Page 30 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Clarify professional boundaries?Is he serious?
He’s the one who blew them up with napalm last night! The absolute nerve. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance.
And The Carlyle? Seriously? Couldn’t pick a coffee shop like normal people?
Nooooo, it has to be some hush hush, super expensive temple of discretion.
Jesus.
Part of me wants to write back:Dear Mr. Blackwell, regarding boundaries: How about you keep your damn predatory lips on your side of the negotiating table? Thanks, Lucy.
But I can’t. Hammond & Co. needs this deal.Ineed this deal, if I want to have any hope of saving us. Because last night, despite all the schmoozing I did, I couldn’t find any other potential contenders who might be interested in the company. That means Christopher holds all the cards.
And then there’s that liaison condition of his… if I refuse this meeting, refuse the role, he could pull the offer. Or worse, revert to his original hostile takeover plan, likely egged on by his charming father.
Okay, Lucy. Game face.
I force my trembling fingers to type a reply.
Ms. Cole,12:00 PM at The Carlyle is acceptable. Ms. Hammond will be there. Regards.
Short.Professional. Hopefully conveying an air of ‘utterly unfazed by your boss’s sudden lapse into interoffice tonsil hockey.’
Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I’m about as unfazed as a deer in theheadlights.
I stare at my closet in despair. What do you wear to a meeting about clarifying boundaries you didn’t cross, with the billionaire who did the crossing?
Power suit feels too aggressive. Dress feels too… date-y? Definitely not wearing anything date-y. Jeans are out of the question, too.
I finally settle on a navy sheath dress. Professional, structured, hopefully projecting an aura of calm competence I absolutely do not feel. Paired with sensible heels.
It’s basically armor.
I’m going to need it.
The private diningroom at The Carlyle is exactly as hushed and intimidatingly elegant as I expected. Cream walls, dark wood table, a single discreet waiter hovering like some ghost. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and mahogany.
I discreetly pop a breath mint. Not because I care what he thinks about my breath or anything. Just because, you know, I like the taste of mints in general.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
And then he walks in, punctual to the second this time, and the atmosphere instantly shifts. Grows tense.
Christopher Blackwell looks infuriatingly perfect. Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie today, which somehow makes him look even more imposing, more predatorially disposed. Not a hair out of place. No sign of the turbulent emotions, or whatever they were, from last night.
He probably had his feelings dry-cleaned and pressed.
Okay, Lucy. You are a competent executive. You are negotiating for your company’s future. You are not thinking about the way his jaw tightened right before he kissed you.
Nope.
“Ms. Hammond,” he greets, his voice betraying nothing. He doesn’t offer a handshake, which is probably for the best. Less chance of accidental electrocution.
“Mr. Blackwell.” I manage to keep my voice steady.
He sits down opposite me, and I place my portfolio precisely on the table between us.
A shield.
