Falling for the Enemy

Ch.9

Eros’s Pov

"—The Garden City expansion requires site visits to three potential venues," Amber explains. "I can handle the smaller properties, but the OAK Grand opening is black-tie, invitation only.

They specifically requested you attend, Eros." I force myself to focus.

“When?"

“This Friday through Sunday. It's their grand opening weekend—they're showcasing the property to potential clients. High-profile guest list, celebrity chef, the works. Perfect opportunity to establish our West Coast presence."

“Book it." I'm already mentally organizing my schedule when Amber clears her throat.

"There's one issue. The event is invitation-only, and they've requested you bring a guest. Someone who can speak to our event planning capabilities while you handle the business development side."

“Send Eva. She knows the luxury market."

"Eva’s handling the Mensah' merger this weekend. Rose’s booked with the Chen anniversary party. The only senior staff member available is..." Amber glances meaningfully at Althea. Of course. I look across the table at my assistant, who's been quietly taking notes throughout this conversation.

She glances up when she feels my attention, and for a moment our eyes meet. The memory of the Asante crisis flashes through my mind—the way she threw herself into solving an impossible situation, the competence and determination that saved our biggest event of the year.

“Ms. Dawson," I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "Are you available this weekend for a business trip to The Garden City?"

“Of course." Her response is immediate and professional. But I catch the slight hitch in her breathing, the way her pen stills against her notepad.

“Excellent," Amber says, already pulling out her phone. "I'll coordinate with the OAK team and book your flights. They're putting you up in their presidential suite as part of the VIP experience." Something cold settles in my stomach.

“Suite. Singular."

“They specifically mentioned their presidential suite has hosted celebrity couples, tech moguls, and diplomats. It's a showcase piece—apparently, the view of The OAK Bay is spectacular." Amber is still scrolling through emails, oblivious to the tension that just ratcheted up in the room.

“They're treating you as their premier guests." I look at Althea again. Her cheeks have a faint pink flush, but her expression remains carefully neutral. "I'm sure there are other accommodation options," I say. "Actually, the entire hotel is booked for the opening weekend. Private events, VIP guests, media coverage. The presidential suite was their gesture of hospitality." Amber finally looks up from her phone. "Is there a problem?"

“No problem," I lie. "We're both professionals." The meeting wraps up twenty minutes later, leaving Althea and me alone to discuss logistics. She's still taking notes, her handwriting precise and efficient, but I can see the slight tremor in her fingers. "The OAK AVENUE is one of Kumasi’s most exclusive hotels," I say, trying to keep this conversation strictly business.

“The guest list will include tech executives, venture capitalists, and entertainment industry leaders. You'll need to be prepared to discuss our services in detail."

“Understood." She doesn't look up from her notepad. "The events are black-tie. The company will cover appropriate attire if⁠—"

“I can handle my own wardrobe, Mr.Valenti." Now she does look up, and there's a spark in her eyes that makes my pulse quicken.

"Despite what you might think, I do own clothes that didn't come from Tema."

“I wasn't suggesting⁠—"

“Of course you were." She closes her notepad with a snap and stands.

“You've been categorizing me since the moment we met. Bottled water girl. Accra apartment. Discount wardrobe. But here's what you're missing—I clean up very well when the situation calls for it."

She's right. I have been underestimating her, filing her away in neat categories that don't account for the way she handled the crisis or the way she looks at me like she can see right through the walls I've spent years building.

"You're right," I admit. "I apologize." The acknowledgment seems to catch her off guard. She sits back down, but the air between us still feels charged. "About the suite situation," I continue. "I can speak with Amber about alternative arrangements⁠—"

“Can you?" She tilts her head. "Because it sounds like the hotel is fully booked and this is a significant business opportunity. Are you really going to risk insulting our hosts over sleeping arrangements?"

“I'm trying to maintain appropriate professional boundaries."

“Professional boundaries." She repeats the words as if they taste bitter. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven't said since the Asante’s crisis brought us closer than we should have gotten.

“Althea—"

“It's fine, Eros." She uses my first name deliberately, and the sound of it in her voice makes something hot and dangerous unfurl in my chest.

“We're both adults. We can share a hotel suite for business purposes without anything inappropriate happening."

“Can we?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Althea’s eyes widen slightly, and I see her throat work as she swallows.

“Yes," she says, but her voice has gone soft.

"Of course we can." Neither of us moves. The conference room suddenly feels too small. I can hear the muted sounds of the office around us—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the distant hum of conversation—but it all seems very far away.

“Good," I say finally. "Then it's settled."

