Preston Winslow found Niamh utterly repellent. He was about to toss the design sketches aside in disgust, but something made him pause. He glanced back at the papers, noticing countless scribbles, erasures, and reworked lines. Instead of looking like a copy, the sketches seemed more like inspired
evolutions–refinements of his own ideas.
No way…
Could it really be that The Thomas Group’s latest hit designs–all those breakout sensations–were genuinely Niamh’s work?
A question mark lodged itself in Preston’s mind. His distaste for Niamh wasn’t quite as fierce as before.
Meanwhile, Niamh woke with a throbbing headache and a mind full of blanks, the telltale aftermath of a night drinking too much. When she opened her eyes, she found herself sprawled on her own familiar bed–still fully dressed from the night
before.
Everything around her screamed that, at the very least, she’d made it home safely. But now that she was sober, anxiety crept in. Last night, she had let her emotions get the better of her.
All because Jonathan had thrown her a romantic birthday–only for her to realize it was just his way of making up for stealing her prized gemstone. The bitterness had driven her to drown her sorrows with drink. So pointless.
What if she’d run into someone dangerous last night? She shuddered at the thought.
Rubbing her aching temples, Niamh shuffled out of her bedroom, desperate for a glass of water. As she turned the corner, she froze–Preston Winslow was snoring on her sofa.
She nearly dropped the glass in surprise.
Preston woke up too, and offered a curt, matter–of–fact summary of the night before.
“So you should count yourself lucky! If I hadn’t run into you last night, who knows what could’ve happened? I mean, what on earth were you thinking, drinking that much alone? Was it just to get Jonathan to feel sorry for you?”
His tone was as sharp and dismissive as ever, looking her over like she was
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Chapter 153
hopeless.
Normally, Niamh would’ve snapped right back at Preston. But he had been the one to get her home safely last night. Like it or not, she owed him.
“Thank you, Preston. For not leaving me behind last night.”
She poured two glasses of water, handing one to him.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Preston grumbled, accepting the glass. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Jonathan. You’re still his wife. If anything had happened to you, it’d be Jonathan with egg on his face.”
Niamh believed him. She had no illusions that Preston had helped her out of
concern.
“Well, regardless, you helped me. And I appreciate it.”
Preston took a sip of water–it was just ordinary tap water, yet it somehow tasted a little sweet. He caught himself taking another big gulp as Niamh spoke again.
“I don’t like owing favors, especially not to you. If there’s anything you want–or if you want me to treat you to lunch–just say the word.”
Standing before him, Niamh’s cheeks were tinted a vivid pink from her hangover, as if she’d brushed on blush. Her fair skin was now luminous, with a flush that made her look even more delicate. Her eyes, though a little puffy, glistened with a softness he’d never noticed before.
Preston found himself staring and didn’t know why.
In his mind, Niamh was always a washed–up nobody. He’d called her plain and frumpy for ages, but deep down, he knew the truth.
Niamh was beautiful.
Stunning, in fact: Easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever met–so striking, it was almost as if she didn’t belong in the same world as anyone else.
Not that it mattered. He still disliked her.
After all, she’d taken the place that should have belonged to Marina. Preston’s resentment, he told himself, was justified.
But what about Jonathan? They’d been sharing a bed for three years–why did Jonathan still treat Niamh with such cold disdain?
“You know, you really ought to learn how to be a little softer with men,” Preston
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and opened the front door.
“You can go now.”
Preston realized, belatedly, that he was being shown out.
