Page 3 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Yes!Feeling a surge of misplaced triumph, I hurry forward, constantly looking over my shoulder, focused on putting distance between me and my metallic stalkers.
And promptly walk straight into something solid. Something tall. Something wearing a very expensive suit.
“Oof!” I stumble sideways, colliding with a display counter, rattling some brochures and computer equipment. My head snaps up.
Standing directly in front of me and looking down with an expression of mild surprise mixed with impatience, is Christopher Blackwell.
Oh.
My.
God.
My carefully prepared opening speech evaporates. My brain goes completely blank.
All I can think is,I just walked into the shark.
“Mr… Blackwell,” I stammer, cheeks instantly flaming.
Smooth, Lucy. Real smooth.
Before I completely short-circuit or his undoubtedly well-armed security decides I’m actively assaulting him, I duck behind the safety of his display counter.
Yes, I am literally hiding behind furniture. Don’t judge me. There’s just something fundamentally calming about having a solid object separating you from imminent doom, or at least, imminent mortification and intimidating blue eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I continue. “I wasn’t looking…”
From behind the counter, he raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. His blue eyes assess me, and that faint smirk I saw earlier returns, stronger this time. “Clearly.” His voice is smooth, deep, with an underlying edge that saysdon’t waste my time.
Okay, regroup. Salvage this.
“I’m Lucy Hammond,” I manage, trying to inject professionalism into my voice, ignoring the fact I probably look like a startled cat. “From Hammond and Company. I was hoping we could—”
Suddenly I feel something nudge insistently against my calf.
No.
Then, a rhythmic pressure.
Oh god, no.
I glance down discreetly behind the counter.
The first robot dog is there, its head tilted, one metallic leg wrapped around my ankle, performing a series of enthusiastic, mechanical humps.
Not funny, Amir! I am going to KILL you!
I try to subtly shake my leg, praying Blackwell hasn’t noticed. He’s still looking at my face, waiting for me to finish my sentence, that damn smirk playing on his lips.
“—hoping we could discuss,” I continue, my voice slightly strained, trying to ignore the persistent humping. “A potential… strategic arrangement… between our companies.” I try a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.
I hear snickers behind me. Likely Blackwell believes the onlookers are laughing at my apparent lack of composure and preparedness,not a robot dog humping my leg.
Damn it!
He leans back slightly, crossinghis arms. The picture of casual arrogance. “Hammond,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the name. “A strategic arrangement.” His eyes linger on my mouth for a split second. “I find the most satisfying arrangements are usually the ones where I have complete control, Ms. Hammond. Less complicated that way.”
Just keep talking. Ignore the robo-pervert.
