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Until it shattered.
And again, as I stare at her like I did in the conference room the other day, I’m overcome by the sheer unfairness of what time has done to this woman. If whatever divine power you choose to believe in was fair in any capacity, Eloise would have walked in here post-stroke, with half her face numb and slack.
Instead, she strolled in looking ten times as gorgeous as she did the last time we crossed paths.
Parts of her haven’t aged a bit. Her skin is still glowing and flawless. Her heart-shaped mouth still plump and way, way too enticing. Her long blonde hair still shimmering and youthful. But at the same time, it’s like somehow her goddamn legs got longer. Her ass got rounder and lusher in ways it has no business doing. And the years have only somehow made that sharp look in her big blue eyes even fiercer and wilder. There’s even a tinge of violet in them now that gives her a witchy vibe, like she’s staring into your soul.
Nineteen looked good on Eloise LeBlanc.
Twenty-nine looks downright lethal. And it infuriates me to think who gets to see all that fierce, stunning lethality up close and personal, every day of his life.
Every night.
“Everything okay?”
I blink. Slowly, scowling, I pull my gaze away from Eloise and to Gabriel, who’s just walked into my office. He nods at my right hand, which I realize now is gripping a contract I was reading over in a tight fist.
“Fine,” I grunt.
“And before you throw a hissy fit, I did knock. But you were in dreamland and didn’t answer.”
I shoot my brother a look before I let the contract drop to a nearby side table and turn to walk back to my desk.
“What’s up?”
“She settling in okay?”
“Who?”
Gabriel gives me a bored look. “Fuck, are we really going to do that?”
“Do what, Gabriel.”
He sighs. “Are we going to talk about it? And before you ask again, I specifically mean Eloise—aka the girl who fucked you up in college?—”
“She didn’t fuck me up,” I growl. “I fucked her, once, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Okay, it was more like four times, in the span of one “encounter”. A mere technicality. Sue me.
“Alistair—”
“Would you like me to declare prior carnal knowledge with HR? If so, just let me know which form I’m supposed to use to disclose that my newest associate once swallowed my cum before getting down on her hands and knees and asking me—quite vigorously, I should add—to?—”
“Are you done? I don’t need to hear this.”
“Christ, when did you go get squeamish?”
“It’s more like self-preservation.” He cocks a meaningful brow at me. “Given that the woman you’re so casually recalling fellatio with happens to be married to our biggest client, Massimo Carveli.”
Yes, because I need another reminder of that.
“In that case, don’t you think filing an HR report might do more harm than?—”
“Alistair, stop.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, you can stick with the version where you don’t give a shit about her, in which case we should all stop talking about whatever vigorous way she asked you to do I-don’t-want-to-know?—”
“Anal, while pulling her hair and choking her,” I grin.
“I said I didn’t want to know,” Gabriel snaps, glaring at me. “As I was saying, you can play that card, where whatever it is that happened between you stays in the past, and we can all move on like adults. Or, you can hate her, and be super vocal about it, and whine and carry on like a three-year-old, and Taylor and I can try and figure out how to juggle your tantrums on top of the ten million other things we’ve got going on. But you don’t get to have it both ways. Either you give a shit, or you don’t. Pick a side.”
