Page 29 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Probably the latter. Still, he looked just as shocked as I felt for a split-second before his impenetrable mask slammed back down. But the kiss itself… wasn’t cold. Wasn’t calculated.
It was furious. Intense.
It’s as if all the simmering tension between us, the arguments, the negotiations, the stupid, unwanted sparks, finally combusted.
And the worst part? The absoluteworstpart? For one insane second, before my brain screamed bloody murder and my hands found his chest, I might have… leaned in. Just a fraction.
No. Absolutely not. Chalk it up to shock. Temporary insanity induced by stress and champagne.
I shake my head. What a crazy night.
Also, god, at least give me some warning next time so I can pop a freakin’ breath mint!
Actually no. That would imply I care that he kissed me.
Which I absolutely don’t.
The cab pulls up to my apartment building. I quickly pay with my phone and stumble out onto the familiar sidewalk.
Safe. Ish.
The next morningdawns gray and unforgiving, mirroring my mood. My apartment, usually my sanctuary filled with art books and cozy throws, feels like a cage. I’m pacing, clutching a mug of coffee strong enough to wake the dead, which is essentially what I feel like. I barely slept a wink all night.
Logic. I need logic, not emotions.
Deploy the logic.
I grab a notepad and pen, channeling my inner business student.
PROS of Christopher Blackwell Kissing Me:
1. …
2. … Okay, maybe not ‘pros’.
CONS of Christopher Blackwell Kissing Me:
1. He’s the enemy. The gorgeous, infuriating, surprisingly complex enemy.
2. He’s trying to take over my family’s company.
3. This complicates everything. The deal, the liaison role he demanded… Oh god, the liaison role. Reporting directly to him? After that? Kill me now.
4. It was… confusingly good? No! Bad Lucy! Down girl! Focus!
5. Potential for epic professional implosion: HIGH.
6. He probably thinks I’m easy now. Ugh.
My phone buzzeson the counter, making me jump. An email notification.
Subject:Meeting Request - C. Blackwell.
Oh,you have got to be kidding me.
My stomach does a nervous flip-flop. The message is not from him directly, of course. It’s from Tatiana Cole, his terrifyingly efficient assistant. The email is brief, precise, and utterly devoid of emotion, which somehow makes it even more intimidating.
Mr. Blackwell requestsa private meeting with Ms. Hammond at her earliest convenience to clarify professional boundaries regarding Project Nightingale. Please advise availability. Suggested location: Private dining room, The Carlyle, 12:00 PM today?
