I try not to s**t myself in joy as I step aside to let Nate in, his familiar scent of musk, Nivea aftershave, and vanilla engulfing my senses. This is the first time he’s stepping foot into my house, and it almost doesn’t feel real. In fact, I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. That the popular, hottest, most talked about and one of the richest billionaires in all of Los Angeles is right here in my house, looking devastatingly dashing.
He takes a few steps into the sitting room, and his presence fills the entire place up. But unlike his snotty, self-besotted asshole of a son Emerson, nothing reeked of arrogance or an over-bloated sense of importance in Nate’s demeanor. He assesses the place carefully. “You have a beautiful place. Your parents are phenomenal.”
“Well, thank you,”
