Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy

by Eve, Charlotte

  Fallon’s right.

  I need to strike out on my own. I need to build up a client base, completely outside of Blake.

  But who can I contact ...

  Then the thought popped into my head: Elizabeth O’Connor, the woman from that fundraiser. She’d told me to get in touch!

  So I picked up my purse and began searching through, rifling through my keys, wallet, lipsticks, pulling out business card after business card – I seemed to have amassed a lot at that charity fundraiser – until I eventually found it: the small rectangle of expensive card, Elizabeth O’Connor, printed on it in an elegant, pale grey Serif font, along with her telephone number and email address.

  I knew it was a long shot, but even just composing that one brief email to Elizabeth — asking if she was still interested in having a chat about the possibility of redesigning her summerhouse in the Hamptons, as we’d talked about a fortnight or so ago — made me feel a whole lot better.

  And at the end of the email, as an afterthought, I also asked her whether she knew of anyone else who might be in need of any interior design work, too.

  There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

  Suddenly, the day didn’t seem quite so frustrating after all.

  I settled back in my chair and began sorting through the many digital photographs I’d collected at various stages of the redesign of Blake’s apartment, to decide which best illustrated my work and warranted inclusion in my portfolio.

  I don’t know how long I’d been working on this for, maybe an hour, when my computer softly chimed, signaling the arrival of a new email.

  My heart leapt when I saw who it was from:

  Re: Hello Elizabeth

  Elizabeth O’Connor 11:55

  To: Jessica

  Dear Jessica,

  Great to hear from you, and so fabulous to meet you the other week! I know we talked about my summerhouse and I do still want to hear your thoughts, but I’m afraid I’m so busy at the moment, it might even be next year before I have a free lunch slot to talk!

  But in the meantime, a couple of friends of mine — Max and Andy — have been calling for design pitches for a restaurant they’re opening, and I was intending to forward you the brief anyway. Please find attached and good luck!

  All best and speak soon,

  Elizabeth

  --

  1 Attachment

  I opened up the brief for the restaurant. The deadline for pitches was Friday! Damn. I kicked myself for having left it this long before contacting Elizabeth. I was going to have to work my ass off now if I was going to be able to turn in a halfway-decent pitch in time.

  I quickly silenced the negative voice in my head, the one that was telling me I was an idiot for not getting in touch with Elizabeth before now. Because these thoughts were just wasting my time, when what I needed was focus.

  I spent the rest of the day working on my pitch. And despite my initial worries, I was glad to finally have something — something of my own — to really sink my teeth into.

  In fact, I worked so hard that when I finally looked up from my screen and decided to call it a day, it was already dark outside. It was the first time in a long while that I’d actually worked so hard I’d lost track of time, and when I looked back over what I’d done, I felt pleased with the progress I’d made.

  Maybe I am cut out for this profession after all.

  It was only as I was strolling the few blocks back to the apartment that I remembered that waiting for me there was my new roommate: Gina. I’d been lucky so far. She’d gone out last night and still didn’t seem to be home when I left for my office this morning. I knew she was the kind of girl that spent more time in other people’s beds than her own, which was something of a relief. But still, I felt on edge, never quite knowing when she might come walking through the door.

  I had to be honest with myself: I didn’t like her. She just seemed so ... I feel bad saying this about another woman, but she just seemed so slutty. She was so different to me, and I couldn’t understand why Blake thought we would even get on. We had nothing in common.

  Or, if I was really honest with myself?

  We had one thing in common: Blake.

  I knew almost nothing about what her relationship with Blake actually was, save from the little I’d seen of them together. Were they still seeing each other, too? Was Gina one of his girlfriends? Did they lie in bed, talking and joking, too?

  God, I spend so much time just thinking about him, waiting for him to ask me to do something.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I need to take control. I’ve done it before, in other areas of my life. In fact, I did it this morning with Elizabeth, and look how that’s turned out ...

  No more waiting around for Blake Matthews to contact me.

  I pulled my cell from my bag and quickly tapped out a message, telling him I wanted to see him tonight, and asking if he had dinner plans already. I read it over then quickly hit send, before I could change my mind and chicken out.

  After all, that was how Blake always contacted me, wasn’t it? Just sending a last minute text, assuming I’d be free to drop everything and join him.

  There.

  See?

  Nothing to worry about.

  But I received the reply just a few seconds later:

  Away for two nights (Miami). Back Weds. B x

  §

  I reached the apartment building and paused on the step, searching for my key. This really was an amazing neighborhood, and I knew I should feel lucky that I was living here now. There was no way in a million years that I’d ever be able to afford to live somewhere like this on my own, even with the kind of money I’d been making recently.

  As I opened the door and headed up to the first floor, I thought again about the deal I’d struck with Blake: doing up this place in lieu of rent.

  So if I’m providing my interior design services for rent, what exactly is Gina supplying him with ...

  I stepped into the apartment and there she was, lounging on the sofa in just a flimsy pink wisp of a dressing gown, falling right open at the front as she lazily painted her toenails a matching hot pink.

