Page 10 of For the Plot

“What? It’s an honest question.”

“You’re right,” I reply, noticing that sharp tongue of hers still working overtime. “And I agree. I offered Leann the entire year off if she wanted it, fully paid, but she loves her job and I make sure I pay her enough that her husband is able to stay home full-time with their children.”

“Oh, that’s amazing.” She blinks, still processing. "So are you… offering me a job?"

"I am," I say simply. "Temporary, full-time, but with competitive pay and full benefits. Mostly calendar management, travel coordination, and client meetings. It's demanding, but it's straightforward. You said you're between jobs and I could really use someone capable."

Her mouth opens, then closes again. I can see the disbelief in her eyes. The question of whether I'm serious.

"Actually—" I say, and without thinking, I take the card back from her hand. The contact is brief but electric. I reach into the inside pocket of my blazer, pull out a pen, uncap it, and scrawl my personal cell number on the back of the card.

"There," I say as I hand it back, watching the way her eyes track the movement. "Now you don't have to go through anyone else."

She takes it with both hands this time, her gaze flicking to the number, then back to me.

"Give me a call," I whisper, just low enough for her to hear. Then I wink—quick, subtle, and probably a mistake.

Her fingers curl around the card, still clearly stunned. "Okay. Um… thank you."

I give a small nod, then glance once more at her friend, who's gaping like she's just witnessed a plot twist in a movie, and turn to leave. I make it to the door before I feel her eyes on me again, but I don't look back.

Chapter 3

Skye

The second I’m barefoot, wine poured, and Spotify set to Sad Girl Indie Pop, I sink into my couch and open my laptop like I’m about to fall down a rabbit hole before remembering his card.

I leap off the couch. I’m already two glasses into a bottle of wine when I finally let myself pick up the card again. It’s been sitting on my kitchen island since I walked in, untouched and somehow humming with judgment. Sleek matte black, gold lettering, thick enough to probably double as a weapon if I threw it hard enough.

Reece Blackwood.

Founder & CEO – Blackwood Ventures

[email protected]

Private.

Of course it is.

I set the card down like it’s radioactive and sink back onto my couch in a tangle of bare legs and half-folded laundry. The TV is playing some oldFriendsrerun I’ve seen a thousand times, but the volume’s muted and my brain’s doing the kind of unhinged, wine-laced gymnastics that only ever ends in regret or online shopping.

“Reece Blackwood.”

I whisper it into the silence like it’ll make this feel less surreal.

It doesn’t.

I’m in my oversized Garfield sleep shirt, the one with the hole in the shoulder, drinking Sauvignon Blanc straight out of a stemless glass that saysDon’t even askin pink script. The label lied—it’s not crisp. It tastes like citrus and bad decisions.

And yet here I am.

Being professionally courted by a billionaire. A dangerously hot, emotionally unreadable billionaire who happens to be the father of the boy who took my virginity in the back of a Honda Civic.

Awesome.

I groan and drop my head against the back of the couch.

What the hell is happening?