Chapter 3
Lila
I tap my fingers on the counter, my laptop glowing in front of me. The search bar on the screen mocks me with its uselessness.
Ben Ashcroft. Nothing. No LinkedIn. No social media. Not even an outdated company profile.
How is it possible for someone to be this off the grid?
I try again, typing his name with the company name added, hoping it’ll spit out more than the generic company website. It doesn’t.
“Who doesn’t exist online these days?” I mutter, slamming the laptop shut.
“You’ll have to wing it,” Sophie says, glancing up from her coffee. She’s perched on a stool at the cafe counter, watching me with mild amusement. “Mysterious billionaire types are always trouble. You know that.”
“This isn’t a book,” I remind her.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Olivia adds, grinning. “You’ve got all the elements: the brooding businessman, the small-town girl trying to take him down, a dramatic showdown coming up. Classic enemies-to-lovers vibes.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach twists just thinking about it. “This isn’t enemies-to-lovers. This is business. Ben Ashcroft is probably some sixty-year-old fat, balding guy who barely knows how to use email.”
Sophie bursts out laughing. “That’s the spirit!”
“Uh-huh,” Olivia says, raising an eyebrow. “And you’ve spent the last hour trying to figure out everything about him because…?”
“Because I want to be prepared,” I snap, turning back to the engagement flowers. “I’m not walking into that meeting blind.”
I snip another stem, trying to focus on the bouquet, but my thoughts keep circling back to that name. I shouldn’t care who he is, or if there’s even the slightest chance it could be him.
But my gut won’t let it go.
I glance at my friends, who are deep in conversation, passionately debating the next book for Books That Bang, the romance book club Sophie set up.
It’s been amazing to finally find real people who love romance and smutty books as much as I do.
Life has been too busy to find love myself, but books?
Books are simpler. No mess, no complications, just guaranteed happily-ever-afters.
I could tell them.
I could tell them there’s a possibility Ben Ashcroft isn’t just some random CEO, that he might be the Ben. The boy I never thought I’d see again.
But the words stick in my throat.
Flowers spill across the worktable in the back room. Roses, baby’s breath, eucalyptus branches, surrounding me like a floral war zone.
The laptop sits next to my notepad, a mess of notes and printed articles scattered around it.
Olivia scans the paperwork, a pen tapping rhythmically against the table, her eyes narrowing at the chaos around us.
“How can you work like this?” she says, gesturing to the sea of stems, petals, and papers. “There’s no order. No system. I’m getting hives just looking at it.”
I laugh softly. “Welcome to my brain.”
“Seriously, Lila. You’ve got spreadsheets next to roses, and there’s eucalyptus on top of your meeting notes.” She shakes her head, muttering to herself. “This is chaos. I can’t work in chaos.”
“This is creative chaos,” I reply with a grin. “It’s where the magic happens.”
Olivia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Magic or not, it’s a miracle you haven’t accidentally stapled a flower to your evidence.” She slides a stack of papers away from a stray sprig of baby’s breath, neatly aligning them.
“See? You’re already organising it for me,” I tease.
“Someone has to,” she says with a sigh. “You’re one misstep away from building a bouquet out of legal documents.”
I laugh again, the tension easing just a little. Olivia’s control-freak tendencies can be maddening, but right now, it’s exactly what I need. Olivia scans the paperwork again, her expression softening.
“You’re ready,” she says, scribbling something in the margin of my notes. “Facts are solid. Structure’s good. You’ve got this, Lila.”
I nod, but my stomach still twists. “Thanks. You’d tell me if it wasn’t, right?”
“I would.” Olivia grins. “This is corporate strategy 101. Trust me, you’re ready to make your case.”
“But this isn’t some company report,” I mutter, grabbing a sheet of paper. “This is our home, my mum’s business. There’s no Plan B if this goes wrong.”
Olivia places a steadying hand on my arm. “That’s why you’ll nail this. Just stick to your facts and control the conversation. Don’t let him push you off balance.”
I take a breath, exhale slowly, and give her a small nod.
“This meeting feels like the calm before the storm,” I mutter.
“Then bring the storm,” Sophie says. “Hit him with facts and charm. You’re good at that.”
“If that fails, seduce him,” Willow jokes.
“Not. Helping,” I deadpan.
I stare at my closet, hands on my hips, chewing on my bottom lip.
Professional but approachable. Not too casual. Not too formal.
Why does nothing feel right?
I grab a navy blouse and hold it up, frowning. Too stiff. Too buttoned-up. The green wrap dress? Too much like I’m trying to make an impression.
I pause, eyeing a pair of tailored black trousers and my favourite fitted blazer, the one that makes me feel like I could walk into a courtroom and destroy someone’s life with a well-timed objection. Corporate bitch motherfucker mode activated.
I pull the blazer off the hanger and pair it with a silky black camisole, just enough edge without crossing into cocktail-hour territory. Sleek. Confident. Powerful.
I slip on the trousers and smooth the fabric down, then stand in front of the mirror, tilting my head as I take in the reflection.
Fierce. But polished.
Exactly the energy I need.
I reach for a pair of sharp-heeled black ankle boots and zip them up, the slight clink of the zipper sending a surge of confidence through me. The kind of outfit that makes it clear I’m not to be messed with.
I reach for my jewellery next, simple gold earrings, no necklace and pull my hair into a low, sleek ponytail. Clean. Powerful. Efficient.
Then it hits me, creeping into my mind without permission.
What if it is him?
My stomach twists, and my fingers grip the edge of the dresser. No. Stop it, Lila. You’re not dressing for him.
I scold myself silently, shaking off the thought. This isn’t about him. It never was. This is about protecting the cafe, my mum’s shop, and everything we’ve built.
The armour I’ve chosen isn’t for him. It’s for me.
I take one last look in the mirror and square my shoulders. Game on.
The cafe hums quietly around me, the sound of the espresso machine and soft chatter fading into the background as I take my place at the back table.
I stack my notes neatly, adjusting the corners. Everything in order.
For the past hour, I’ve been watching the clock, the numbers crawling toward 1 p.m. with agonising slowness.
I’ve run through my arguments, rehearsed every possible response, prepared for every counterpoint he might throw at me.
This is just another meeting. Another business conversation. Nothing more.
Yet my hands are a little too sweaty. My heartbeat a little too loud in my ears.
I smooth my blazer and lean back in my chair, exuding the kind of confidence I don’t quite feel. Fake it until you make it, right?
The door swings open. I don’t look up.
Not yet.
But something shifts. The air. The energy. A presence.
When I finally glance up.
Fuck.
It’s him.