Page 59 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“Precisely.” Christopher leans back, steepling his fingers. That intense gaze is back, but directed at the problem, not at me. Mostly. I catchhim looking sometimes, when he thinks I’m focused on the screen, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he looks away. It’s driving me crazy.
“We need two things,” he continues. “One: definitive, irrefutable proof of Morgan’s collusion with my father. Something concrete enough to force his resignation quietly or ensure the board backs his removal without question. Financial forensics, perhaps tracing direct payments or communications.”
“Can we get that?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “I have resources. People who specialize in finding things that don’t want to be found. It will take discretion. And time.”
“Okay. And the second thing?”
“Neutralizing his leverage,” Christopher continues. “We need to get ahead of whatever secrets Morgan thinks he has on your father. Understand the full extent of the exposure. Prepare Hammond & Co.’s narrative. Maybe even initiate our own controlled disclosure to key stakeholders before Morgan can weaponize it. Take away his power by controlling the release.”
It’s a solid strategy. Logical. Ruthless in its own way. But incredibly complex and risky. It requires deep diving into Dad’s mess, exposing it internally, and hoping we can spin it convincingly. All while secretly gathering enough dirt on Morgan and Mark Blackwell to take them down.
A part of me wonders if Christopher will be able to go through with it, when the time comes. I mean going against his father like that... it’s not something I can ever imagine doing against my own dad. But then again, my dad has been one of my biggest supporters, my biggest heroes. While Christopher’s? He comesoff as the exact antithesis of everything a father should be.
Anyway, we work for hours, mapping out potential scenarios, identifying resources, assigning tasks. The professional collaboration clicks again, that same synergy we found in my office. But the underlying sexual tension remains, a low hum beneath the surface of spreadsheets and strategic planning.
He keeps his distance physically, but his eyes…
His eyes keep finding mine.
And there’s hunger in them.
20
Lucy
That evening dinner is served on a wide stone terrace overlooking the darkening ocean. The sound of waves crashing against the shore provides a constant, relaxing backdrop. Candles flicker, and the food, prepared by an unseen chef, is exquisite.
But the formality is suffocating.
We talk business. We talk market trends. We talk about anything except the elephant, or rather, the incredibly passionate office encounter, sitting between us.
I remember Ava’s advice. Call him on his bullshit.
I can do this. I can do this.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I put down my fork. The perfectly cooked sea bass is suddenly tasteless.
“Okay, Christopher,” I say, keeping my voice steady. He meets my gaze across the candlelit table. “Are we going to talk about it?”
He raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance again.That infuriatingly cool composure. “Talk about what, Lucy? The revised projections for Q4?”
“No!” I say firmly, refusing to let him deflect. “About why you acted like I had the plague yesterday after we… collaborated… in my office.”
Collaborated. Nice euphemism.
My cheeks heat up, but I hold his gaze. “One minute it’s… intense. Connected. The next, you’re shutting down completely. Why? Have I done something wrong? Have I done something to offend you?”
He stiffens. The mask flickers. He looks away, out at the dark ocean, gripping the stem of his wine glass. For a long moment, he says nothing. The only sound is the rhythmic crash of the waves.
“That,” he says finally, his voice low and tight, “was… uncharacteristic.”
“Uncharacteristic,” I repeat flatly. “Right. So, office sex with the woman whose company you’re negotiating to control is just a typical Tuesday for you?”
Okay, maybe a little harsh.
He turns back, and the composure is gone. Replaced by something raw. Turbulent.
