Love Redesigned (Lakefront Billionaires #1) by Lauren Asher

“You good?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies before moving back to her right side.

I try to fall asleep, but Dahlia’s tossing and turning keeps me wide awake for the next five minutes. I’m not sure if she is typically a restless sleeper or if her cast makes finding a comfortable position difficult, but either way, she is driving me insane.

I turn my head to the side. “What’s wrong with you?”

She fixes the comforter for the tenth time. “I can’t fall asleep.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She motions toward the two of us like it answers everything.

“What?”

“This is weird.”

“Would you rather I sleep on the floor?”

Her smile can be seen in the dark. “Could you?”

“Hell no, but good to know you’d be up for me being exposed to more bodily fluids than a sperm bank.”

My brain is sent into a tailspin by the soft, melodic sound of her laugh.

“Don’t be dramatic. This has to be the nicest hotel in all of Detroit,” she says.

“It could be the Ritz-Carlton, and I’d still refuse to sleep on the floor.”

“There’s always the couch.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but I like my spine alignment the way it is.”

She giggles again, this time with a little wheeze at the end.

Both of us fall quiet, although this round of silence feels more comfortable compared to the others.

“Julian,” she whispers a few minutes later.

I screw my eyes tight. “I’m sleeping.”

“No, you’re not.” She nudges me with her cast.

I pop an eye open to confirm she closed the gap between us. She leans on her side, with her right arm tucked beneath her pillow and her dark hair billowing around her like a curtain.

“What?” I ask without hiding my annoyance.

“Something has been bothering me.”

“About the mattress?”

“About us.”

I remain quiet.

Dahlia sighs. “Sometimes it feels like…” Her sentence dies before she has a chance to finish it.

What? I want to ask.

Tell me, I wish to say.

But rather than give my curiosity away, I keep the questions locked away.

She returns to her original position on her back. “Forget it. I’m exhausted.”

I let her get away with the lie because I’m not ready to face whatever she wants to say about us, mostly because there is no us to begin with.

Only because you are too afraid of what might happen if there was, the voice in the back of my head whispers.

Putting my history with Dahlia aside, there are plenty of issues standing in my way of pursuing anything serious, including her moving back to San Francisco next year and me not being good enough for her.

I don’t even want a child, for fuck’s sake. So, while I could acknowledge how I feel about her all I want, that doesn’t mean we’re a good match.

No matter how much I wish we were.



I wake up to the sound of something thumping against the wall behind me. My eyes snap open, and my body goes rigid beneath Dahlia’s. Her rhythmic breathing doesn’t falter, so I doubt she notices anything, including the way she holds me like her favorite pillow.

Dahlia is always gorgeous to me—smile or scowl, made-up or barefaced, dressed like a runway model or wearing nothing but a sweatshirt and leggings—but right now, I find her absolutely stunning with her arm wrapped around me and her cheek pressed against my chest.

A smart man would slide out from underneath her and replace his body with an actual pillow, but obviously I lack the necessary IQ level required to move a single inch. Especially not when Dahlia burrows deeper into my chest and throws her leg over mine as if she senses my urge to flee.

Nothing has felt better than waking up with her in my arms.

The usual heavy feeling every morning I wake up alone is absent.

Just a few more minutes, I promise myself as the couple next door continue their sex marathon against our shared wall.

My eyes shut at some point, and I drift off to the sound of Dahlia’s light snoring—a fact that she indeed lied about last night.

Yet I still fall back asleep with a smile regardless.

She doesn’t plan on sticking around for long, I repeat for the umpteenth time during our trip to Detroit.

Then you might as well make the most of it and enjoy her company while you can.



At some point this morning, Dahlia slipped past my ironclad hold of her body against mine, leaving me to wake up all alone a few hours later to our door banging against the wall.

“¡Buenos días, princesa! I got you coffee and a ham and cheese croissant.” Dahlia juggles two plastic cups of coffee in her arm while closing the door with her foot.

I blink up at the ceiling, rub my eyes, and let out a long yawn. She places my drink on the nightstand beside me before taking a seat near the bottom of the bed.

I don’t need to check the label on the side to confirm it’s the right order. Dahlia was the one who got me addicted to iced coffees with extra caramel, caramel drizzle, and a splash of cream, and I haven’t found it in me to stop drinking them, though they always remind me of her.

After a single sip, I feel revived. I sit up against the headboard and brush a hand through my hair. “You sleep okay?”