“Kenan,” I protest, closing my eyes on a groan. “We said friends. We said simple. This is not how you start a simple friendship.”

His large hand cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I open my eyes, blinking dazedly at him. I wasn’t prepared for how his touch makes me feel. How I instantly crave more of it; want to lean into the warmth; to turn and trace his lifeline with my tongue. Tell him all the things I could discover just from reading his palm and looking into his eyes.

How can such a large hand feel so gentle, like it’s capable of treasuring, cherishing?

“Okay, Lotus,” he says, regret and reluctance woven around my name. “Simple. Friendship.”

He withdraws, and I want to seek it out again immediately. When I open my eyes, he’s pulling on the shirt I chose, buttoning it with quick, deft movements. I’m frozen to the spot, unable to look away from the intensity of his stare. He grabs the tie and extends it to me.

“What’s that for?” I ask dumbly.

“I suck at ties,” he says, his full lips quirking at the corners, some of his humor returning.

“Oh.”

I strain up to loop the tie behind his neck, and he bends so I can reach him more easily. He’s so much taller, and I feel like a flower growing along a great wall. Dwarfed. Sheltered. By sheer will, I keep my hands steady while I finish tying the tie. When I’m almost done, he leans forward until his nose aligns with mine and he breathes in.

“From one friend to another,” he says, his voice rough and husky, “you smell incredible.”

When he pulls back to look into my eyes again, we get hung up—caught in a net of longing. I don’t know this man and he doesn’t know me, but our bodies know. Our bodies already know, and it’s taking everything in me not to lean up and forward so our lips meet—so I can taste him again. Our breaths mingle. My hands curl into my palms with the effort required not to grab his jaw and take his mouth, make it mine. My heart clamors behind my ribs. The moment simmers with possibility.

“I could kiss you, Lo,” he rasps. “But I won’t.”

His words snap whatever thread linked us, and I step back, clearing my throat and fixing my face.

“Good,” I say, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Because we did say a simple friendship, and that would complicate matters too much.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says.

“I don’t make deals with men I don’t know.” I even my voice out until it’s almost normal.

He pauses, a slight smile hitting his lips before he goes on. “Okay, I’ll make you a promise.”

“Promises mean nothing from men I don’t trust,” I say with a shrug. “And men I don’t know, I don’t trust.”

“Okay, I’ll make a prediction.” He lifts both brows and waits for my objection.

“Go on,” I say with a nod.

“I predict we will kiss again,” he says, and my wide eyes zip to his face. “But only when you want it. The next time we kiss, you’ll make it happen.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I retort with borrowed confidence.

“Mark my words, little millennial.”

“Lotus, you back here?” Chase calls from around the corner. He stops as soon as he sees me with Kenan, frowns, and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “JP’s looking for you.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say hastily, speed walking around him.

“I’m ready for you,” I hear Chase tell Kenan.

I’m glad one of us is.

JP has averted the crisis with the silk shipment and looks like a pleasant, reasonable man again. We’re talking through a few things we’ll probably work on when we get back to the office when Kenan walks in.

I chose well. The cool green pops against his skin. He’s the portrait of rugged, beautiful masculinity, but once the shoot actually starts, it looks like we caught him in the middle of a root canal. None of the coaxing, coaching, and cajoling Chase typically uses to get the best out of a subject is working on Kenan.

I roll my hips to the heavy beat pouring through the speakers and wonder if this will be a waste of time because the compelling force of Kenan’s personality doesn’t translate.

The beat.

It’s “Bad and Bouje” by Migos.

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

“Hey, JP,” I whisper. “What do you think?”

“It’s not . . . working,” he says, panic in his voice. “And I need to know we have someone locked down for this. He’s much stiffer than I thought he would be, but I still love those arms.”

“Mind if I try something that might help him relax a little?”

“Is it sex?” He widens his eyes and squeezes my hand reassuringly. “I’ll make everyone leave the room if you need privacy.”

“No, it’s not sex,” I say, trying to sound appropriately outraged instead of hella turned on. “Let me try something.”

“It can’t hurt,” JP says, watching as Kenan looks pained going through the poses and expressions Chase requests. I tiptoe over to the sound system and flip through what’s available until I find a song that might work.

