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Already for a woman in business, especially someone as young as me, it’s hard to be taken seriously. I definitely shouldn’t flutter my eyelashes at the first pretty billionaire who pays me attention like some schoolgirl.
To banish all sexy thoughts, I concentrate on the ugly painting over the mantle. A huge, dark hound with a fat red tongue sticking out of his mouth is lurking at the edge of a dark cave. Its menacing eyes fixated on a farmer and his daughter are so ferociously intent, I’m surprised the couple hasn’t leaped off the canvas to escape the beast.
Same as I should do with my beastillionnaire. Only mine looks a thousand times more attractive than the ugly dog in the picture.
Oh my gosh, will I stop?
I’m not here to obsess over Gabriel “Can’t Get His Smell Out of My Head” Mercer.
Right, maybe I should try to mingle. Networking is where most of the conference value lies. I look around and sigh. I came up here expecting the Billy to be a start-up bootcamp on steroids. A place brimming with young, like-minded entrepreneurs where I could make friendships for life like Marissa. The reality is, I’m surrounded by middle-aged, entitled, sure-to-be patriarchy-loving geezers. The idea of walking up to any of them makes my stomach churn. And the way Gabriel got me the invite is sure fueling my impostor syndrome.
Forget it. I’ll just go to bed and call the next three days a total waste of my time. I don’t have the energy for anything else and I’ll need all my strength tomorrow. Yeah, an early bedtime isn’t such a bad idea.
Gosh, I so wish Marissa were here. She’d know how to cheer me up. She’d tell a silly joke about monogrammed suits and in no time, we’d be laughing so hard we’d be crying. Or she’d suggest we went out into the woods and cursed MGM. Marissa is totally the witchy type. Just imagining what my best friend would do in this situation puts me in a better mood.
I suck in a deep breath and let it out again. I only have to survive three nights. Tomorrow, I need to be strong and get the panel behind me. Then the next day it’ll be the scavenger hunt where I’m partnered up with a man I don’t know but who can’t be worse than MGM. And then Sunday, I’ll finally go home and put all thoughts of Gabriel “Flipping Hard Not to Like” Mercer out of my head. Or I could just leave early, right after the panel. I don’t even care about missing the keynote speech from Billy Westwood himself at this point.
Nighty, nighty. I mentally wave at the throng of fuddy-duddies crowding the lobby and head for the exit. That’s when a hand clasps my elbow, stopping me before I get halfway across the atrium.
“Blake?”
I know that voice.
I close my eyes for a second before I turn around and come face to face with a man I haven’t seen in three years, and the last person I wanted to see tonight—or ever again.
“Justin,” I say.
24
BLAKE
Justin looks the same. His handsome face hasn’t changed since the last time I saw him when he broke my heart three years ago.
He still has those same boyish good looks. The tousled, dirty blond hair and ocean-blue eyes. The memory of the way he used to look at me—hot and wanting—cuts through me like a knife.
I blink. Could this possibly be a dream—a nightmare? How did I miss that he was one of the attendees?
When I first got the invitation, I checked the list of speakers and sponsors, and Justin’s name didn’t pop up anywhere. But as the star head of trading at Fidelity Credit Union, it makes sense he’d get an invite.
His face-of-an-angel handsomeness used to be enough to knock me off my feet. But now I’m older and wiser to the ugliness that can hide underneath such a flawless beauty—I hope.
I can only pray that Justin still hasn’t got a firm hold on me. Please, let not all my efforts to forget him, to eradicate his existence from my memory, have been in vain.
“Long time no see,” he purrs. His voice is deep, smooth, and as deceitfully kind as ever. “You look amazing,” Justin says as he leans in to kiss my cheek.
The gesture is so unexpected I have to control the instinct to jerk my head back. But I have to admit I’m happily surprised when the kiss has no searing effect on my skin. It just feels a little… moist. Ah, ah. Yep. The most hated word in English vocabulary. Take that, Justin Trémaux, you no longer hold a piece of me. You are blown into oblivion, faux Angel-Boy.
I let out a relieved exhale, one I’ve probably been holding in for the past three years. My chest feels suddenly lighter, and the lightness moves up to my head. I’m almost dizzy for how relieved I am not to feel less of, or not enough of in his presence. He has no more power over me. He can no longer hurt me.
I study his face a second longer just to make sure there’s no wayward zing of attraction left in me, and only smile to myself when all I can think about is that he doesn’t have a wrinkle or pore in sight. He’s probably had a facial or Botox injections or something.
“How have you been?” he asks, pretending like the last time we saw each other, he didn’t totally humiliate me. Must be an attempt to melt my heart with his patented good-boy charm.
Sorry, pal, not working anymore.
“I’m good,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of detecting even a hint of resentment in my words. I’m going for total indifference—the ultimate past-lover slight. “And you?”
See? I can make polite conversation, even with the scum of the Earth.
