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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 rallyingbehind 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.
Sam earned himself a nice Christmas bonus for finding a pilot at the last minute and renting me a red Ferrari worth more than all my cars combined.
I park the car outside Dahlia’s townhouse before killing the engine and stepping out. The Victorian style fits Dahlia to a T, with white wood trim, blue siding, and those bay windows she loves so much.
I climb the steps, step over the fadedmi casa es tu casadoormat, and ring the bell.
“Coming!”
The door swings open a few minutes later.
Dahlia rubs the sleep from her eyes. “You’re here.”
