Page 4 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“Actually,” I say, trying desperately to focus while simultaneously attempting a covert kick backwards with my heel. The dog just adjusts its grip. “Sometimes, the most rewarding ventures... involve combining complementary strengths. Hammond & Co.’s legacy... and market position... paired with Blackwell Innovations’ technological prowess. We could build something... remarkable.”

More snickers from behind me. The robot dog humps even harder, if that’s possible, and I slam my palms down onto the table to keep from losing my balance.

A puzzled expression flashes across Blackwell’s face, and he glances at my hands in confusion. Then he smirks again, perhaps believing I’m trying to be dramatic.

“Remarkable?” he repeats, his voice a low murmur now, clearly meant only for me despite the surrounding crowd. “How about I simply acquire your legacy, strip it for parts, integrate the tech, and build somethingremarkablemyself. Cleaner. Faster.” His blue eyes pin me in place. Mock me.

Oh god, this dog is going to make me cry.

But I force myself to continue. I lift my chin. “Cleaner and faster isn’t always... better. Sometimes it just leaves... a bigger mess. Partnership preserves value. An acquisition… destroys value.”

This is a disaster.

I’ve just about had as much as I can take when theotherrobot dog trots confidently into view, wagging its tail. It circles once, then walks straight up to Christopher Blackwell…

And starts humpinghisleg.

Right there.

In the open.

For god and everyone at the tech expo to see.

My jaw drops. Time seems to slow down. Blackwell looks down at the dog attached to his impeccably tailored trousers with an expression of utter disbelief, which quickly morphs into annoyance. A ripple of fresh snickers runs through the nearby onlookers.

My face achieves a new, previously unknown shade of crimson. “Oh my god,” I gasp, mortified beyond measure. “I amsosorry! It’s… it’s my friend! Amir! It’s his booth, the robot dogs… he thinks he’s being funny!”

I’ve totally lost the conversational thread, and I’m babbling, gesturing wildly between the dogs and Amir’s direction, where I can see him doubled over with laughter.

Frustrated, I give my own leg a more vigorous shake, trying to dislodge my persistent mechanical admirer. I lose my balance this time, bumping the counter. “Getoff!”

That’s when Blackwell looks from the dog on his leg to mine, finally noticing the identical robot diligently violating my ankle behind the counter.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “You have one, too?”

Before I can respond, he takes charge. He reaches down, grabs the dog attached to his leg by the scruff of its metallic neck, and yanks it forcefully away. There’s a distinctRRRRIPas a piece of hisexpensive-looking pant leg tears. He tosses it aside. The robot dog lands on its feet, emits a surprised electronic yip and scurries away, disappearing into the crowd.

Seeing its comrade flee, the dog humpingmyleg abruptly detaches, gives a final parting nudge, and takes off after its friend, vanishing through the legs of the amused spectators.

A member of his security detail appears at his side. “Everything all right, sir?”

Blackwell raises a dismissive hand. “I’m fine.”

The newcomer melds into the background.

Silence descends on the Blackwell booth, broken only by the vague expo buzz and my own frantic heartbeat. I stare at the rip in Christopher Blackwell’s trousers, then up at his face. His expression is… hard to read. Annoyed, yes, but also… intrigued? Maybe faintly amused under the icy control?

“Mr. Blackwell, I amsoincredibly sorry,” I burst out, words tumbling over each other. “About the dogs, the disruption… your pants! My friend is an absolute idiot, I had no idea he’d do that, I’ll pay for the tailoring, of course, whatever it costs…” I trail off, wanting the floor to swallow me whole.

He looks down at his ripped trousers, then back at me. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that seems almost… human. A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his severe features. It’s devastating.

“Well, Ms. Hammond,” he says, his voice laced with dry amusement. “You certainly know how to stand out.” He pulls a sleek, thin phone from his pocket. “Your direct number?”

I blink in confusion.

He wants my number?

I give it to him instantly.