Page 11 of For the Plot
Tonight was supposed to be about Maya. About laughing and toasting her win and maybe pretending I still had some sort of direction in life.
Instead… I ran intohim.
I turn my attention back to my computer, fingers already in position before I can talk myself out of it, keying in Reece Blackwood. The man. The myth. The… fucking menace who has no business aging like a silver-haired god.
The search results are immediate. Press releases,Forbesarticles, keynote clips from tech summits I didn’t know existed.
And the photos… Jesus, the fucking photos.
He’s devastating in his crisp suits, but nothing compares to the brooding intensity of his gaze. Half of these candid photos could be cologne ads. The other half look like he’s about to close a billion-dollar deal while simultaneously unhooking your bra with his mind.
I click through a feature on his company, Blackwood & Crane. I knew they were rich. I just didn’t know they were rich-rich. Like ‘yachts with helipads’ rich.
There’s a quote from him about innovation and legacy, but all I can focus on is the way his mouth moves when he says it. The way his hands are resting lightly on the table, like they’re not capable of gripping too tightly. Of pulling. Of holding.
Pages and pages. Glossy magazine features,Forbesarticles, think pieces on his early company sale and reclusive lifestyle. One headline reads, “Chicago’s Quiet Billionaire Keeps Winning.”
Yeah. No kidding.
I click one. There’s a photo from a charity gala, him in a tux, jaw clenched, eyes like frozen steel. The woman next to him is stunning, but his body isn’t angled toward her.
Another article says he’s “notoriously private,” “pragmatic,” and “married to his work.” No scandals. No dates. Just success and a perfectly pressed suit.
God, even his Wikipedia page is intimidating.
I scroll down until I find the old stuff. The early years. He built his first startup when he was twenty-six. His wife passed away when Archer was fourteen. He sold the company for 2.3 billion dollars when Archer was twenty-one and stayed on as CEO.
Which means… he was grieving. All those years I used to wonder why he was never around. Why he was always this distant shadow I occasionally glimpsed during visits at Archer’s house or holidays. I knew that Archer’s mom had died fromcancer a few years before I met him, but he always played it off like it was something he and his dad didn’t talk much about, so I never pushed it.
But now that I’m older and realize how soon after she had passed that they moved to my small Illinois town, I realize that Reece was probably still grieving. And working. And building something colossal while his kid brought home a mouthy high school girlfriend who lived in Doc Martens and ran off of sarcasm.
I feel like I should understand that now.
Maybe that’s what tonight really did—opened some weird emotional time capsule I didn’t realize I’d buried. Made me remember things I thought I’d forgotten.
Like the way Archer would talk about his dad, as if he was myth more than man. The way I’d catch Reece’s voice on calls from the other room, cool and commanding even when he was saying mundane shit like,yes, tell the board I’ll review it tonight.
I close the tab before I start imagining him reading my résumé out loud in that voice. The one that makes me want to fantasize about myself writhing beneath him in all sorts of compromising positions.
Back then, he felt like something out of reach. He was intimidating and distant. Now? I close the browser and push my laptop away. Now he’s… offering me a job. Temporarily. Professionally. Totally not weird… Except it is because he’s hot as fuck and now I can’t stop thinking about it.
God, it’s so weird.
My brain’s a hamster wheel of what-ifs. What if I took the job? What if it’s a disaster? What if I say something wildly inappropriate on my first day and end up as a meme?
Or worse… what if I like it?
What if I likehim?
I glance at the card again. Then down at my wine. Then back at the card.
And suddenly I’m laughing. Loud, ridiculous, tipsy laughter that fills the whole apartment and bounces off the exposed brick like it’s trying to make sure Ireallyfeel how insane this all is.
“Get a grip, Skye,” I mutter, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
But even as I say it, I can’t help the small, secret thrill that runs through me. Because for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel numb. Or rejected. Or invisible. I feel… curious. Alive. Like something shifted tonight.
I pick up the card again and trace my finger over the gold lettering. The bottom line is, I need a job and I don’t really have the luxury of time right now. Besides, a man like Reece Blackwood wouldn’t let a stupid crush from his son’s ex ever become something.
