Five
CLARA
No amount of coffee could prepare me for this day.
I didn’t have time to make it to my apartment and back before I had to meet my boss at the conference, so I did my best to clean myself up in the ladies room off the hotel lobby while I waited for him.
My head was spinning as I assessed my reflection in the too-bright lighting.
Wrinkled clothes, barely any makeup left, very clear sex hair.
I was a beacon of unprofessionalism, and I prayed to the gods above that I hadn’t just ruined my career.
Once I’d gotten myself as presentable as possible—still sans underwear, but hey—I wandered out into the lobby, looking for free coffee.
The place was full of professional people milling around, no doubt real estate investors and developers here for the conference.
I snagged a cup of coffee, opting to drink it black as both a punishment and a way to get my brain working for the day ahead.
Would anyone notice that I still wore yesterday’s clothes?
Nobody knew that I’d woken up in this hotel—much less the penthouse—so I prayed that I could successfully convince everyone I was alert and normal.
My first order of business, now that caffeine was pumping through my veins, was to figure out who the fuck Nash was.
He said he’d be presenting, so I hurried to the sign outlining the events for the conference.
Volunteers intercepted me, offering a conference lanyard and a packet of materials.
I smiled graciously—maybe the lanyard would act as my veneer of confidence—and stepped closer to the posterboard.
In big letters at the top, I saw the keynote speaker.
Nash Nightingale of Nightly Developments: The Intersection of Upscale Development and Morality.
I stared at the words for what felt like an hour.
The keynote speaker had given me three orgasms last night.
And not only that, he owned Nightly Developments.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
I hadn’t recognized the name Nash, and I might not have recognized the name Nightingale if he’d told me last night, but I certainly would have recognized Nightly Developments.
Nausea churned inside me. I sipped my coffee, but it sat awkwardly in my gut. Of course that was the only way this morning could get worse—my body rejecting the one fluid that might allow me to make it through this conference alive. Fuck.
“Clara!” The gruff voice of my boss Darren broke through my panicky doom spiral. I turned, pasting on a bright smile as I waved at him and the other members of our team trailing behind him.
His gaze raked over me, and everything inside me clenched, waiting for some comment about how awful or tired or recently-fucked-by-the-keynote-speaker I looked.
“This is gonna be a great conference.” All I could hear in my voice was the hollowness behind my forced excitement. And because I was a glutton for punishment, I added, “I see that the owner of Nightly Developments is going to be speaking.”
Darren grumbled, his gaze sweeping across the lobby. “Unfortunately. I wish I could go the next year without hearing his voice.”
I’d heard his voice plenty last night, and I could hear it until the end of time and not get sick of it. A shiver raced up my spine. After how the morning had gone, I was sure this presentation would likely be the last time I ever heard his voice.
I’d pissed him off—and with good reason. I did not begrudge his being upset with me.
I just kinda sorta wished maybe there was an opening for something more with him.
Darren and my other coworkers drifted toward the hall leading to the main ballroom where the conference was being held.
I snagged a donut on my way in, took one bite, and immediately threw it away.
Ugh. Everything felt strange going down, and I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or maybe a hangover that was blossoming, even though I’d had plenty of water during our sexcapades last night.
I tried to wash away the nausea with more coffee, but it only made me feel worse.
My coworkers and I became just a few more heads in the sea of attendees as we filed into the busy conference room.
They mingled and chatted while I mostly stayed off to the side, feeling sick and waiting for some glimpse of Nash.
An organizer made an announcement, and people began to find their seats for the keynote.
As we settled into hotel chairs facing a small, elevated platform, all I could think about was the last kiss Nash gave me.
The way his muscled thighs had flexed as he stormed off to the bathroom.
I felt like such a hot mess. My phone vibrated in my purse, and I fished it out, finding a new message from Preston. My stomach plummeted as I remembered the photo I’d sent him last night.
I didn’t want to deal with this right now.
All the embarrassment and shame and humiliation came flooding back through me.
I’d sent him a photo of me getting railed by some guy as a way to say Ha ha!
Look who’s cheating now! I braced myself to open the messages, finding the text I’d sent him at 1:18 a.m.: I spotted you on your date last night.
