Page 6 of Hate To Be Mine

“This is a lot,” he said, frowning.

“That’s correct,” I said crisply.

“I’m just trying to take a few pictures,” he protested, and he actually looked wounded. “Beautiful, creative, inspiring art.”

“And I’m trying to make sure no one dies, gets sued, or triggers an international incident while you do it.”

We stared at each other across the table. His blue eyes had lost some of that playful sparkle and now were assessing me like an opponent stepping into the boxing ring. I met his gaze without flinching. I’d dealt with powerful men who didn’t like being told no before. I’d dealt with clients who thought rules were suggestions. I’d dealt with people who assumed that because I looked young, or because I was a woman, or because I was petite, I could be pushed around.

They all learned eventually, but sometimes, they needed a bit more time to process the fact that I was going to be right there every time they tried to break a rule.

Sebastian looked away from me, down at the binder again, then back up. Finally, he started reading, and I sipped my coffee.

That lasted a whole four minutes.

“Can I at least get this in audiobook format?” he asked.

Briggs rolled his eyes.

I stood, and both men rose with me. Briggs shook my hand again. “Thank you for your thoroughness, Ms. Simmons. It’s appreciated.”

“Just doing my job.”

Sebastian extended his hand as well, and I took it briefly. “Looking forward to working with you,” he said, and something in his tone made it sound almost like a challenge.

“Likewise,” I lied.

I left the conference room and made my way back to the elevator. Sebastian Blackwell was going to be exactly the pain in the ass I’d expected.

But he’d learn.

I was Bernadette Simmons. I was prepared for anything.

Even Sebastian Blackwell.

3

SEBASTIAN

The morning after the meeting, I woke up in my penthouse with a headache that had nothing to do with alcohol—for once—and everything to do with the ninety-page monster sitting on my coffee table.

Was I actually expected to read that thing? Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Why did I have to know all that crap if her busybody ass was going to be there?

I padded into the kitchen, stepping over a bra that had somehow ended up near the refrigerator. Evidence of a wild night. Not last night but probably last week. My entire penthouse looked like a party had died here. I needed to call my housekeeper. I had given her the week off but now it was time. I’d tell her to bring a helper or two.

I pushed the empty bottles on the counter out of my way. A pizza box sat surrounded by Chinese food cartons. I opened the fridge and ignored the black panties someone had thoughtfully left. Believe it or not, it wasn’t the first pair of panties in my fridge. Or coffee mug. Hell, once I found a pair sitting on my spoons in my silverware drawer. The ladies were creative.

I made myself a cup of coffee with the hope the caffeine boost would help me get through that stupid binder. I made it to page four before my eyes started crossing.

I read the first sentence. Then I read it again. Then a third time.

Nothing. The words went into my eyes and just bounced off my brain like rubber balls. Nothing was sinking in. Whether it was the dry material or the way I was consuming the information, I didn’t know.

I tried the next paragraph. Something about “substrate disruption” and “native flora protection zones” and “permitted foot traffic corridors.”

What the fuck was a foot traffic corridor? A hallway? Were we supposed to build hallways on the beach?

I shook my head and kept going, forcing myself to focus. This was important. The entire future of Blackwell Couture’s relationship with Miratoa was counting on me to understand this shit.