Page 41 of The CEO Enemy

“It happened a long time ago,” I assure her, sparing her from how watching my mother’s strength gradually diminish during my childhood years affected me. How angry I was at my father’s denial of the severity of the situation. The sleepless nights I spent wondering if there was more I could have done to influence my father’s decisions. “She was an influential and compassionate figure. You could say she was a marvel of productivity who handled various responsibilities. Despite her impact, she remained humble, generous, and genuinely connected with people.”

We step into the elevator. “What’s her name?”

“Mary. Mary Irene Blackwood.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos as we ride up. Most of them are hotel location photos. Some are goofy pics of Connor insisting I capture “the Irish hunk” and me—there are tons of him or us posing in front of our bikes in the middle of nowhere. Jess leans in when I find my favorite pic. In it, my mom is in the middle of planting flowers, holding a well-worn yet cherished hand trowel she inherited from Granny. She’s wearing a big summer hat with a huge yellow bow. Even though the hat casts a shadow over half her face, there are crinkles around her eyes formed by her infectious laughter. My father is crouching beside her, casual in khaki shorts and a white T-Shirt, with a tender smile on his face. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years.

“It’s a beautiful photo. I bet she was a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” I pocket my phone.

The Presidential Suite looks satisfying. I’ve seen pictures of how it looked prior to the renovation, and Jess had certainly done a good job in picking the interior design firm. The room features serene, earthy tones, a king-size bed with luxurious linens that match the harmonious color scheme, next to an opulent marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub. Tasteful decor accents and fresh white tulips in white vases add to the welcoming touch. I pull out my phone and add the firm to Blackwood’s list of vendors.

“I’m never gonna get tired of this view,” Jess says, wandering over to the large windows. It’s a bright day outside, the sky a clear blue without a cloud. From where the suite is positioned in the building, it offers a nice view of the NYC skyline.

“I’ve lived here a long time, and I still never get tired of it myself.” I move to stand next to her, my hands shoved into my pockets, facing the skyline. I maintain a gap from the window though. “But I’ll admire it from a distance. Heights aren’t my thing.”

I don’t know why I choose to stand so close nonetheless—the drop below is quite daunting. There’s ample space, and I could shift a fraction to the left to create a more reasonable gap from the edge. Yet, doing so would also increase the distance between us, and I choose not to. I enjoy her citrus perfume subtly wafting my way.

When she glances over at me, those lips of hers are curved into a smirk. “So…you are human after all,” she says softly.

Unsure what she’s talking about, I grumble, “Why do you say that?”

“Because the only thing you ever talk about is work. Even in the morning, when you greet me, you immediately launch into professional matters. To hear you admire something, let alone share a personal family photo, is surprising. Not to mention to hear you have a fear of something is rather human.”

“Did I strike you as inhuman?” I ask.

Redness blooms across her cheeks, and I notice her chest move as her breathing picks up. “Do you really want to know what I thought about you when we first met?” There’s a playfulness in her tone, and I’m intrigued and curious.

“Humor me.”

She studies me for a moment, as if she’s unsure how best to answer. Then she turns around to face me and rests her back against the window.

I resist a sudden urge to reach out and prevent her from falling.

Instead, I focus on what she’s wearing. Today she’s in a form-fitting pantsuit. Normally, that doesn’t do anything for me, but for some reason, on her it looks good. The lavender jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a tight white shirt, with a neckline that dips tantalizingly low. Seeing it so close reminds me of when her body was pressed against mine and the tops of her breasts spilled out of that dress.

“Think you can handle it?” she challenges, smiling, tilting her head playfully.

That’s when her sunglasses slip off her head, hitting the floor with several taps. We both kneel to grab them, and our hands touch in the process. Energy shoots through me at the skin contact, and my dick twitches.

When we get back up, she’s closer than before, showing no inclination to retreat.

I’m even more curious where this is going than I was a second ago. I’m startled to realize the expression on her face is pretty damn close to what I pictured it being last night in my fantasy, and blood travels straight south.

I place a hand on the pane of glass, resting against it casually next to her head, bringing us face to face. My other hand stays in my jacket pocket, preventing me from touching her.

“I can handle anything,” I rumble.

“Are you sure?” Her voice sounds breathy.

“Tell me.”

She drops her hands and arches her back just enough without actually touching. Her voice is hoarse when she says, “Mr. Grumpy King…the undisputed grumpiness monarch.”

A bit lengthy, but I’ve been called worse. Actually, “undisputed” and “monarch,” has a ring to it. “Clearly that wasn’t much of a deal-breaker, considering what happened later at the bar.”

She laughs, a low giggle that I feel as much as hear. The warmth of her body calls to me, mixes with my own, and my breathing matches hers.

“At the time, no, it wasn’t. Especially since I had already gotten a glimpse of what you had to offer.”

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