Mr. Blackwell: Part One by Emilia Winters

Author:Emilia Winters [Winters, Emilia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2015-05-03T07:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

“You’re joking,” Larene stated, very matter-of-factly as though the sky was blue or Chris Hemsworth was one handsome devil.

“I wish I wasn’t,” I said softly.

It was only six o’clock in the evening, but the autumn sun had already set an hour before. Larene had come over to my house right after she got off work once I’d placed an emergency call to her.

“You slept with Tristan Blackwell? I thought he looked familiar!”

My face burned bright with embarrassment. I’d told her on Sunday morning all about my night with him, including all the cringe-worthy bits. What Larene was really asking was: Tristan Blackwell kicked you out after you slept with him?!

I didn’t need to remember his words, or how pathetic I probably looked on the marble floor of his penthouse, naked and hurt. Just thinking about it made me furious. How could he treat a person like that? Even if he hadn’t wanted me to stay over, couldn’t there have been a more tactful way of asking me to leave? Or at least waiting five whole minutes before kicking me out?

I took another giant bite of ice cream before answering her. “That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Annie can never find out, at least for the next month.”

“How are you gonna pull that off?”

“I don’t think it’ll be that hard,” I said, staring down into my pint of rocky road. “I’ll hardly ever see him, except when we’re designing his office. And even if we happen to run into each other, we’ve both agreed to forget all about Saturday night.”

“That doesn’t sound like what he said, Noelle,” Larene reminded me, her lips downturned.

“He was just messing with my head.” My hands shook around my spoon. “If this got out, it’s bad for his image at the company, don’t you think?”

“From what I’ve heard, Tristan Blackwell is one hell of a playboy. I’m pretty sure his company—hell, even his family—knows what type of person he is.” Larene was always the voice of reason. “So…have you Googled him?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to?”

I bit my lip. I’d been tempted the moment I returned to my office from the Blackwell Financial consultation. But something stopped me. I was scared at what I might find. “No,” I settled on.

“Noelle…” Larene said firmly, as though I was a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “Don’t you think having all the information would be for the best? That way, you aren’t flying blind for the next month.”

“Ugh,” I moaned, flopping my head back on my couch. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s just get this over with. Like ripping off a bandaid, right?”

Larene looked like a kid being told Christmas came early. She dashed off the couch and snagged my laptop, which had been charging next to the TV. She dropped it into my lap, narrowly missing my pint of ice cream, before scooting in next to me once more.

Sighing, I gave her my pint while I opened a browser window. Pulling up the search engine, I slowly pecked out ‘Tristan Blackwell,’ trying to delay the inevitable.

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