Page 12 of Doomed

“She slapped me, and I wanted to thank her for it,” I admit. “I know that’s not normal, even for me. Perhaps I see her as a challenge.”

Xavier’s mouth quirks upward—barely perceptible, but I catch it. “Knox Blackwood, rejected.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “It wasn’t rejection. She was being professional.”

“Professional,” Xavier repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it when women slap you now?”

I shift in my chair, feeling like I’m fifteen again and caught sneaking bourbon from our foster dad’s liquor cabinet. “She’s not like other women. Most women throw themselves at us because of the name, the money, the reputation. But Bianca?—”

“She doesn’t know who you are,” Xavier suggests, and it’s entirely possible since Elliot stated she was new to Ravenwood Hollow.

I run my thumb over the healing cut. “She still agreed to consider the opportunity.”

Xavier chuckles—a rare sound that makes me straighten. “So she told you to go to hell, slapped you, put you on the back burner, and you still want her.”

“I wouldn’t say she told me to go to hell?—”

“Brother, you have a cut on your lip from where she hit you. What would you call it?”

The smugness in his voice grates against my pride. Xavier’s right, and we both know it. Bianca Hayes looked me dead in the eye, sized me up in seconds, and found me lacking. The realization should piss me off. Instead, it makes my blood sing with possibility.

“Fine. She rejected me. Happy?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “But that makes it interesting. When’s the last time either of us had to actually work for something we wanted?”

“Work for it.” Xavier’s eyes gleam. “Listen to yourself. One woman slaps you, and you’re talking about it like a challenge.”

“Maybe I need a challenge.”

“Maybe you need therapy.”

I flip him off, which only makes his grin widen. It’s unsettling seeing Xavier this relaxed, this... playful. He’s usually allbusiness, all the time. The fact that my romantic misfortunes are entertaining enough to crack his armor says something I’m not sure I want to examine.

“Just approve the art,” I mutter. “Business is business.”

“Of course. But Knox?” Xavier’s voice drops back to its usual serious tone. “Be careful how far you push this challenge of yours.”

Xavier’s warning echoes in my head as I leave his office, but it’s soon drowned out by the bass thrumming through Purgatory’s walls. The main floor pulses with energy—bodies moving to the rhythm, conversations flowing just like the expensive liquor they’re indulging in.

I need a drink to wash away the satisfaction of a successful negotiation and the lingering sting of Xavier’s amusement at my expense. The bar calls to me like a beacon through the crowd.

I weave between clusters of Ravenwood’s elite, catching fragments of conversation about stock portfolios and yacht clubs. The usual bullshit that passes for stimulating dialogue among the city’s upper crust. At least in the lower levels, people are honest about what they want.

The bartender spots me immediately—one of the perks of ownership. He’s already reaching for the good whiskey before I even touch the polished marble surface.

“The usual, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Make it a double.”

The amber liquid burns as it slides down my throat, heating my chest. The familiar buzz of Purgatory surrounds me—money changing hands, deals being struck, contracts being negotiated.

I’m contemplating a second drink when laughter cuts through the ambient noise. Not any laughter—the kind that makes you turn your head instinctively, searching for the source. Rich and unguarded, it draws me like a moth to flame.

And there she is.

Bianca Hayes stands at the opposite end of the bar, her dark hair catching the club’s colored lights. She’s traded her painting scrubs for a little black dress that hugs her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry. A blonde companion leans close, whispering a joke that sends another peal of laughter spilling from Bianca’s lips.

What are the fucking odds?

This morning, she was all professional distance and righteous indignation. Now here she is, ordering drinks in my club mere hours later..