Page 12 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

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.

Private investment firm. Ruthlessly successful. Expanding fast.

“They’re interviewing firms from all over the country. If we land this, it puts Sinclair Architecture in a completely different league,” Lilian says, reminding me for the third time as we speedwalk down the hall.

A familiar surge of adrenaline kicks in. Not nerves, but ambition. This is where I thrive. This is my playground.

When we turn the corner and enter the main conference room, half the table is already taken.

My team is seated on the left, the people from Blackwood & Calloway Holdings on the right.

Lilian slows just inside the doorway, her tone measured and warm as she speaks to the group.

“Everyone,” she says, “thank you for coming. We’re thrilled to finally be in the room together.”

The two men sitting at the head of the table stand at the same time.

“And of course,” she adds, “it’s our pleasure to welcome Mr. Calloway and Mr. Blackwood.”

I plaster on my best smile as I watch Lilian in her element.

Both men I vaguely recognize, maybe from a magazine article or two.

Nathan Calloway is tall, sharp-jawed, and seems like he’s already running out of patience. He nods at me politely.

But it’s the way the second man—Julian Blackwood—looks at me that makes me bristle where I stand.

I don’t miss the slow appraisal of my body before his dark eyes snap back to mine. I swear I see something close to recognition flash in his gaze before he masks his features.

Oh, no.

Not another one of these.

I don’t need another Tom Kingsley in my life, even if this one is much better dressed and devastatingly handsome.

Lilian gestures to me. “This is Celeste Morgan. She’ll be leading the project from our side. ”

I dip my chin and step toward them. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Nathan steps forward first and takes my hand. “You must be the brains behind this operation.”

I offer a polite smile in return. “Something like that.”

I’m not sure why my body is buzzing with anticipation, but when Julian steps toward me, I want to crawl out of the conference room and back to the safety of my office.

He’s terrifyingly intimidating as he looms over me, at least seven inches taller than my five-foot-eight.

Our eyes meet again, blue on gray, and I almost want to ask if I’ve done something to offend him, because he’s been giving me a look like I’ve ruined his whole week since I walked in here.

Sensing my apprehension, he clears his throat, extends his hand, and throws a wicked smirk my way.

Oh, you’re dangerous.

Jolting into action, I grasp his hand, and the moment our palms connect, a hot, dizzying current surges from my palm straight down my spine, igniting nerves I haven’t felt since that night.

Jesus, Celeste, it’s just a handshake.

But then the bastard has the nerve to speak and completely ruin me. “Julian Blackwood. Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Morgan. We’ve been looking forward to this.”

My stomach clenches as his voice slides down my spine. It awakens something dangerously familiar, something whispered against my skin in the dark, something I’ve replayed too many times to admit.

That voice doesn’t belong in a boardroom. It belongs in the dark, against my throat, and curled around words I still hear in my sleep.

No. It couldn’t possibly—

Oh, stop trying to fool yourself. You’ve been dreaming of that voice, of that touch, every night since he first laid a finger on you.

A slow, pulsing bloom hits low in my belly.

It’s the way he fills out his suit. The breadth of his shoulders. The easy sprawl of dominance.

I think I mapped out his body with these very hands.

God, he’s lethal.

Sharp jaw, clean-shaven, full lips made for sin, and thick lashes framing eyes so intense they burn. His hair is so dark it’s almost black, and I know exactly how it feels between my fingers.

Is this it? Have I finally lost my damn mind?

Of all the men to secretly ruin me in a sex club, why couldn’t it have been some harmless accountant from Milwaukee?

“From what we’ve seen of your designs, they’re very impressive,” he finally says, his voice still lingering over me. With a steady gaze, he adds something that damns us both and confirms my worst fears. “We have some ideas of our own, but we can talk you through it.”

Julian Blackwood.

CEO.

Billionaire.

Big. Fucking. Problem.