Page 94 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

I shift, my hands grazing my portfolio. Inspiration strikes.

“Actually, how about another arrangement?”

His eyes heat as he sweeps me with a lingering gaze. “The last one has certainly been beneficial for both of us.”

“You may not like this one,” I reply as I try to keep my attention focused on now and off how his hands felt on me. I tap the portfolio. “You let me redecorate one room, and I’ll let you review my business proposal.”

Even though he doesn’t move, I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Weighing, assessing.

“Budget?”

I mentally tally what I want to do. “Ten to fifteen thousand.”

“Significantly lower than I would have expected.”

“It’s not a complete overhaul. More updating. Making use of what’s there and swapping out what no longer works. Most of that cost would be new furniture, artwork, things like that.”

His eyes narrow. “What do you charge by the hour?”

“Seventy-five.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “An hour?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “You do need my help.”

“I’m an entry-level designer. I’m not going to charge people two or three hundred euros an hour when I’m just starting out.”

“Except you do good work. You should charge it for it.”

My mind turns to my other client. The one outside of the little French village.

“There are ways to meet the needs of the population that you want to help the most.”

My eyes fly to his. It’s unsettling how he knew exactly where my mind went. “Why do you want to help me?”

He pauses, as if he’s not quite sure how to answer himself.

“I enjoy it. Organizing, identifying problems, coming up with solutions. It’s the best part of what I do.”

Surprised, I ask, “Not the property development? The acquisitions?”

“I mentioned the other day that Gavriil lives and breathes Drakos Development. I go through the motions out of habit. I’ve known nothing else my entire life.”

“So what would you do? If you didn’t have Drakos?”

“There is nothing else. There never will be.”

My lips part. My heart aches for him, for a man so talented to simply relegate himself to an existence that brings him no joy.

His phone rings. He glances down at his screen and narrows his eyes.

“Something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “The Acropolis Museum is trying to get in touch with me.”

“The Acropolis Museum?” My eyes widen at his nod. “What do they want?”

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