"Settled," she agrees. But as she gathers her things and heads for the door, I catch her glancing back at me. Just once, quick enough that she probably thinks I don't notice. I notice everything about Althea Dawson. That's exactly the problem.

Althea sits across from me in the back of my company's black limo, heading to Accra Airport for our flight to The Garden City. She's reading what appears to be a romance novel. She's changed from her work clothes into dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that clings to her curves in ways that make it difficult to concentrate on my emails.

“Research?" I ask, nodding toward her book. She glances up, completely unembarrassed. "Entertainment. Sometimes a girl just wants to read about billionaires who know what they want and aren't afraid to take it."

The comment hits closer to home than she probably intended. I've built my fortune on knowing exactly what I want and taking it without hesitation.

But when it comes to the woman sitting across from me, I feel like I'm navigating uncharted territory.

“And what do these fictional billionaires want?" I ask. "Usually the same thing." She turns a page without looking away from me.

“The one woman who challenges them. The one who isn't impressed by their money or intimidated by their power."

“Sounds inconvenient."

“Sounds human." She closes the book and tucks it into her carry-on. "Money and power are easy, Eros. It's the connection that's complicated."

The limo slows as we pull into the private terminal. A line of sleek airplanes glints under the afternoon sun. We step out, and before I can respond, the boarding attendant calls our flight—probably for the best.

The conversation feels like it's heading into territory I'm not prepared to explore at thirty thousand feet. The flight to The Garden City on the company's private jet is smooth, filled with work discussions and careful professionalism.

Althea reviews the guest list and asks intelligent questions about our expansion strategy while we're seated across from each other in the plane's leather-appointed cabin. I brief her on the key players we'll be meeting and the deals I'm hoping to close.

It's only when we're in the back of another company sedan, heading from the airport to downtown Garden City, that the reality of our situation hits me. The OAK Avenue rises from downtown Garden City like a gleaming monument to luxury hospitality. The lobby is all marble and crystal, with arrangements of white roses that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Our check-in is handled by the hotel manager himself, who greets us like visiting royalty.

“Mr.Valenti, Ms.Dawson, welcome to the OAK Grand. We're honored to have you as our guests for opening weekend." He personally escorts us to the elevator bank. "The presidential suite is our crown jewel—I think you'll find it exceeds even the most discerning expectations." The elevator climbs to the top floor, opening directly into the suite's private foyer. And it's stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Kumasi skyline and OAK Bay.

The living area is elegant and spacious, with a full bar, dining area, and seating for eight. Fresh flowers are arranged on every surface, and champagne chills in a silver bucket near the windows. "The master bedroom is through here," the manager continues, leading us down a short hallway. "King bed, marble bathroom with soaking tub, walk-in closet. And this," he opens another door, "is the sitting room, which converts to a second bedroom if needed.

We've taken the liberty of having both spaces prepared." I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. Two bedrooms. We can handle this.

"The opening reception begins at seven," the manager says, handing us key cards.

"Cocktails in the rooftop bar, followed by dinner in our signature restaurant. Tomorrow's schedule includes brunch, property tours, and the grand opening gala. Please don't hesitate to contact me personally if you need anything."

He leaves us alone in the suite, and suddenly the space feels smaller despite its obvious luxury.

“This is impressive," Althea says, walking to the windows. The afternoon light turns her hair golden, and I have to resist the urge to follow her, to stand close enough to smell her perfume. "The OAK Group doesn't do anything halfway," I reply, focusing on unpacking my laptop instead of watching the way her jeans hug her curves.

“I should get ready for Tonight," she says. "The reception starts in two hours."

“Of course. I'll use the master bedroom to change. The sitting room should have everything you need."

She nods and disappears down the hallway with her garment bag, leaving me alone with the distinct feeling that this weekend is going to test every boundary I've tried to maintain. I'm right. An hour later, I'm adjusting my tie in the master bedroom when I hear Althea’s heels clicking against the hardwood floors. I step out of the bedroom and stop dead. She's wearing a black cocktail dress that should be illegal.

It's sophisticated, elegant, and completely appropriate for the evening's events. But the way it hugs her curves, the way the neckline hints at cleavage without showing too much, the way the hem hits just above her knees to showcase legs that seem to go on forever...

"Will this work?" she asks, doing a small turn that makes the dress flutter around her thighs. I clear my throat. "It's perfect."

“Good. I wasn't sure about the shoes." She lifts one foot slightly, showing off strappy black heels that make her legs look even longer.

"Too much?"

“No. They're... they're perfect too." She smiles, and I realize I've been staring. "Ready to go charm some clients?"

“Ready," I lie.