"Carrying me is not necessary, I can perfectly walk by myself," I plead, hiding my face against his neck. I am never going to leave this down.
I could feel everyone staring at us, and I was a second from bursting into flames from embarrassment.
If he heard me, he didn't indicate that he did. His gorgeous face remained blank, unconcerned, unbothered by everyone looking at us.
If I didn't know better, I would think this is the norm for him, but the employees are gaping at us in shock, some giggling and hiding their faces behind their hands.
So, no. This is a first for him.
Is he doing it to embarrass me? I wouldn't put it past him.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper through clenched teeth. If I could forcefully get out of his arms, I would.
I try to tell myself that I hate every minute I am in his arms, but that little part of me, the traitor, admits it feels good being in his arms.
I shake my head inwardly, dislodging the insane thought, and refocus on his face.
Damn, he is fucking hot! I think, observing his features closely.
Not now, Lyra!
A wicked little twinkle appears in his eyes as he replies to my question. He actually looks entertained, as if he is enjoying himself.
"I like how you feel in my arms."
My heart lurches hard against my throat, even as my eyes roll to mock his words. Don't get carried away, Lyra. Remember what a sweet tongue he is.
The young man I met seven years ago wasn't only charming but also easy with his words. Knowing the right thing to say.
Disarming with his crooked smile and sweet words.
I will not fall for it again. My expression hardens as I mentally force myself not to be swayed by his action.
He walks into the open office space littered with cubicles, attracting eyes like flies. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads popped over cubicle walls.
He sets me down on the chair of the only empty cubicle in the room, once again pretending not to be aware of the attention on us.
The buzz starts instantly.
Whispers ripple through the office like someone hit the office gossip emergency button.
"Oh my God—"
"Is that—?"
"Who is she?"
All around us, people whispered, but not low enough. I could hear them, and their words and attention were making me nervous, while he—
Stood beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world, like CEOs of companies strolling around the office, carrying women in their arms.
Having been in the media more often than the pair of shoes in my closet, I am sure he is very comfortable with the attention, but I am not.
Fuck, aren't they supposed to be working?
I took a side glance at him and tried to mirror his calm indifference and pretend that I didn't give a damn.
I almost succeeded until their words reached me. I didn't want to listen, but I couldn't help myself. Not that the two ladies talking were trying to be quiet. From their raised voice, it was obvious they didn't care if I heard them.
"Do you think that is his girlfriend?" the first woman asked, curious.
"More like his mistress," the second sneers.
I snorted at the jealousy in her tone. What? Does she want him? She can have him. And what an active imagination she has.
Mistress! I snort again. As if I would let this devil incarnate ever touch me again.
"He has a fiancée, and that is not her!" Another voice joins the conversation.
My ears picked up at the words of the third woman.
A fiancée?
I didn't know that, and I did extensive research on him.
I felt unimpressed with myself for missing such vital information.
I wonder who the unlucky woman is.
Does she know what an evil bastard her so-called fiancé is?
She is probably some innocent young woman whom he coerced into marrying him with his lying tongue.
Why the hell am I worrying about some fucking woman I don't know? I shifted my thoughts from worrying about the so-called fiancée to thinking about how she could be useful in my revenge plans.
They say men tend to spill their secrets in bed, and since I don't plan on sharing his bed, the next best thing would be to cozy up to the woman he shares his bed with.
Gain her trust and see what I can learn.
"You shouldn't listen to idle gossip."
His voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I look up at him, craning my neck like a confused giraffe.
Damn, he is tall—about six ft two to my five ft six.
"What do you mean?"
"You are scowling again," he says calmly. "I assumed it was because you could hear them talking."
I wave my hand, dismissing his concern. "I don't care about what they are saying." I did my best to appear nonchalant.
"Does that mean you don't care about being my mistress?" he teases, one brow arching toward his hairline.
His playful tone surprises me, but I don't show it.
"You can't afford me," I say with an air of haughtiness.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Wolfish.
His eyes were twinkling with merriment.
"Try me," he mutters in a low, sexy tone.
Damn, this conversation has quickly drifted into dangerous waters, but luckily, before I could answer, his phone rings, distracting us and dispelling the air of thick tension between us.
This is not going as planned.
Why am I allowing him to rope me into this flirting nonsense? I am supposed to hate him, not indulge him.
Or maybe I can humor him. Get his guard down, get close to him, and get everything we need to take him down.
Plans have changed.
I will no longer try to hide from him. I will play his games and, in the end, come out on top.
I am no longer the naive girl he took advantage of. I am wiser, stronger, and hardened by my hatred for him and the need for revenge.
"Your shoes are here," he says after finishing his call.
"Yaah!" I say flatly, with my hands raised in the least enthusiastic celebration in human history.
My sarcastic response draws a soft chuckle from him.
A few minutes later, a young man approaches us, dark-complexioned, his arms full of shopping bags.
"Hello, Mr. Blackwell," he greets politely, getting his attention.
"Hello, Blake." He replies with easy familiarity. "How is your mother? Is she feeling better now?"
I glance at him, surprised.
People like him don't usually know common people's names. And what is with the pleasantries?
That is so out of character, and is kicking down my image of him as a devil incarnate.
I didn't expect him to have a caring side, not after what he did to me.
"Don't be swayed, Lyra. Remember the past. Remember why we hate him," my inner voice reminds me, and my heart hardens.
She is right.
At the reminder of why I am here, and who the man beside me actually is, my heart hardens like stone.
I will not be swayed even if he becomes mother Theresa, I promised myself.
The boy's face brightens up, his brown eyes sparkling with joy. "She is doing better now and back home. Thank you, Mr. Blackwell, for paying her hospital bills."
"You are welcome," he tells the boy, without sounding arrogant about it. He takes the bags from the boy's hand and dismisses him, but not before tipping him.
"For the stress of bringing these to me," he tells him with a wink.
The boy blushes but doesn't take the money. "It is all right, Mr. Blackwell. It was no hassle, and you have done so much for my family and me. This is nothing."
He doesn't insist and lets the boy go.
His actions are so not what I pictured. People like him are supposed to be arrogant, to flaunt their wealth in people's faces. Not show kindness and respect to others.
Why is he blowing up my constructed image of him?
Once the boy leaves, his attention returns to me. It is so intense that my skin feels warm.
"Why don't we get you out of these into something that your feet would be grateful for?"
Before I knew what was happening, he knelt—
Right there in the middle of the office.
The room collectively stops breathing. Someone gasped. "He is kneeling."
My brain short-circuits as he gently takes my left foot—still trapped in a six-inch heel—into his hands.
My skin burns where he touches me.
If his carrying me caused a buzz, peeling my shoes off generated even more buzz.
If he is trying to paint a target on my back, he is definitely succeeding.
I smell the smoke coming out of the ears of some of the ladies in the room.
Once he finished putting on the shoes, he caressed my skin on his way out, causing me to shiver, and then stood to admire the shoes on my legs.
I looked as well.
I must confess that the loafers looked great on my legs.
He smiles in satisfaction before walking to the middle of the room. He claps his hands to get everyone's attention.