7. Brooke
brOOKE
Ishow up at the PR firm, which is conveniently located in the same building as my law firm. The receptionist directs me to the conference room next to the lobby. As I push the heavy glass door open, I hear a familiar voice ask, “Why do we need legal counsel?”
Shock and embarrassment heat my face as my step falters. I’d recognize that deep British voice anywhere.
I spent all weekend convincing myself that my foolish behavior Friday evening didn’t matter. It was reassuring that I’d never have to face Stu again. And no one would ever know I’d panicked in the elevator, drank too much of a stranger’s whiskey, and spent the night in his bed.
Now, the universe is playing games with me.
Apparently, he works for the PR team that represents our billionaire client.
He must be from their London office. Should I await a private moment to apologize?
Should I pretend not to know him? Maybe, the better plan is to acknowledge we’ve met but omit the details.
Delaying my decision, I plaster a smile on my face and throw my shoulders back in a show of confidence. As they say, “fake it until you make it.”
“Oh, here she is. Ms. Bennett, welcome. I’m Jason Randall, lead of the PR team. I was about to explain that your law firm is also a sponsor of the charity events. And while we don’t expect any legal problems, you’ll be available if anything does come up.”
I walk to the head of the table, extending my hand and a smile. “Mr. Randall, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I doubt you’ll need my legal services, but I’ll be happy to help if you do.”
I barely hear him say, “Please call me Jason,” because my gaze drifts past him. Sure enough, Stu is sitting to Jason’s left. A soft gasp escapes my throat as I let my eyes travel over him.
He’s every bit as handsome as I remember. His wavy hair is slicked back. His suit is perfectly tailored. I’m betting it’s a bespoke creation from Saville Row. It hugs his broad shoulders and six-pack abs that I saw in their naked glory on Saturday morning.
Is the room extra warm or is it just me?
I can’t believe that Stu works for the PR team. What if he tells everyone about what happened? So much for my credibility with these people. Even worse, what if Jason reports back to my boss? I’m sooo screwed.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Jason breaks through my brain fog in time for me to hear him say, “We appreciate that. As you may have heard, our client, the Earl of Sandridge, has fallen ill and had to remain in London. Fortunately, his son is here in his place.”
Jason turns, gesturing toward Stu. “Let me introduce Lord Sandridge, Viscount of Sandridge.”
My eyes go wide, jaw slackening.
What. The. Fuck.
He’s not with the PR team. He’s the client. And he’s a royal. Or is a viscount a noble rather than a royal? I only thought I was embarrassed before. It was nothing compared to this.
I don’t break rules. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
I’ve spent my time in law working hard and carefully adhering to expectations.
Now, in just a few hours, I’ve erased it all.
I broke so many rules in one evening: kissing a client, getting drunk in front of a client, sleeping in a client’s bed, and who knows which other rules.
Stu stands, buttoning his custom-tailored suit jacket.
At a loss for words, I take his offered hand. Heat radiates up my arm, and goosebumps pebble my skin. How can both happen at once? What this man does to me is beyond comprehension. He’s so . . . um . . . something.
A look of amusement and mischief crosses his face. He holds my hand longer than expected as his eyes quickly give me a once over.
After what seems like minutes, but could only have been seconds, I manage to say, “I apologize. I’m not familiar with the proper way to address royalty. Should I call you Lord Sandridge or Viscount Sandridge?”
“Technically, I’m part of nobility rather than royalty. In formal situations, I’m addressed as Lord Sandridge, but please call me Stuart.” A smirk twists one side of his lips upward, and a sparkle lights his eyes.
I stop myself from reminding him that on Friday, he told me to call him Stu. Why the hell didn’t he mention that he’s an effing viscount. Instead, I slowly say, “I’ll call you Stu . . . art then, if you insist. I’m Brooke.”
Jason says, “Brooke, three of the foundation’s board members are also here today. Next to Stuart, we have Mr. Broadmoor, Mr. Champion, and Ms. Davidson.”
The table is too wide to reach across and shake hands, so I nod at each person in turn.
He continues, “Everyone else here is part of our PR team. We have Hannah, José, and Art.”
“It’s nice to meet everyone,” I say, as Jason gestures for me to take the seat to his right.
“Give me a moment to check on the brochures. Then we’ll start the meeting,” Jason says.
Thankful for a moment to collect myself, I sink into the chair and pull a notepad from my bag. The murmurs of various people chatting fill the air. They can’t compete with the loud thoughts consuming me.