  Jesus, does she ever cover up?!

  “Finally!” she said, the moment she saw me. “I’ve been going stir crazy in here all day on my own. And on top of that, I’m absolutely starving. Come on, let’s get dressed and grab some food. What d’ya say, sweetie?”

  “I, uh ... I’m not sure,” I began, still scrabbling around for an excuse that at least sounded plausible, when to my relief I heard my cell start ringing in my bag. “I’d better take this,” I explained, quickly pulling it out and swiping my thumb across the touchscreen, lifting it to my ear without even registering who the caller was.

  “So when exactly were you planning on telling me about Blake Matthews?” Mom’s voice said, surprisingly sternly.

  “What?” I replied, completely taken aback.

  How in the hell does she know about Blake?

  “Blake Matthews,” she repeated. “He is your new boyfriend, isn’t he?”

  “I, um, I mean … I don’t think so?” I ventured, my head spinning. “Why in the world would you think that?”

  “Because it’s all over the damned internet!”

  “What?!”

  I felt my face flush with heat and my head begin to spin. I looked around me for a place to sit down, but the only seat — the couch — was taken up by Gina’s lazy, open-legged sprawl. So I ended up propping myself awkwardly against the doorway, the whole room whirling.

  “What do you mean it’s all over the internet?” I urged, feeling my pulse begin to race as I imagined my photo plastered across the front of the National Enquirer.

  “Sylvia’s daughter, Ashley,” Mom countered. “You remember Ashley?”

  How could I forget her? Ashley Adams was a couple years younger than me. We went to high school together in Glenbrook Falls, and even back then she seemed to b
e following in her mom’s footsteps as Small Town Busybody and Gossip Queen Extraordinaire. I couldn’t imagine just how much of a gossip she’d be by now.

  “Uh huh,” I said quietly. “I remember Ashley.”

  “Well, she saw you on a website. Some tacky gossip column thing, a photo of you and this Blake Matthews stepping out of some fancy restaurant. ‘Unknown Brunette’ they’re calling you, so at least they don’t know your name. But it’s definitely you. Your face is there, clear as daylight …”

  “Whoah. Okay, calm down, calm down,” I replied, my mind still reeling from all this new information.

  “And the things they’re saying about you on this website!” Mom continued. “The most horrible names! Oh Jessica, it’s really too much.”

  “Who’s saying things?”

  “Just lots of different people, all chipping in with their vile opinions on you at the bottom of the article.”

  Of course: the comments.

  I hadn’t even seen the article myself yet, but I could already kind of guess the content. A photo of Blake and I, speculation as to who I was, and beneath it a long string of snarky, venomous comments, all focused on me. Like almost every other gossip article on the internet, in other words …

  I didn’t waste too much of my time reading that kind of stuff, but of course I’d been on those kinds of websites before. And any woman who appears on them got trash talked, no matter what she was doing.

  “It’s all just so unlike you,” Mom sighed. “And it’s only been a few weeks since Greg! So are you living with him now, this Blake Matthews? He’s clearly much older than you. I’m worried he’s taking advantage of you, Jessica. There are men that do that, you know ...”

  “No!” I almost shouted. “You’ve got it all wrong. There’s nothing even going on. Blake’s just my boss. Mom, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the damned internet!”

  “Well, I’m not at all happy about this,” she replied. “It’s not making you look good, and it doesn’t reflect very well on your father and me, either. I think you need to cool things off with this Blake character for a while, young lady, and in fact, I think you should come home, too. This city’s obviously changing you, and you need to take a break and get your morals straightened out ...”

  “Mom!” I sighed, exasperated. “I told you! Nothing’s going on! He’s just my boss! And I’m not gonna come home, just because of some stupid little article.”

  I could tell Gina was listening in. She’d stopped even pretending to paint her toenails now, her big blue eyes fixed on me, her mouth curled in a curious smile. But I didn’t blame her. After all, I was making such a scene, I’m sure it was pretty hard to ignore.

  “Listen,” I continued, “I’d better go. I’ll call you again in a couple of days, but really, don’t worry about me, okay? I love you. Goodbye.”

  And then I quickly hung up the phone, stuffing it deep in my bag.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Gina asked, after a moment’s awkward silence.

  I glanced over at her, unsure if she was genuinely interested in my problem, or if she was just enjoying my frustration. To my surprise, she actually seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Just my mom, getting the wrong idea about everything again, as usual,” I explained.

  “You wanna sit down?” she asked, swinging her long, toned legs away from the other side of the couch.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I picked up my bag and carried it over to the couch, sitting down next to her before lifting out my MacBook. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself: I immediately began googling recent news articles for mentions of Blake Matthews.

  It wasn’t hard to find the article. The headline read, Blake Matthews Back on the Dating Scene?

  With horror, I began to read:

  Just a few months ago, things were looking pretty cozy between Blake Matthews and society heiress Camille Beringer. It was looking like the Parisian stunner was finally going to be the one to pin down one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.

