BROOKE
Ishow up at the PR firm, which is conveniently located in the same building as my law firm. The receptionist directs me to the conference room next to the lobby. As I push the heavy glass door open, I hear a familiar voice ask, “Why do we need legal counsel?”
Shock and embarrassment heat my face as my step falters. I’d recognize that deep British voice anywhere.
I spent all weekend convincing myself that my foolish behavior Friday evening didn’t matter. It was reassuring that I’d never have to face Stu again. And no one would ever know I’d panicked in the elevator, drank too much of a stranger’s whiskey, and spent the night in his bed.
Now, the universe is playing games with me. Apparently, he works for the PR team that represents our billionaire client. He must be from their London office. Should I await a private moment to apologize? Should I pretend not to know him? Maybe, the better plan is to acknowledge we’ve met but omit the details.
Delaying my decision, I plaster a smile on my face and throw my shoulders back in a show of confidence. As they say, “fake it until you make it.”
“Oh, here she is. Ms. Bennett, welcome. I’m Jason Randall, lead of the PR team. I was about to explain that your law firm is also a sponsor of the charity events. And while we don’t expect any legal problems, you’ll be available if anything does come up.”
I walk to the head of the table, extending my hand and a smile. “Mr. Randall, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I doubt you’ll need my legal services, but I’ll be happy to help if you do.”
I barely hear him say, “Please call me Jason,” because my gaze drifts past him. Sure enough, Stu is sitting to Jason’s left. A soft gasp escapes my throat as I let my eyes travel over him.
He’s every bit as handsome as I remember. His wavy hair is slicked back. His suit is perfectly tailored. I’m betting it’s a bespoke creation from Saville Row. It hugs his broad shoulders and six-pack abs that I saw in their naked glory on Saturday morning.
Is the room extra warm or is it just me?
I can’t believe that Stu works for the PR team. What if he tells everyone about what happened? So much for my credibility with these people. Even worse, what if Jason reports back to my boss? I’m sooo screwed.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Jason breaks through my brain fog in time for me to hear him say, “We appreciate that. As you may have heard, our client, the Earl of Sandridge, has fallen ill and had to remain in London. Fortunately, his son is here in his place.”
Jason turns, gesturing toward Stu. “Let me introduce Lord Sandridge, Viscount of Sandridge.”
My eyes go wide, jaw slackening.
What. The. Fuck.
He’s not with the PR team. He’s the client. And he’s a royal. Or is a viscount a noble rather than a royal? I only thought I was embarrassed before. It was nothing compared to this.
I don’t break rules. I learned that lesson a long time ago. I’ve spent my time in law working hard and carefully adhering to expectations. Now, in just a few hours, I’ve erased it all. I broke so many rules in one evening: kissing a client, getting drunk in front of a client, sleeping in a client’s bed, and who knows which other rules.
Stu stands, buttoning his custom-tailored suit jacket.
At a loss for words, I take his offered hand. Heat radiates up my arm, and goosebumps pebble my skin. How can both happen at once? What this man does to me is beyond comprehension. He’s so ... um ... something.
A look of amusement and mischief crosses his face. He holds my hand longer than expected as his eyes quickly give me a once over.
After what seems like minutes, but could only have been seconds, I manage to say, “I apologize. I’m not familiar with the proper way to address royalty. Should I call you Lord Sandridge or Viscount Sandridge?”
“Technically, I’m part of nobility rather than royalty. In formal situations, I’m addressed as Lord Sandridge, but please call me Stuart.” A smirk twists one side of his lips upward, and a sparkle lights his eyes.
I stop myself from reminding him that on Friday, he told me to call him Stu. Why the hell didn’t he mention that he’s an effing viscount. Instead, I slowly say, “I’ll call you Stu ... art then, if you insist. I’m Brooke.”
Jason says, “Brooke, three of the foundation’s board members are also here today. Next to Stuart, we have Mr. Broadmoor, Mr. Champion, and Ms. Davidson.”
The table is too wide to reach across and shake hands, so I nod at each person in turn.
He continues, “Everyone else here is part of our PR team. We have Hannah, José, and Art.”
“It’s nice to meet everyone,” I say, as Jason gestures for me to take the seat to his right.
“Give me a moment to check on the brochures. Then we’ll start the meeting,” Jason says.
