Page 70 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Not a question.A statement. Part of me should be annoyed. I’m used to being in control, after all. I have to be, working at my father’s company.
But another part? Another part feels a thrill ofanticipation that has absolutely nothing to do with business strategy.
Okay, Lucy.
You’re officially off the grid, now, and heading into uncharted territory.
Time to peek over those walls.
23
Christopher
Fuck!
Why is it so hard to fucking focus?
The voice on the conference call drones on about quarterly projections. Numbers. Data points. Strategic alignment. My usual fucking playground.
But today, my fucking mind keeps drifting. To salt air, tangled sheets, the curve of Lucy Hammond’s hip under my hand. The way she looked at me after… I let the mask slip.
Again.
Damn it.
I’m sitting in my office, the speakerphone projecting the meeting into the room. My door is deliberately left ajar. Tatiana is on the call, too, so there’s no point in shutting it. She’s taking notes while ostensibly managing workflow. My Praetorian Guard in tailored pantsuits.
“…and the integration timeline for the Berlin subsidiary remains aggressive but achievable, Mr. Blackwell,” says a disembodied German accent.
“Fine,” I bite out, trying to recall the specifics ofthe Berlin deal. It feels like ancient history. “Maintain projected cost efficiencies. Report any deviations immediately.”
What the hell was I doing checking on her with a text?
Offering help?
Acting like some kind of goddamn knight in shining armor?
Weakness.
“Yes, Mr. Blackwell.”
The call drags on. Logistics. Market penetration strategies. Competitor analysis. Standard operational bullshit.
But every pause, every flicker of silence, my thoughts snap back to her. Her resilience at the disaster site. Her quiet strength. The way she confronted me in the Hamptons, demanding honesty. The way she fucking surrendered to me on that sofa, in her office, then again in my bed.
The way she tasted so fucking good...
Stop it. Business. Focus on the business.
Finally, the call ends. Silence descends, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.
Tatiana appears in the open doorway moments later, tablet in hand, expression perfectly neutral. But I know that look. She’s processing. Analyzing.
“The Frankfurt projections require your final sign off, sir,” she says, her voice crisp. “And the updated risk assessment for Project Nightingale is ready for review.”
Project Nightingale.
The name makes me think of her.
