Page 58 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“Or,” I counter nervously, “More accurate translation: ‘Let’s lock ourselves away and stare awkwardly at spreadsheets while pretending I didn’t just rock your world and then treat you like a contaminated lab sample.’”
“Either way, you have to go,” Ava declares.
“Go? Ava, he totally shut me out!”
“Exactly! He’s running scared. This,” she gestures at the phone, “is him trying to regain control, probably of himself as much as the situation.Go. Corner him. Make him deal with it. And,” she adds with a grin, “get some answers. Plus, Hamptons.”
I hesitate. Going feels like playing his game. Like letting him dictate the terms after he acted like a complete jerk. But… staying away feels like letting him win. Letting him retreat behind those walls without consequence. And damn it, Idowant answers. I want to understand. And wedoneed to figure out this Morgan mess. Plus… a tiny, rebelling part of me wants to see him again. Wants to see if that connection was real, or if I just imagined it in a haze of lust and late night spreadsheets.
Okay, Lucy. Keep your dignity intact and your head held high. March into the billionaire’s beach lair and demand satisfaction. Emotional satisfaction, preferably.
Though other kinds would be accepted as well...
“Fine,” I sigh, typing a terse reply.
Acceptable. LH.
“But if he pulls the Ice King routine again,” I continue. “I’m commandeering his helicopter and flying straight back to the city.”
Ava laughs. “Just make sure you pack a good swimsuit. And maybe a black lace bra this time.”
My cheeks flame. “Ava!”
Friday arrives fasterthan I’d like. The sleek black town car materializes outside my apartment building precisely at 5:00 PM. Victor, Christopher’s driver, nods politely as he holds the door. The ride out east is smooth, silent, and gives me way too much time to second-guess my decision.
What am I doing?This is crazy.
He’s probably got spreadsheets laid out on the beach towels.
Christopher’s Hamptons house isn’t the ostentatious monstrosity I might have expected. No gleaming gold fixtures or fifty foot statues of himself. It’s… surprisingly tasteful. Modern lines, lots of weathered wood and glass, nestled discreetly behind grass-topped dunes, facing directly onto a private stretch of white sand. It feels less like a billionaire fortress and more like… a home. Albeit a ridiculously luxurious, Architectural Digest-worthy home.
Christopher meets me at the door. He’s dressed down. Or rather, his version of dressed down, wearing tailored linen trousers and a soft looking grey Henley that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. No suit today.
He looks… relaxed? Ish? His eyes are still guarded, but maybe less arctic.
“Lucy. Welcome.” His voice is polite. Formal. Great. We’re back to Ms. Hammond level formality after I saw him naked. Awesome.
Well, at least he didn’t actually call meMs. Hammond.
I flirt with calling him Mr. Blackwell, but decide against it.
“Christopher.” I keep my tone equally professional, stepping inside. The interior is minimalist, full of calming neutrals, and there’s more art. It’s different art than in his penthouse, more abstract landscapes and seascapes than anything else. Meanwhile, the floor-to-ceiling windows offer staggering ocean views.
“Your room is upstairs. First door on the left,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “We can start working in thestudy whenever you’re ready. I’ve had the relevant files uploaded to the secure server.”
Okay. Straight to business then. No awkward small talk about the weather or the fact that we had sex on my office furniture three days ago. Perfect. Just perfect.
We set up in his study, which, like the rest of the house, overlooks the ocean. It’s less intimidating than his city office, warmer, with comfortable chairs and shelves filled with actual novels alongside the business books.
Still, the atmosphere between us is painfully stiff, and full of tension. We maintain a careful physical distance, passing documents back and forth like we’re handling hazardous goods.
Which we probably are.
We dive into the Morgan strategy. Or lack thereof. The evidence we compiled is damning, yes. It strongly suggests sabotage, collusion with Mark Blackwell. But is it ironclad? Enough to force him off the board without him unleashing hell? Probably not.
“The problem remains the leverage he has over your father,” Christopher states, tapping a highlighted section in a file. He’s all business again, sharp, analytical. “Even if we present this evidence of sabotage to the board, Morgan can retaliate by exposing Richard’s past financial… irregularities. It could trigger investigations, panic investors, potentially do more damage than Morgan’s sabotage itself.”
“So we’re stuck,” I say, frustration mounting. “We can’t move against him until we defuse the bomb he’s holding.”
