"We're putting these on your new doors. The deadbolts are good and serve a purpose, but this system is digitally state-of-the art. It's a safer option, and the functionality goes beyond a door lock."
"I want it," I blurt, without thinking of the research I should do.
His lips curl, and he dips his chin. "I'll order it."
"Should I get two?"
"I'll take care of what you need. Let's give it a try. Type in four-six-nine-two- enter."
I try to free my hand, but he grips tighter until I use my other hand. There's a beeping followed by a click, and he opens the door, nudging me ahead of him. The instant I step foot into his home, my heart goes into a frenzy in my chest.
"Oh, my…" I trail off, my eyes flying around the open space excitedly. He finally lets me go when I spin to take it all in. There's so much to see, but when my gaze catches Miller's, I freeze.
"You did all this?"
"I did."
"What about the interior?" It's basic but in a stylish, masculine way.
"Infrastructure was all me. Decorating was help from my mom."
"It's incredible."
"I like it. Take a look around. After a day like today, I'm getting a beer. Want one?"
"No, thank you." This is an auto-response, and as soon as it's out of my mouth, my mind changes. "Actually, yes, I'd like a beer."
He studies me for a split second before smirking then leaves me standing in the middle of the main room. I take him up on his offer to look around. Some people would walk into this house and take in the beauty, never understanding the work. Considering I've spent months educating myself on the process of full-scale renovations, it's obvious the craftsmanship and detailed work that went into it. When I come to an open door and see a king-sized bed with rumpled sheets and clumps of pillows, I stop, taking in the space. It feels intimate, knowing this is his room and where he sleeps at night. In my head, I've always thought of him lying in that hotel room, his body tangled in the stark white sheets. The deep blue of his comforter instantly replaces that image, and I can see him sleeping in this massive bed.
The scent of him hits me, and I force myself to move, knowing I shouldn't invade his private space.
He's leaning against the counter holding a bottle in his hand when I get to the kitchen. He reaches behind him and hands me my own opened bottle.
It feels foreign, so I place it on the counter to keep it from slipping. My skin prickles under his stare with the awkward silence.
"Do you know why I brought you here?"
Realization washes over me, and I nod slowly, my gut now winding with embarrassment and shame. "Your home is beautiful, Miller."
"I know what I'm doing."
"In your line of business, I hope so." Instead of coming out with an edge of humor, the statement comes out bitchy. I clear my throat and try again, "You definitely know what you're doing."
"Shit like this morning needs to stop. You will get the house you want, I promise. But ditch the attitude. I have no idea what kind of life you lived in Chicago, but it won’t fly down here."
I take a sip of the beer to avoid responding, knowing he's right. My actions this morning were over the top. "Maybe I acted a bit haughty."
"You have to let go of some of this control and trust in the process."
"You mean I have to trust you."
"You have a problem with that?"
"Why'd you take on this project?" I peer up at him. "Watching and seeing you on the commercial sites today is proof that my house isn't your typical job."
"Not exactly true. We work in residential construction."
"Stephanie told me this isn't your style."
"You know why I took the job."
I take another sip of the beer, trying not to flinch at the burn scaling down my throat.
"It was you," he confirms what I secretly hoped he'd say, and at the same time know it's wrong.
"But why? You obviously resent me. Is taking this project a way to get back at me? Boss me around and embarrass me?"
His blue eyes darken, and his lips form a tight line as he studies me. "I don't want to get back at you, Ashlyn. I think we've established I'm interested in you."
"No, you're interested in Lily. The reckless and impulsive woman from the bar that went back to your hotel room. She was an imposter."
"I don't believe that. You may have amnesia, but there was nothing reckless about her. You were passionate, seductive, and wild. Everything about that weekend was fucking remarkable."
"You need to get it through your thick head, that woman doesn't exist."
"I will find her, and in the process, I'm going to find out what fucked up shit happened to you."
"My 'fucked up shit', as you so eloquently put it, is in the past."
"Whatever you say, Princess."
"Stop calling me that!"
"Why does it bother you so much?" he pushes, and the tickle in my throat builds.
My control slips, and before I can get a grip, I blurt out, "Because I know what it means! I held that title for years. Prada Princess, Dior Diva, Gucci Gal, Burberry Bitch… all the ways people referred to me while I was busting my ass up the corporate ladder. I told myself what they thought didn't matter. Those people wanted to be me, so I ignored the snide comments and owned my success. When the truth came out, I swore no one would ever call me that again. I left that behind in Chicago." My face flames in humiliation as the last sentence comes out squeaky.
In the next moment, Miller has me in his arms. Fingers fisting my hair as he brings my face to his.
"Baby, what happened to you? Talk to me." His voice is silky smooth and full of kindness, which slices deeper.
"Nothing happened," I rasp.
"You're
