Beautiful Beloved
Page 10
But this particular English Boy was, unfortunately, beyond my reach. Almost literally: Niall Stella was over six and a half feet tall and effortlessly refined, with perfectly styled brown hair, soulful brown eyes, broad muscled shoulders, and a smile so gorgeous, on the rare occasion it made an appearance at work, it made women in the office forget what they were saying.
According to the office gossip, he had finished school practically as an infant and was some sort of legendary urban planning mastermind. I hadn’t realized that was an Actual Thing until I started working in the engineering group at Richardson-Corbett and saw him advise on everything from Building Control guidelines to the chemical composition of concrete additives. He was the unofficial final word in London on all bridge, commercial, and transport structure blueprints. To my endless heartbreak, he even once left in the middle of a Thursday meeting to direct a construction team when a panicked city worker called because another firm had botched a foundation design and concrete had already been poured. Virtually nothing got built in London without Niall Stella’s hand in it somewhere.
He took his tea milk first (no sugar), had an enormous office on the third floor, clearly never had time for telly but was a Leeds United man through and through. And although he was raised in Leeds, he went to school at Cambridge, then Oxford, and now resided in London. Somewhere along the way Niall Stella had developed quite the posh accent.
Also: recently divorced. My heart could barely take it.
Moving on.
Number of Times Niall Stella Had Glanced at Me During Thursday Meetings? Twelve. Number of Conversations We’d Had? Four. Number of Either of These Events He Might Actually Remember? Zero. I’d been wrestling with my Niall Stella crush for six months, and I was pretty sure he still didn’t know that I was an employee at the firm rather than a regular takeout delivery girl.
Surprisingly, because he was almost always one of the first to the office, the man in question wasn’t here yet. I’d checked—a few times—craning my neck to see through the mass of bleary-eyed people filing in through the conference room door.
Our meeting room was lined with a wall of windows, each looking out onto the fairly busy road below. My morning walk to work had been relatively dry, but as it did most days here, rain had begun to drizzle from a sky heavy with clouds. It was the kind of rain that looked like a harmless haze, but I’d learned not to be fooled: three minutes outside and I’d be soaked through. Even if I’d grown up somewhere rainier than southern California, I could never have been prepared for the way the London air, between October and April, felt almost saturated with water, heavy and damp. Like a raincloud had wrapped itself around my body, and seeped straight into my bones.
Spring had just begun in London, but the little courtyard across Southmark Street was still dismal and bare. I’d been told that in summer it was filled with pink chairs and small tables belonging to a restaurant near the back. Right now it was all concrete and mostly-naked branches, damp brown leaves blown across the stark ground.
Around me, people continued to voice their displeasure with the weather as they opened up their laptops and finished their tea, and I blinked away from the window in time to see the last few stragglers rush in. Everyone wanted to be seated before Anthony Smith—my boss and the firm’s Director of Engineering—made his way down from the sixth floor.
Anthony was . . . well, okay, he was a bit of a jackass. He ogled the interns, loved to hear himself speak, and said nothing that sounded sincere. Every Thursday morning he relished making an example of the last person to walk in, sharply commenting with a saccharine smile on their outfit or their hair so everyone in the room would have to watch in leaden silence as they found the last empty seat and sat down in shame.
The door squeaked as it opened. Emma.
Emma lingered, holding the door open for someone. Gah. Karen.
Voices sounded from outside the room, growing louder as they came in. Victoria and John.
And then, there he was.
“Showtime,” Pippa muttered next to me.
I saw the top of Niall Stella’s head as he stepped in just behind Anthony, and it was as if the air had been sucked from the room. People and chatter blurred around the edges and then it was just him, expression neutral as he seemed to instinctively take in who was there and who was missing, his shoulders wrapped in a dark suit, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his dress pants.
The urgent, fiery feeling in my chest grew.
Niall Stella was the man you noticed the moment he walked into the room. Not because he was boisterous or loud, but because he wasn’t. There was a quiet confidence about him, a way he carried himself that demanded attention and respect, and a feeling that while he wasn’t talking, he was watching everything, noticing everyone.
Everyone except me.
Having come from a family of therapists that discussed everything, I’d never been the silent type. So the fact that I of all people couldn’t manage a single articulate thing when he was in touching proximity made absolutely zero sense. What I felt for him was a distracting kind of infatuation.
He didn’t even have to attend Thursday meetings; he just did, because he wanted to make sure there was ‘cross departmental consensus’ and so his planning division ‘could at least have a working engineering vocabulary’ since it was Niall Stella’s responsibility to coordinate engineering with public policy and his own planning division.
Not that I’d memorized everything he’d ever said at this meeting.
Today he wore a light blue shirt beneath a dark charcoal suit. His tie was a mesmerizing swirl of yellow and blue, and my eyes moved from the double Windsor knot at his neck to the smooth skin just above, the heavy curve of his Adam’s apple, the sharp jaw. His normally impassive mouth was turned down in consternation and when I made it up to his eyes . . . I registered with horror that he was watching me eye-fuck him like it was my job.
Need more Niall? Of course you do. . .
CLICK HERE TO ORDER Beautiful Secret
BOOKS BY CHRISTINA LAUREN
Wild Seasons
Sweet Filthy Boy
Dirty Rowdy Thing
Dark Wild Night
Wicked Sexy Liar
The Beautiful Series
Beautiful Bastard
Beautiful Stranger
Beautiful Bitch
Beautiful Bombshell
Beautiful Player
Beautiful Beginning
Beautiful Beloved
Beautiful Secret
Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of longtime writing partners/besties/soulmates and brain-twins Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings, the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 international bestselling authors of the Beautiful Bastard and Wild Seasons series and Sublime. You can find them online at christinalaurenbooks.com, Facebook.com/ChristinaLaurenBooks, or at @ChristinaLauren, @seeCwrite, and @lolashoes on Twitter.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings
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ISBN 978-1-4767-9165-4
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Beautiful Secret Excerpt
About the AUthor