Page 30 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

S pending over a hundred dollars on two strips of bread and a tease of filling is criminal. No one should get away with pawning off “sandwiches” that would incite the Hunger Games, but that’s what I get for running on mints for the better part of the day.

I pull another Tetris tile from the two-tier stand of white and gold cups with matching saucers.

“Why did you come here?” It’s a question for myself and the crustless square of cucumber and cream cheese that’s really more like a leftover.

There were better options for a late lunch, like one made in the top-of-the-line kitchen back at my place, but I didn’t make groceries.

Not my place—Preston’s penthouse.

I was up half the night, tossing and turning about seeing him for the first time since agreeing to our “arrangement.” The past year flashed against the twinkling lights of Westminster through my bedroom window.

It would be easy to blame my lack of sleep on jet lag, but that’s a lie. Like these sandwiches.

Preston is applying pressure in all the right places, forcing me to contend with my old desires in a new form. For resentment and heartbreak to lose their grip and hold something different. Unexpected.

Parts of him are still the same—the pinch in his brow when he’s deep in thought and the tease of his dimple when he’s up to no good. That same determination from years ago is still there, along with the confidence that everything he pursues will fall into place.

I won’t settle until I get what I can’t live without .

“Well, hello.”

“Bellamy,” I say, caught with a mouthful of smoked salmon and lemon butter. One “sandwich” is not enough. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“I’m meeting someone. Here for tea?”

“Lunch,” I say. More like crumbs, but whatever.

Her laugh is a polished snort suspended in disbelief.

“Unless you plan on ordering another stand, you’ll be here until dinner trying to get full.

” She winks and sets her red pocketbook on the table.

Its scarlet hue matches her suit, one I included in the lookbook I sent after her wardrobe assessment.

It’s from one of last month’s fashion shows, a striking contrast between her toasted ivory skin and the room’s champagne walls draped in molding.

The model who strutted in cursive wearing it commanded the runway, but not like Bellamy.

Everything about her screams, Submit, or there will be blood .

“Are you all moved in?” She unbuttons her blazer and slides into the chair across from me at the two-person table. Her legs kiss, teasing flared pants and a serious shoe game.

“For the most part. Still finding my way around. Hence the tea room.” I chuckle and pick up another sandwich. “At least these fit in my purse so I can snack on them later.”

My snort is an unrefined gargle when I see the disgust twisting into Bellamy’s face. Mama raised me never to waste food.

“You’re serious?” Her eyes survey the prism of pastels and bone-straight hair around the room.

Life is full of surprises, and Bellamy is one of them. She reached out after I sent her lookbook, and she was eager to collaborate. I wouldn’t call us friends, but it’s nice to know another face in London. Hers is often more of a scowl, but that’s Bellamy. Bored, unbothered, and camera ready.

Ravenous is a topic we stuffed in the closet to collect dust. Aside from the NDA we signed, which threatens just about every legal action, I didn’t feel I owed anyone an explanation for my grown-woman behavior.

I’m not ashamed of getting licked to within an inch of my life in a semipublic space, but I don’t need to relive the replay of Bellamy watching.

“Are you staying in Mayfair?” she asks while making a cup of tea.

“Westminster,” I say. She doesn’t reply. “What?”

“Nothing.” She waves me off, but not in time to hide the flush inching up her neck. “New city, new flat. I take it you have prospects here?”

“A few meetings with fashion houses to discuss photo shoot collaborations, and an actress to style for a premiere.”

It will be an adjustment to balance clients in other countries. I slowed down years ago after chasing the high of wanderlust and any opportunity to grow my brand. Now, I’m more intentional with the projects I take and who gets my time.

Like Preston .

“Something funny?”

“No,” I say. “It’s—nothing.”

“That smile doesn’t look like nothing.” Bellamy leans forward. “Spill.”

My skin heats at the face forming in my mind—the sharp planes of a firm jaw, the refined nose and very generous mouth.

“Aren’t you meeting someone?”

“I’m always three steps ahead and twenty minutes early,” Bellamy notes.

“I’m in London for work, not a chance at love,” I say as a preface. My conviction is almost believable.

“But…” Bellamy prods.

“But.” I force out a breath. “A client, an ex, is…”

“Is there a full sentence?”

“Impatient much?” I laugh. “Someone I was once close to recently hired me to be his stylist. He just crossed my mind.” Like he always does these days.

Bellamy considers me, tapping a red nail against her cheek before she nods. Her low ponytail sways down her shoulder. “I’m here, if you ever want to talk about anything other than fabric and stitching.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”