This is how I’m coping with finding out you’ve been lying to me.
Sure, there were probably better ways to handle the whole thing. But I never claimed to be good at handling emotional distress.
PRESTON: I don’t know what to say.
PRESTON: Why do I recognize that guy?
Not exactly the apology I’d been expecting, but nothing made sense anymore.
I stuffed the phone back in my purse, ignoring the painful wrench in my gut.
One of the organizers stepped onto the stage and said a few words to welcome everyone.
After a few words about the power of investment in shaping the future, she welcomed the pioneer Nash Nightingale.
Applause swelled in the room as Nash came to his feet from a seat in the front row and joined the organizer on the stage. They shook hands, and he stepped up to the microphone.
Electric blue eyes swept out across the packed conference room.
He looked immaculate, painfully handsome, even taller and broader and more commanding than I’d seen him last night.
He wore a different suit, pressed to perfection, and betrayed no sign of having feasted on my pussy a mere eight hours prior.
“Thank you, everyone. Thank you. It’s a real pleasure to be here today…”
His husky baritone sent shivers through me. I could barely focus on what he was saying; every syllable from his lips reminded me of what we’d done last night.
Nash spoke eloquently about the future of development and the impact developers had on the future of our country and communities.
It was riveting, when I could stop myself from thinking back to how well his cock had filled me last night.
When Nash spoke about upcoming plans, including some sort of mixed-use development in Tribeca that had the power to convert an overlooked community into something thriving and bustling, Darren leaned over to me.
“That’s the project he’s been harping about,” he said, jerking his chin in Nash’s direction. “The one I’ve deferred a few times.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
“Nothing. But it won’t get approved.”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t. The owner of the building Nash wants to remove is one of the mayor’s biggest campaign donors, and the owner doesn’t want to support anything Nash is working on. We’re beholden to the mayor’s office.”
I frowned, more of that nausea churning in my gut. “So you’re going to reject his plans?”
“Eventually. For now, we just defer. It’s all we can do.”
It was hard not to be indignant on Nash’s behalf, but I suspected that was partly because I’d just spent a highly intimate night with him.
Maybe I was partial to Nash now—okay, more than partial.
I probably qualified as a fangirl. I’d never had anyone eat me out that well, nor dick me down that fantastically.
I’d probably fantasize about him for the rest of my life. Which felt unfair.
I couldn’t look away from Nash as he spoke. Between the rasp of his voice and the way he expressed his thoughts, I wanted to listen to him all day. If he had a podcast, I’d be the first subscriber. His speech ended too soon.
I wished I could have said the same thing about the nausea I felt.
Once the applause died down and the organizer resumed her spot on the stage, I knew I had to get to a bathroom.
I quietly excused myself, squeezing past other people in my row to get the hell out of the stuffy room.
I hoped Nash wouldn’t see me or take my fast exit as a sign.
I burst through the heavy doors and into the cool air of the hallway and ran to the bathroom.
I barely made it into the first stall before I started puking.
The sound of my own retching shocked me.
What the hell was going on? I’d never puked from hangovers, and I wasn’t even sure I had one.
Was I just that upset about what had happened that morning?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to corral my spinning thoughts and steady my swimming vision.
Maybe I had the flu. Nash’s tongue had been far enough down my throat—maybe I needed to warn him about this illness.
I retched again, flushed, and headed to the sink to clean myself up for the second time that morning. As I looked at my pale reflection, I mused on the wretchedness of the morning. The only thing that could make it worse would be an unannounced visit from Aunt Flo.
My spiraling thoughts skidded to a stop.
I hadn’t had a period yet this month.
Preston and I had always used protection. But still…
What if?
I stared at my reflection, weighing my situation. I wasn’t the type of woman to randomly puke. Nor was I the type of woman to lie to a stranger or send pornographic images to a cheating ex.
Nothing made sense anymore, least of all myself.
I didn’t know what it meant yet, but I knew that nothing would look the same from here on out.
Click here to read what happens next, 4 years later, in BOSSY BILLIONAIRE,
a second chance, single mom, marriage-of-convenience romance.
Book 2 in the Nightingales of Wall Street