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I already knew the person who renovated our mother’s houses had done an exceptional job—we all liked the final result—but I wanted to give the designer complete creative freedom with one room in this casino before making a decision.

The designer—a man. That’s what I thought, anyway.

It never crossed my mind that Mom and Sara had been talking about a woman, and I’m certain they never mentioned that detail. At least, not in front of me.

Even the guys always referred to him as a man, so my reaction when I walked in and found Selene standing here is more than justified.

Just not in front of her.

The look on my face clearly unsettled her, which is why I changed my tone immediately. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I had a problem working with a woman. I don’t. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

Even so, I still don’t understand why no one simply said it was her.

We all know Selene.

Her parents have been close family friends for years. We grew up visiting one another’s homes and spending holidays together.

Selene Diaconescu.

Never in a million years would I have expected to find her here. What a fucking twist.

The last time I saw her was at her birthday party. Two years ago? Three? I honestly can’t remember.

What I do remember is her boyfriend choosing that night to propose. Right there in front of everyone. Fireworks. Confetti. Music. An entire production.

“So, what do you think?” her voice suddenly asks.

I turn around and find her staring right behind me, her arms folded across her chest. She’s no longer wearing the cape, and her hair isn’t braided anymore. The sight steals my words for a beat longer than I’d like.

Freed from her braid, the strands cascade past her hips in soft waves. Her sleeveless purple dress hugs her waist—a waist a man could span easily with both hands—and ends just below her ass.

The pink heels add several inches to her height, bringing her almost to my shoulder. I know she’s short. People have teased her about it for as long as I can remember, yet she never seemed to care.

I also know—like I said—that she has a fiancé.

But my attention always drifts to her whenever we’re in the same room.

It’s not intentional.

It’s not malicious.

It’s simply something I neither can nor care to stop.

“Selene,” I say warmly, giving her my full attention. “I’d invite you to my office so we could talk,” I continue, gesturing around us, “but it’s pretty obvious I don’t have one yet.”

A short giggle bubbles out of her, those big blue eyes brightening.

The caution that shadowed her earlier is gone, replaced by something much more relaxed, and I find myself liking the change.

“We could talk outside,” she suggests. “If that works for you.”

Instead of answering, I give her a slight nod and gesture for her to lead the way.

Around us, both teams are putting the finishing touches on the room.

I know what you’re thinking. Who gives a designer a trial run? And what do you do with the room if you hate the result?

I’ve never been the type to do things by the book, and this is no different. I wanted to watch the entire process unfold firsthand—the attention to detail, the care invested in every material, the level of involvement, the passion behind every decision—because those things carry just as much weight as the result when the project is this important.