Page 261 of The Unwilling Bride
She turns her face up to the sunlight that shines through the breaks in the clouds. It bounces off those wild, blonde curls, turning the strands into a riotous mass of gold. All that hair. It could make a man want to bury his nose in it and sniff. Not me, though.
Blondes don’t appeal to me, anyway. And my type tends toward those skinnier.
The last few women I dated happened to be supermodels.
They also couldn’t piece together a sentence, never ate, and often got wasted on alcohol. Yeah, definitely my type.
She looks over her shoulder and I freeze. She glances around, then seems to relax. Surely, she couldn’t have seen me; not at this distance.
When I'm thirty meters from her office, I pull into a parking spot. Perfect sightline to the entrance.
She's just reaching the building now. I watch her push through the revolving doors and disappear into the lobby. She didn’t buy anything else to eat.
Was that candy floss her lunch?
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t had anything for lunch. Soon. I’m going to have to take a break and get a bite. But first…I need to follow her in.
Which is stupid. I am opening myself up to be discovered. But I’ve been following her for a month from afar, and now, I need to move onto the next stage. Which is finding out more about her office routine. Which means, I need to get a little closer. I’m sure I’ll be able to do so without being spotted.
I park my car by the curb, then lock it. I head past the doors she entered in time to see her enter the elevators. I catch the next one.
When the doors open on the floor where her office is, I walk out. Heading to the receptionist, I flash her my most charismatic smile. The one which has always allowed me to get my way and get information from people. It seems to be working, for a dazed expression filters into her features.
I lean an elbow on her counter. "I’m?—"
Her phone rings. She glances at it and shoots me an apologetic smile. "It’s my boss." She picks up the phone, listens to the person on the other end, then looks at me strangely.
"Of course, Ms. Whittington."
She puts down the phone and tips up her chin.
Her eyes are carefully blank. "Mr. Tristan Hamilton?"
"Eh?" I blink. The number of times I've been blindsided by events in my life is twice… The first, when my father died. The second, when Margot decided she wasn’t going to leave the running of the company to me.
This might well be the third.
"Are you Mr. Tristan Hamilton?" she asks again.
"And If I am?"
"Ms. Opal Whittington is expecting you."
Opal
He walks through the door of my office like he owns, not just the room, but the entire building.
Shoulders for days, broad enough that I have to tilt my head back to take him all in. His waist is narrow, his hips lean, and the suit—God, the suit—is doing things to me that should be illegal.
Charcoal gray. Custom-tailored. Molded to his body like a second skin.
That chest is obscene. Buttons straining. Fabric stretched tightly over a torso so muscular, I can see the ridges and contours through the jacket. This is not a man who occasionally works out. This is a man who treats his body like a weapon.
And then, there’s that face. Square jaw, prominent nose, high cheekbones that’d make a fallen angel weep. The gray at his temples, and the lines radiating out from his eyes, indicate the experience he’s already accumulated in life. I find it strangely attractive.
He’s probably one of those guys who’ll only get better looking as he grows older. Life truly is unjust.
He stops in front of my desk.