  But it’s been over a month since Camille and Blake have been spotted together, and we’ve heard reports that Camille has moved back to Paris, as her family were unhappy with the match. And it looks like Blake Matthews hasn’t wasted any time finding romance.

  Blake Matthews was clearly enjoying the company of his new friend, as they walked through Central Park, laughing and joking. Onlookers say, he was clearly quite smitten.

  But Blake’s new girl is a bit of a mystery. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, the unknown brunette isn’t Blake’s usual type, and looked even younger than his previous conquests. We don’t know who she is just yet, but might she be the one to finally get Blake to settle down and commit?

  And sure enough, there was a photo, too: Blake and I, walking through the park. It must have been that afternoon we’d decided we needed some fresh air, the one when he’d bought me that outfit, after we’d been in bed for days on end. And we did look happy. We were both smiling and laughing, but we could have just been friends. It wasn’t like we were holding hands or anything.

  And yet, even in that single photo, you could tell there was something there between us.

  I knew there was gossip about Blake, online and in the papers sometimes. It wasn’t like he was famous though. But people would always be fascinated by wealth and power, and Blake’s life always attracted a certain unwanted interest. All the times I’d googled his name, and all the photos I’d seen, of all the glamorous, beautiful women he was linked with, I never imagined my photo would end up right there alongside them.

  Mine wasn’t the only picture in the article. In fact, next to the single picture of me, and about five of Camille Beringer, looking stunning in a bright blue bikini, and posing for a photo shoot on the red carpet. In comparison, I was wearing no makeup, sneakers and jeans. I clearly wasn’t in the same league.

  I was mortified, of course, but at the same time, I kept reading back over those final lines: might she be the one to finally get Blake Matthews to settle down and commit?

  Actually, the article wasn’t half as bad as Mom had made out. It was more about Camille than me, and although I didn’t like being compared to her supermodel good looks, they didn’t actually know anything about me, and the photo was just of us walking together. I could definitely play this one down. It didn’t mean anything.

  But while the article seemed okay, I made the mistake of scrolling further down, to the comments section below:

  OMG. If the bar is that low for Blake Matthews then maybe I’m in with a chance! I’m gonna move into the lobby of the 212 until he walks through. Then he’s all mine, baby!!

  I dunno. I always thought he was kind of an asshat who only dated bimbos with no brains. But this girl seems normal. Maybe he’s not such a douche after all?

  What the hell? She’s about 12 years old! Are you sure it’s not his niece or something? I’m pretty sure Blake wouldn’t be seen dead with a girl in jeans.

  Yeah, I don’t get it. She’s kind of plain. And she almost seems proud of it. I mean, she’s gone out for a walk with Blake Matthews without wearing ANY makeup? You’ve gotta be brave to do that. Props to her. But I give this relationship 2 weeks, max.

  The mean, venomous comments went on and on, and I read through them, every single last one of them, tearing me and Blake to shreds.

  I simply couldn’t help myself. I tried to stop it but my eyes welled up with tears, not just about those stupid hurtful comments, but also once more at the general frustration of my situation. If I thought things were complicated before, I realized that they were only going to get a whole lot messier now.

  “Hey now, don’t cry, sweetie,” Gina cooed, surprising me with her warmth, her arms coaxing me in towards her in a hug.

  And before I knew it, I’d burst into tears, my face resting against her ample bosom.

  “Come on, come on now,” she whispered, stroking the hair from my face with her long slender fingers. “You think tha
t’s bad? You should see the stuff they’ve written about me on the internet. Some of those people were actually saying nice things about you! And at least none of them called you a hooker. That’s what they’re always saying about me ...”

  At this I felt guilty: hadn’t I thought the exact same thing about her, just a few minutes ago?

  “But the thing is?” she continued. “Those people writing those comments? They’re nobodies. Bored nobodies. Their lives are in black and white. And they’re just jealous that ours are in Technicolor.”

  §

  The nightclub Gina took me to was called Provocateur, and it seemed like she was something of a celebrity there. From the way the doormen stood reverently aside to let us in, despite the long snaking queue that ran all the way around the outside of the building, to the way we immediately got served at the crammed-full bar, the bartender making a show of letting us both know that our huge (and incredibly strong) cocktails were ‘on the house’, Gina was treated like royalty.

  I know, I know. What was I doing in a nightclub with Gina?

  Well, earlier that evening, as we’d talked on the sofa, not only had she made me feel a hundred times better about my stupid situation and given me some real advice, she’d actually made me laugh, too. She was really funny and surprisingly down-to-Earth, although she certainly didn’t look it, what with the way she dressed. I’d started to think that maybe I’d been wrong about her.

  Staring at the screen of my MacBook, I’d been too distracted to do any more work on the restaurant pitch for Max and Andy, so when Gina had told me that what I needed was a stiff drink, she didn’t have to ask twice to convince me to join her.