Page 131 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
I was completely, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with Christian Valentine.
And all the rules in the world weren’t going to change that.
“Christian.”
“I know,” he said softly, his forehead against mine. “I know, Naomi. We need to talk.”
The crowd was cheering, cameras flashing, as officials tried to pull me away for the ceremonies. But for those precious moments, it was just us.
“Not here,” I whispered.
“Not here,” he agreed. “But soon.”
He set me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. Then he stepped back, giving me space, but his eyes never left mine.
As they pulled me away for photos and interviews, I looked back once. Christian was still there, still watching, his expression unreadable but his presence solid and reassuring.
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe, and it was all because of him.
Chapter
Thirty-One
NAOMI
The first week,I threw myself into work. Applications flooded my desk after the Christina and Clarence situation made national news. Twenty-three women in five days, each one more qualified than the last. Harvard MBAs, former diplomats, classically trained musicians, and the like.
“Ms. Blackford?” Tamara knocked twice before entering my office. “Channel 5 wants another interview about the safety protocols we’ve implemented.”
“Schedule it for next Friday. And get me three references on each of these applicants.” I handed her the stack of new files. “Background checks, credit reports, the full package.”
Tamara nodded, but her eyes lingered on my face. “Ma’am, when’s the last time you ate something?”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“It is when you add cream.”
She didn’t laugh at my joke, which meant I looked as rough as I felt. “I’ll have lunch delivered.”
The second week brought more success. Three high-profile clients from other agencies, all seeking the discretion and professionalism my business was now famous for. The Christina incident had done something I never expected—it marked us as the premium service in the city. Not a brothel, not a madam operation, but an executive companion agency where safety and class came first.
“Naomi Blackford’s agency represents a new standard in the industry,” read the article in Business Weekly. “Where other services operate in moral gray areas, Blackford’s company maintains the highest ethical standards while providing unparalleled sophistication.”
I should have been celebrating. Instead, I was reorganizing my desk drawer for the third time this week when I found the business card I’d been looking for. Dr. Caroline Mason is a psychiatrist who specializes in trauma therapy. Journey had given me her number months ago, insisting that I needed to talk to someone about everything that had come before.
I flipped the card between my fingers, reading the same information over and over. Office hours, phone number, credentials. All the details that meant nothing compared to the emptiness spreading through my chest.
The third week, I stopped checking my phone for messages that never came. Wednesday arrived, and I stayed at the office until midnight, reviewing contracts and conducting video interviews with potential clients in Los Angeles. Saturday passed with me atmy desk again, approving marketing materials and updating our website.
Our Wednesdays. Our Saturdays. The rhythm that had sustained me for over a year no longer existed, and I ached for them, I ached for him.
The fourth week brought the news I’d been waiting for. The charity foundation called on a Tuesday morning, their voice bright with excitement.
“Ms. Blackford, we have wonderful news! Your marathon victory brought in enough additional donations to cover your father’s new wheelchair, and several home modifications as well.”
“What kind of modifications?”
