Page 167 of Meet Me In The Dark

A stupid smile plasters itself on my face as I shrug. “Easy. Someday, I’m going to marry that man.”

Fifty-Four

Julian

The gala is the same as every other one. Overdone. Overpriced. Overpopulated with men who pretend they’re here for charity but are really just flexing the size of their portfolios.

I sip my whiskey and let the burn keep me awake, but my mind is already drifting elsewhere.

To Celeste.

I should have dragged her here with me. Let her glare at me all night.

“Blackwood.”

The voice cuts through the din. I turn toward a knot of men near the bar, somefamiliar, some not.

There’s one I still want to knock out cold.

Kingsley.

He steps forward, wearing that snake-oil smile, and offers his hand like we’re old friends. “Good to see you again.”

I glance at his hand and remember the last time he touched Celeste and the warning I gave him for it. Judging by the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, he remembers too.

Good.

Still, I take it, my grip crushing just enough to make his knuckles grind. “Kingsley.”

He gestures me into the circle, swirling his drink. “Passed your site this week. The progress is impressive. Celeste is doing a stellar job.”

My jaw ticks. “She’s the best.”

Kingsley studies me for a beat too long. Then, like he’s testing the perimeter, he says, “She’ll be a fantastic addition to our overseas projects.”

The whiskey in my glass suddenly isn’t enough to temper the heat curling in my gut. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand, laughing as if this is all casual. “Relax, Blackwood. She’s already done the hard work for your project. I’m sure someone can take it from here.”

The fucking nerve.

Rumors have been circulating for the last twenty-four hours. Apparently, Kingsley has landed himself an investor with a term sheet that could save his business.

But there’s a catch: a key person clause.

Kingsley promised them Celeste, but since he doesn’t have her, there’s no investment unless he can secure an employment contract soon.

Which means he’s going to get desperate.

“She doesn’t seem keen on leaving Lilian Sinclair,” he adds. “But she’ll come around.”

It’s bullshit and he knows it. He’s performing for the other men, making himself look like a man who can snap his fingers and get whatever—or whoever—he wants.

The thought of him using her name like currency has my pulse pounding in my ears.

Then one of the other men mutters to Kingsley, grinning, “Lucky bastard. Having an ass like that walking around your office every day.”

The group chuckles.