Page 48 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

A sharp knock on my office door makes me jump so hard I nearly concuss myself on the desk lamp.

Who the hell is here this late? Security doing rounds? A very lost pizza delivery guy?

I push my chair back, smoothing down my slightly wrinkled blouse. Probably look like I wrestled a badger and lost. “Come in?”

The door opens, and my heart does a stupid, inconvenient plummet straight into my sensible heels.

Christopher Blackwell, in the flesh.

Looking infuriatingly impeccable in a dark suit, minus the tie this time. His hair is perfect. His jaw is sharp. He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot titled ‘Billionaires In The Wild.’

And he’s holding… takeout bags? Fancy ones. From that absurdly expensive Italian place downtown that requires reservations booked three months in advance.

Okay, what Twilight Zone episode did I just stumble into?

“Working late?” he asks, his voice smooth, betraying none of the vulnerability I witnessed last night.

Back to default Billionaire Bot mode, apparently.

“Uh, yeah. Trying to wrestle Project Nightingale into submission. And maybe perform some financial exorcism while I’m at it.” I gesture vaguely at the chaos on my desk. “Trying to polish the… turd?”

Smooth, Lucy. Real professional.

My cheeks instantly flame. Why do I say these things?

He actually cracks a small smile. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. Progress?

“Thought you might need fuel.” He steps inside, setting the bags on the small clear corner of my desk. The aroma of truffle oil and something involving artisanal cheese fills the air, making my sad, half-eaten protein bar look even morepathetic.

“You brought dinner?” I ask, bewildered. This is… weird. The flowers this morning were weird enough. Now a personal delivery service from the man himself?

Is this part of the ‘no strings attached’ help? Because these strings feel suspiciously like expensive pasta.

“You looked… focused when my driver took me by, earlier,” he says, dodging the question. Right. He justhappenedto be driving past Hammond & Co. headquarters at night on a Tuesday. And of course he could see through a solid brick wall and into my office, right? Totally believable. “Figured the least I could do, given our potential partnership, is offer assistance.”

“You’re going to help me refine a counter proposal against your own takeover plan? Isn’t that a serious conflict of interest?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But it lets us skip over the negotiating stage. You’re going to have to show it to me one way or another, at some point, anyway.”

I force a weak smile. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”

He nods towards my laptop screen. “Walk me through your counter-proposal strategy. And the… financial exorcism.”

Part of me wants to say no. To maintain my independence. To keep the full, ugly truth of Hammond’s finances hidden for as long as possible. To prove I don’t need his help, even though I clearly do.

But my brain is fried, the sheer volume of work is crushing, and honestly? The truffle pasta smells divine. Plus, his offer to help… after sending the flowers… it feels genuine.

I think.

Or maybe I’m just delirious from sleep deprivation.

“Okay,” I sigh, pulling up a chair for him. “But just know, if you start looking too gleeful about the financial skeletons I’m digging up, I’m throwing this stapler at your head.” I indicate the heavy tool on my desk.

Always knew it would serve some purpose other than as a paperweight!

He raises an eyebrow and takes the seat. “Duly noted. My glee will be reserved solely for optimized balance sheets.”

I giggle at the mock severity of his tone.