I assumed the client was an old, rich guy, not the handsome, thirty-something protector who kissed and comforted me on Friday night. How can this be happening?
My mind is reeling with the revelations about Stu—excuse me, now it’s Stuart.
My eyes involuntarily dart to his face. He’s staring directly at me with a knowing look on his face.
What does he think he knows? Is it that I’m embarrassed?
Does he know I want him to keep our prior meeting a secret?
Or does he know what he does to me? What is it?
Tearing my gaze away, I focus on creating a list of questions for Jason.
Not that I need to ask him anything. I’ll just never make it through this meeting unless I concentrate on something other than Stuart.
And it’s not like Mr. Barclay told me anything about this charity project.
It’s reasonable for me to want to know more, so I scrawl question after question on my yellow legal pad as if I’m working on a multi-million-dollar acquisition.
No way will I look Stuart’s way again. Well, at least not yet.
I’ve almost filled a page with my partially relevant questions when Jason returns. His booming voice declares, “Let’s start. I’d like to start with a short overview of the project to bring Brooke up to speed. Does that work for everyone?”
He wasn’t really asking for permission, so he moves right into the explanation.
“A few years ago, the Earl of Sandridge started the Sandridge Foundation, which is often referred to simply as the Foundation.
His primary goal was to prevent contamination of streams and rivers in the UK.
Soon, he learned that this was a worldwide problem and that, surprisingly, agriculture contributes to the problem.
To widen awareness, the Foundation funded a movie to expose the issue and raise money to remedy the problem.
The movie is premiering here in LA in conjunction with a set of weeklong events to raise money and visibility.
“Brooke, as you know, your law firm represents the Earl’s foundation as the entertainment lawyers for the movie. And your firm also decided to sponsor the charity events related to the premiere.”
“Thank you for the summary. As you probably know, I’m a last-minute replacement. It would be helpful if you could provide me with a list of the events that I should plan to attend. Would that be possible?”
“Of course. The events this week include a fundraising lunch, our team meeting, a talk show interview, the premiere, and the masquerade ball. My assistant is preparing an information packet with more details for you. Stuart will let you know which events he’d like you to attend.”
“Excellent. I wasn’t aware that agriculture contributed to water pollution. I’ll want to learn more before the events. Can your assistant include materials on that as well?”
“For now, please trust me that it’s a significant global concern.
I’ll let Stuart explain the details over lunch.
You can also use that time to coordinate your schedules.
My assistant can make a reservation for you at a nearby French restaurant, if you’d like.
Now, let’s move on to other logistical issues for the upcoming events. ”
My world is spinning. I’m having lunch with Stuart—just the two of us. I don’t want to be alone with him again. Our attraction is too strong. He’s a client. I can’t let anything happen—at least not anything more than has already happened.
Stuart and I need to talk. Hopefully, he’ll agree that what happened between us will stay between us. After all, it was just a kiss—a hot, sultry, mind-blowing kiss—but still, just a kiss.
Besides, it was his fault that I ended up drunk. I’ve never had whiskey before. I didn’t know it would knock me on my ass so quickly. Yes, we need to talk. And the more I think about it, I have questions for him.
Why didn’t he tell me who he was? Didn’t he know I work at his dad’s law firm?
He saw me get on the elevator at the law firm’s floor.
I told him I’m a lawyer. Of course, there are two other boutique firms in the building where I could work.
It’s possible he wasn’t paying attention to the floor the elevator stopped at for me to enter.
Given the way he’s looking at me now, why didn’t he ask for my number before I left on Saturday morning?
If he had been interested, he would have.
Not that I would’ve given it to him in my embarrassed state.
He still should have asked to make me feel less .
. . less . . . oh, I don’t know. My logic is messed up this morning.
Why would he want to spend more time with someone who went from panicked to drunk to passed out in record time?
Hell, I ruined his Friday night, leaving him to babysit a comatose woman in his hotel room.
How could I possibly think he’d ask for my number?
He was probably relieved I left without further incident.
I’m sure the way he’s looking at me now is just amusement and concern about being stuck with me for the rest of the week. He’s probably already calculating how to replace me with a more appropriate attorney from our law firm.
That’s likely for the best. We can discuss the options over lunch. All I need from him is reassurance that he won’t mention the details of our prior meeting to anyone on the PR team or anyone at my firm. Surely, he can do that for me.
Lunch will be okay. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.