern shore of the lake, located far away from the restaurants, parks, and couples who remind me of what I want but don’t have.

I’ve had three other houses in the last four years which were in the southern part of town. While the sand dunes and beachfront were far nicer than the smaller, rockier northern shore, I couldn’t stand being surrounded by tourists, couples, and families.

I dump my keys and wallet in the glass dish beside the front door before taking a hard left toward the chef’s kitchen with windows facing the Historic District, although I’m quickly distracted from the panoramic views by my growling stomach.

Neat rows of premade meals line the middle shelf of my refrigerator, courtesy of my housekeeper. I microwave the first one within reach and take a seat at the kitchen island before connecting my phone to the speaker system.

Even with the music blasting around the house, the scraping of my utensils against the plate sounds worse than firing up a concrete saw at midnight.

I don’t enjoy silence as much as people think I do. In fact, I’ve grown to hate it over the years because it reminds me of what I lack.

A home rather than a house.

A wife to love, cherish, and support.

A reason to wake up every morning that isn’t my job or the people who rely on me for a steady paycheck.

Money might buy me a lot of things, but it can’t cure the gaping hole in my chest that only deepens with every passing year. What used to fulfill me barely scratches the incessant itch anymore. Overworking myself. Casual dates that never lead to anything more. Spending all my free time with family while ignoring the wish to start my own.

None of it has the same appeal, and I’m getting worried.

Mejor solo que mal acompañado, my dad said in that deep, rumbling voice of his after I caught my group of friends making fun of me behind my back.

Pain slices through my chest. When I was younger, I would roll my eyes and ask what website my dad stole his latest quote from, but now I have an appreciation for how he had the right saying for every situation.

God, I’ve lost count of how many times I wished he were here, dropping proverbs whenever I needed them.

Mejor solo que mal acompañado: Better to be alone than with bad company.



When the right person comes around, you’ll know it, I tell myself.

But what if the right person has been there all along and I screwed it all up because I was a stupid twenty-year-old who didn’t know any better?

That question has kept me awake since Dahlia returned last week, along with the what-if scenarios that could have happened if I had processed my grief the right way instead of isolating myself.





CHAPTER NINE


Dahlia


“Do you get cell service in that little hometown of yours?” my agent, Jamie, asks as soon as I answer the phone.

I wince. “Sorry about not returning your calls.”

Avoiding Jamie was easy after listening to her first voicemail, when she asked me how my planning was going for my next décor launch, but dodging my other friends’ texts and calls has been more challenging. Reina, Hannah, and Arthur—the three TV crew members I befriended on Bay Area Flip—send messages in our group chat daily despite me only sharing an occasional I’m still alive text.

While that statement is true, I’m not exactly living, so until I am, I plan on keeping away from everyone.

Jamie makes a soft chuffing noise. “I’m only teasing you. How’s the R and R going?”

Seeing that I got out of bed before noon, took a morning walk around the neighborhood, and helped my mom make breakfast, I’d count today as a win despite it only being ten a.m.

Look at you finding the bright side.

“Good. I needed the break,” I reply.

“After wrapping up that last season, I don’t blame you.”

“Yeah.”

“How are you doing mentally?”

I loosen my tight grip on my phone. “Some days are good, and some days are…”

“Absolute shit?” she finishes for me.