Page 11 of Bound To Be Mine

Cleo returned to the table with three shot glasses filled with amber liquid.

“Appetizers are on the way,” she said. “But I figured we could get started early.”

We had checked into our hotel and decided to meet up for dinner. I was prepared to raid the minibar and order Taco Bell to my room. That’s the kind of mood I was in.

“To walking out of meetings,” Cleo said, lifting her glass.

“To walking out of meetings,” Callum agreed.

I clinked mine against theirs and drank. The shot burned all the way down.

“Okay,” I said, setting my glass down. “Can we talk about what happened?”

“We absolutely can,” Cleo said. “Where would you like to start?”

“Your cousin is a jerk,” I said flatly.

“Classic Briggs,” Callum said. “He’s a wrecking ball. The guy is one of the most feared attorneys in New York, which is great for our family. Usually. I don’t know what that was about.”

“Not one wrinkle,” Cleo said with a shake of her head.

I looked at her. “What?”

“His suit,” Cleo clarified. “Did you notice? Not one wrinkle. Not a single crease. Like he walked straight out of a Blackwell ad campaign.”

I laughed despite myself. “Oh my god, you’re right. Does he work standing up?”

“That would explain the soulless stare,” Callum said, flagging down the waiter for another round. “And the complete lack of warmth.”

“No, no, no,” Cleo said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I’m serious. That suit was pressed within an inch of its life. I think he has someone follow him around with a steamer. Just waiting in the shadows, ready to attack any hint of fabric rebellion.”

“And the hair,” I said, feeling the tequila loosening my tongue. “Not one strand out of place. Does he use cement? Can we knock on it?”

Callum grinned. “I’ve known Briggs my whole life and I have never—not once—seen that man with messy hair. Not at the beach, not in the wind, not after a full day of work. It’s unnatural.”

“He probably has a hair person too,” Cleo said. “Following three steps behind the steamer person. A whole entourage dedicated to maintaining that aggressively perfect appearance.”

“His personal glam squad. That’s how he looks so good.”

“He’s a Blackwell.” Callum laughed. “We look good.”

The appetizers arrived—calamari, bruschetta, and a fancy cheese board. I grabbed a piece of bread and took an aggressive bite.

“Did he really go to Harvard?” I asked.

Callum nodded around a mouthful. “Yep. He’s smart, although maybe not so good with people.”

“Is his eye color natural?” I asked. “Those bad boys are disturbingly blue.”

“They’re real,” Cleo said. “Unfortunately. All the Blackwell men have good eyes. It’s genetic. Adrian has them too, just not as… weaponized.”

“Weaponized,” I repeated. “That’s the perfect word. Those were like two swords cutting through me.”

We all laughed and continued to snack. Another round of drinks was delivered along with the bottle of wine we ordered to go with our meals.

“I just want to understand how a man who works for a fashion house has apparently never heard of those people I worked for,” I said. “Fashion and the world of celebrity kind of go hand in hand.”

“To be fair,” Callum said, “Briggs works adjacent to the fashion house. He’s the attorney. He’s the guy in the office pushing papers. I don’t think he interacts with customers.”