One Night Stand With My Ex's Billionaire Enemy-Chapter 11 Blackout

That stopped me. Just for a second.

Louisa Granger. The only member of that genetically cursed family I’d actually liked. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

She used to call me her "darling girl," and she meant it. She remembered my birthday. She bought me books I actually read. She once told me I had a fire in me and that it was beautiful.

Meanwhile, my own mother thought my jewelry designs were a hobby I’d grow out of, and that fire belonged in fireplaces or hell.

"Come to dinner," Rhys carried on, his tone clipped. "Just don’t say anything to her about... you know. Us."

Of course he wanted me to lie for him. Again.

"Wow. Brave of you," I said, my voice sharp enough to julienne a zucchini. "What happened to that big manly energy you were showing off with Catherine? If you’re so smitten, why not bring her to dinner and introduce her to the fam? Or are you worried Mummy might not approve of your shiny new mistress?"

He didn’t reply. I didn’t wait for him to.

I hung up, tossed my phone on the sofa, and muttered, "Bloody coward."

***

Half past ten, I’d just put down the TV remote and dug out an unfinished sketch from my tablet, thinking I could snack my way into some inspiration.

I barely got two bites of leftover lo mein before the lights cut out like a budget horror film. One second I was basking in LED brilliance, the next I was plunged into darkness, lit only by the ghostly glow of my tablet screen.

I practically launched myself off the sofa. My heart did a triple backflip before I realized it was just a blackout. Again. Because of course this floor had the electrical stability of a soggy biscuit.

I fumbled for my phone and rang Mr. Donnelly. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. Classic Donnelly—less "property manager," more "professional ghoster."

I wouldn’t have put it past him to fake a blackout just to speed up my moving out.

I’d already said I was leaving. Did he really need to go full supervillain with the power supply?

No wonder this place was cheap. Faulty wiring and a landlord who disappeared faster than my willpower around cake. Still, for rent that low, I couldn’t stay mad for long.

Besides, I was out of here soon enough.

Grumbling under my breath, I groped my way into the stairwell to check the fuse box. Of course, it was mounted at a height best suited for NBA players.

I’m nearly 5’7" and had to stand on tiptoe like I was doing pirouettes in the dark—only with more swearing and less grace.

Not that it helped. I stared at the jumble of switches like it was written in hieroglyphics.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, returning to fetch a chair before I electrocuted myself out of sheer guesswork.

Just as I reached my door, the neighbor’s door eased open.

And there he was.

Like me, he was using his phone as a torch, which gave me a clear view of his face. His fringe, usually styled like a GQ cover shoot, was loose and damp, making him look about five years younger and way too good-looking for the average tenant.

Droplets slid from his hair down his neck, over his collarbone, down over muscles that really needed a warning label.

The man had on nothing but a towel.

Just. A. Towel.

And judging by the little rivers of water tracing down his torso, he’d rushed out of the shower to investigate the blackout without bothering with trivial things like clothes.

I tried very hard not to ogle.

I failed spectacularly.

To be fair, it was like being hit in the face with a very well-sculpted Greek statue.

A very wet, half-naked, annoyingly sexy Greek statue.

Last time I saw him, he’d been dressed to the nines in a tailored suit. I hadn’t expected him to be this... stacked.

It was like finding out your accountant moonlighted as a Calvin Klein model.

My brain short-circuited for a moment. I just stood there, blatantly gawking like some creep on a stag do.

He caught me staring. Of course he did. His eyes—partly hidden under a mess of damp fringe—crinkled ever so slightly.

Then he glanced at my ears, probably noticing that they were turning the same color as a cherry slushie, and finally turned back inside.

He came back a minute later wearing a white T-shirt.

I blinked and cleared my throat.

Now that he was fully clothed—or at least pretending to be—the tension eased a bit and my brain came back online.

I launched into an explanation about the blackout and the fuse box situation. "Sorry to bother you. I didn’t expect the power to go out at this time of night, and the landlord’s decided to ghost me."

"It’s no bother," he said in that deep, low voice that probably doubled as white noise for insomniacs.

He brushed past me and headed to the fuse box. He didn’t even have to stretch. Where I’d nearly dislocated my toes trying to reach it, he just flicked the switches like he was turning on a light in a fridge.

Must be nice, being tall and useful.

He squinted at the fuse box for a moment, flicked another switch, then muttered, "Looks like the main breaker’s loose. Might’ve been knocked about—cheap casing, maybe. I’ll see if I can tighten it up."

"Oh, okay," I said, nodding along like I was following, even though my brain had already checked out of the electrical conversation and checked into the gym that was his back.

The white cotton T-shirt clung to him in all the right places—or maybe it was just thin enough to show off everything he had going on underneath. Every time he moved, muscles shifted under the fabric like they were choreographing a silent dance routine.

It was hypnotic. Like watching bread rise. Or lava lamps. But hotter.

I must have been staring at his back like a total weirdo for a full two minutes before I remembered I was supposed to be helping, not leering.

I cleared my throat. "If it’s a hassle, don’t worry about it. It’s late anyway. I should probably just call the landlord in the morning."

Without turning around, he said, "There’s a storage room near the stairs. Might be a pair of pliers in there. Grab them for me."