Page 43 of Meet Me In The Dark

I’m not going back to the club.

What if I go and he’s not there?

Or worse, what if he is, and he doesn’t choose me?

It’s stupid. I don’t even know his name, but the thought of someone else touching me like that feels like a poor imitation.

Maybe it’s a first-timers’ thing.

I blow out a breath and force myself to look away from the mirror. No more spiraling. Not today. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Like the fact that I accidentally gave Tom Kingsley a glimmer of hope.

He cornered me yesterday morning, just as I expected after Lilian’s warning. He was practically salivating at the prospect of working together. He made his pitch, told me all about the new projects in the pipeline, and promised creative freedom. He even said he couldn’t imagine moving forward without me.

Instead of refusing the offer as I had planned, I smiled and said I’d think about it.

Think about it?

Jesus Christ, Celeste.

Tom Kingsley needed discouragement, not oxygen, and I handed him an entire tank.

This is what happens when you walk around with your head in the clouds and your brain on repeat, thinking about phantom men with golden voices and mouths that ruin you for all others.

I need to get it together.

Today is important.

The Sterling Vista Tower officially opens soon, and because of that, I was personally asked to pitch for theWest Coast Headquarters of Blackwood & Calloway Holdings.

This is the kind of job that changes lives and builds reputations. It’s my opportunity to show that the Sterling Vista Tower isn’t just a fluke.

If I get this—if they choose me—it will be the biggest achievement of my career.

Right. Focus.

I head for the shower, force myself to scrub off the lingering fog, and talk myself down from the ledge as I towel off and get dressed.

Hair down, loose waves, clean makeup.

Navy blouse, high-waisted cream trousers, pointed heels.

Armor, Celeste.

I take one last look at myself in the mirror.

The bruises are almost gone now, and the bite mark is mostly healed, though the skin remains a little sensitive. I run my fingers over it once, then pull my pants up and push the thought away.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper as I roll my shoulders back and get the hell out of my apartment.

Eleven

I smooth my palm down the front of my blouse, like that’s going to do anything about the sweat gathering beneath it.

The receptionist said they were already inside. Of course, they’re early. That’s exactly what I need—less time to ground myself and more time to fall flat on my face in front of two of the most powerful men in the industry.

I glance down at the folder in my hand. The potential client’s name is printed at the top in black ink: Blackwood & Calloway Holdings.