I was nervous as fuck, yet I doubt neither Antonio nor Jonah noticed. In fact, I rocked the hell out of that presentation and, as soon as I get home, I’m totally making waffles to celebrate.

It’s been a pretty quiet ride to Antonio’s house as he and I both seem to be consumed by our own private thoughts. Me, over the excitement of helping plan the fashion show. But I’m not certain I’d be able to guess what’s on Antonio’s mind. He’s a bit mysterious, honestly. Although, in his defense, that’s the case with most creative types. Lord knows, I’ve been referred to as mysterious plenty of times.

Stealing a surreptitious glance, I try to study his expression.

Fail.

I can’t make out a damn thing through his dark sunglasses.

Mysterious or not, I’m thankful for the opportunity to work with him. He seems to be less of a jerk to me with each passing day.

He turns onto Sunset Blvd and drives west before coming to a crawl approaching a black iron gate.

Antonio slides his designer shades on to the top of his perfectly styled hair. “We’re here. My humble abode.”

The gate creeps open, and Antonio zips through the opening and up a long cobblestone-lined driveway before parking at a hasty angle in front of a row of three garage doors. And to the left of the garage doors sits a stunning, white, two-story, Mediterranean-style villa.

He kills the engine and jumps out of the car, wanders over to my side, and opens my door. He leans in slightly. “Um, Daniella…you okay?”

A fleeting pause lingers between us as I stare, in awe, at his house.

“Yeah, sure. It’s just…your house. It’s gorgeous.”

He lifts a brow and chuckles. “It’s alright.” He takes my hand, politely aiding me, as I step out of the car and onto the driveway. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

The two of us climb a flight of stairs, leading up to the embossed double-door entry.

“Holy shit, Antonio,” I let out once inside. The entry hall is majestic, showcasing a grand sweeping staircase.

He slides my tote bag off my shoulder and hangs it on the coat rack by the doorway. “People have said many things as they walk in…but I’ll grant you none have said holy shit.”

His blue eyes brighten as he stands in front of me, peering down to meet my gaze. He’s much taller than I am, even while wearing these five-inch stilettos, that are actually killing me right now.

“Mind if I remove my shoes?” I say, just as I begin to extract myself from them.

He opens his mouth to answer, but I’m already barefoot, playfully wiggling my newly manicured toes, as I stand before him more miniature-sized than I was only seconds ago.

“Not at all…nice toes.” He laughs. “Come on. Let’s begin the tour.”

He gestures for me to follow and I do so, allowing my eyes to canvass the sophisticated yet modern décor of all things black and white.

My feet feel cold walking behind him on the marble floor, as we walk past an ebony-colored, rectangular accent table that holds a small collection of crystal vases. Above the table hangs a large, framed black-and-white photo-collage of famous Hollywood movie directors. I feel my stare widen as I walk past it, then I bump into the backside of Antonio who has apparently stopped at the base of the sweeping staircase.

Turning around to face me, Antonio grabs ahold of my arms, his grip soft yet firm, as I clumsily lose my footing. “Whoops. You alright there? Lucky for you I’m not holding a jelly donut this time.” He looks down at me and winks when our eyes meet. “I, uh, figure we can begin your tour upstairs, then finish downstairs before we look at the designs.”

I nod in anticipation as excitement, as well as total embarrassment, has captured my ability to speak.

Upstairs, Antonio takes me through six bedrooms and four bathrooms, all decorated in the elaborate black-and-white theme that I’ve now gathered is flourished about the entire home. Most of the bedrooms have windows with magnificent views of nearby Century City and the Pacific Ocean.

We come to a double door and, before opening, Antonio explains. “This is my room, so please excuse the mess.” His mouth slips into a playful grin as he goes on. “The bed is never made and—”

“Antonio. Seriously? It’s just a bedroom.” I laugh at his spiel and roll my eyes. Then turn the doorknob and let myself in.

My eyes survey the space that’s gotta be at least a thousand square feet.

Gorgeous. Huge. Dreamy.

A king-sized bed that is indeed unmade, but still cozy looking.

A 50-inch TV that hangs over the wood-burning fireplace.

A large deck with a wet bar and jacuzzi.

Two walk-in closets.

And a bathroom with a step-in Spanish-tiled shower equipped with six shower heads, and to the right of that, a bathtub large enough to bathe an army.

Antonio busies himself, picking up loose articles of clothing from off the floor. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” His cheeks turn red—and it’s the first time the cool and collected Antonio seems nervous.

He’s actually human, after all.

I feel a satisfying grin devour my face and, while I try to hide my amusement, my grin doesn’t go unnoticed.

Antonio tosses an armful of clothing into one of the closets. “And what is it that you find so funny?” he solicits, armed with his own mirthful simper.

“Truthfully, I find it kind of cute you’re embarrassed that your room is a little messy.”

“Cute? Well I guess that’s something.” He places his hand along the back of my waist. “How about I show you the rest of the house?”

I giggle as I’m guided out of his room. “Of course. I’d love to see more.”

Back downstairs, Antonio presents a dining room, a grand living room overlooking a flower garden, an office, a thirteen-seat theater room, an elaborate kitchen, and a unique outdoor living room, before he escorts me into the library—the only room in the house that is not shrouded in black-and-white décor. It’s rather large in scale, with ginger walls and floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying an assortment of books.

Besides the shelves being the focal point of the room, there is a rustic-looking brick fireplace. Sitting on its mantel is a large black-and-white photo. The same photo that sits on his desk back at his office, only obviously much larger.

I walk over to take a closer look and, as I stand there, admiring the ravishing woman, curiosity gets the best of me. “Is this your wife, Antonio? She’s strikingly beautiful.”

He clears his throat. “My wife? Uh, no. I’m not at all married.” He stands beside me, appearing to also admire the woman in the photo. “She,” he explains, now pointing to the photo, “was my dear mother. I had her photo restored.”

Now, that I wasn’t expecting.

“Was your mother?”

He nods. “Yep. Unfortunately, I never met her. She died shortly after I was born—this is a photograph of her when she was pregnant with me. I cherish it and display it in here, because my mom loved to read. My grandma told me my mother read to me every single day while she was pregnant.”

I shake my head in utter despair. “I’m sorry, Antonio, I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Not that many people do know…I don’t typically show anyone this room, really. And it’s unusual for me to feel comfortable enough to even talk about my mother.” He grabs ahold of my hand, leading me out of the room, and closes the door behind us. “How about we head to the kitchen to check out those designs now?”

I nod, thinking it’s really the only appropriate response.

In the kitchen, Antonio breaks the silence that stood between us as we walked from the library into the kitchen, and invites me to sit down on one of the chairs surrounding the rectangular dining table.

“Would you care for something to drink, Daniella? I can make coffee, offer you a bottle of water, a martini, or—”

“A martini?” I snicker. “I’m on the clock, Sir.”

He looks up from an invoice he’s reading. “Yes, but you’re with the boss, so it doesn’t count,” he quips. “But you’re right. I’ll show off my liquid chef skills to you another time.”

“Liquid chef?”

“Yes. I’m quite talented in the mixed drinks department. So much so, my talent extends beyond that of a bartender or mixologist.”

“So you refer to yourself as a liquid chef?” I ask, clearly amused.

One eyebrow raised, Antonio says, “among other things.”

“Fine,” I fold my arms over my chest and squint my eyes. “Indulge me. I’ll gladly take a martini, please.”

His eyes glisten and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Shaken or stirred?”