At the first notes of “PYT,” the tension leaves Kenan’s shoulders. The longer the song goes, the better he looks, the easier it seems to come to him.

“You’re a miracle worker,” JP says, delight all over his face as he watches Kenan. “He looks great, doesn’t he?”

I hazard a glance at our subject, only to find him already watching me and smiling. I don’t read lips, so it takes me a little bit to decipher the message he mouths to me, but I finally get it.

“Thanks, PYT.”

8

Kenan

So this is an atelier.

I step off the elevator and into the small entrance of JPL Maison. Just past the lobby, I enter a beehive. Women—a dozen shapes, sizes, colors—swarm through an open space stuffed with sewing machines and tables sporting large blades. Some cut fabric with surgical precision. The space, with its sterile white walls and neutral floors, is punctuated with vibrant pops of color from fabric in all kinds of patterns and textures. A forest of those headless, armless mannequin things huddles at the far end of the room. Tall bolts of fabric are propped up against the walls and fill the corners. Shelves suspended overhead are crammed with containers of buttons, zippers, hooks, and all kinds of things I’ve never needed to know the names for.

It’s a beehive, and I’m looking for the queen.

“Kenan!” JP calls down from the floor above. “Up here!”

Found him.

The seamstresses’ stares make me feel like the last male on the planet, but I ignore the curious looks and take the stairs to the next floor where JP waits with a welcoming smile. His lips are coming at me, but I put up a hand.

“I don’t do air kisses, JP.”

“Oui, oui.” He laughs and waves me into a glass-walled conference room. “Come see the watches I have for you.”

Another man, I think the CEO, if I remember correctly, sits at the long slate table. He and the redhead from the party, Billie, have their heads together and are deep in what looks to be an intense conversation.

“Paul,” JP says, his eyes speculative on the couple. I assume they’re a couple. There’s something intimate about their interaction, but when Paul puts his hand forth to shake mine, I notice his wedding band. Billie’s not wearing one. He and Bridget might have a lot in common. A flush rises on Billie’s cheeks, and I remember seeing her with Lotus. They seemed friendly that night.

Lotus.

I promised myself if I didn’t run into her, I wouldn’t go looking, but once JP has shown me the prototypes he’d like me to wear during press conferences and other appearances, I know I’ll at least try to find her before I go.

When we’re done, JP and Paul remain in the conference room for their next meeting and ask Billie to walk me out.

“It’s Billie, right?” I ask, addressing her directly for the first time as we descend the iron stairwell.

“Uh, yeah.” She glances at me, her green eyes friendly, but guarded.

“We met at the yacht party.”

“I remember.” Her gaze narrows, sharpens. “That was some kiss.”

“It was,” I agree with a stiff smile. I swallow my pride and ask the question burning a hole in my tongue. “So is Lotus in today?”

“She’s working.” With twitching lips, she presses the iPad to her chest. “But I think she had some errands to run.”

Dammit. “I see.”

I feel like a teenage boy standing at a locker asking some girl’s friend if she likes me. I hadn’t thought about Lotus’s age until our conversation at the shoot. At twenty-five, I hadn’t even been in the league five years. I was a new dad, a new husband. I don’t even recognize that kid in myself anymore. I can’t find him. To think of all I experienced in eleven years—Lotus still has all of that ahead of her.

Something about the way Billie’s looking at me makes me wonder if Lotus has talked about us with her friends. Not that there’s much of an “us” to discuss yet, but I still feel a certain protectiveness of the friendship we’re cultivating. I don’t get a gossip vibe from Lotus. I can’t imagine her running to TMZ or selling her story to the tabloids, and there’s really nothing to tell yet, but Dr. Packer warned us to be careful how Simone finds out about romantic interests.

“I could tell her you stopped by,” Billie says, her voice almost conspiratorial, like we have a secret.

“Nah, but thanks.” I smooth my expression over and walk ahead of her. By necessity, I got really good at masking my emotions and shutting everyone out. Every day, some reporter was digging in my trash, literally and figuratively. I can’t have my life exposed that way again. I don’t think Lotus would share my personal details, but look how badly I misjudged Bridget.