Simon Prebble Novels & Stories

Elena nodded and sat down next to her nephew. Unlike the last two days, Simon donned a light-coloured shirt that seemed to bring out his dark eyes even more. His hair was in perfect place, the edges slightly longer and brushing against the back of his collar and his stubble was just at the perfect length. The fact that he was so perfect was enough for anyone to lose their breath and just stare at him.

she said. Simon respectfully returned her gesture, assuring her it was no trouble. Stepping forward, he approached the judges' table to taste the cocktail. Despite his courteous demeanor, Simon harbored deep resentment within. He was convinced that the four major prestigious families had abused their power. Hence, if he found the cocktail to be anything less than exceptional, he vowed to reveal its mediocrity to everyone. Standing before the four heirs, Simon raised his glass with grace. As he sipped the azure liquid, a cold sensation spread from his stomach throughout his body.

The wind picked the moment to die completely, the whole clearing going so still I could hear my own pulse in my ears, and Simon, or whatever had Simon's voice and Simon's walk and eight months of grave dirt somewhere underneath the ordinary clothes he wore, tilted his head at Jude the exact way Cole had tilted his at me a few minutes earlier, that same small, patient, almost gentle curiosity. "He's perceptive," Simon said, to no one in particular, or to all of us. "I always liked that about him too. It's why I chose him first." "Chose him for what," I said. Simon smiled, and it was the worst thing I had seen all night, worse than Damon's grip in Jude's hair, worse than my mother's rehearsed

“Who’s Simon?” “Oh, man.” Mia reached for a quesadilla. “Simon Yates is only the hottest kickboxer in the game, ladies. He trains with Adam and Nick, and he’s Mitch’s sparring partner. You’ll have seen him in those ads for Coles Jeans… the blond guy with the perfect chest and ass?” Maggie gazed at Reena. “That guy?” “Yeah.” Reena went back to the kitchen and got the pitcher of Margaritas. “Yeah, we’ve been on six dates.”

“Let me tell you something before I go.” The three of them fix their attention on me, attentive. “For any purpose, I'm your personal stylist, okay?”, I say, already leaving, in a hurry, not even giving a chance for an answer. “Whoa! Hold on”, Simon says. I close my eyes briefly, turning on my heels. I find his dark quiff well aligned, while he takes a drag of the weed he smokes. “Six in the morning. Because we already do everything together at the gym here.”, he finishes.

Trevor’s face was so sullen that it looked somewhat murderous! “F*cking cripple! What did you say? Repeat it if you have the nerve!” Trevor gritted his teeth and was about to fight Simon. Tammy’s men naturally did not allow him to get any closer to Simon, so he was stopped before he got any closer. Simon stared at him coldly as if deliberately trying to stir him up. Then, he muttered indifferently, “I said, the word ‘cripple’ is more suitable for people like you.”

His assertive demeanor defeated Simon's arrogance. “What do you know about Britt?” Simon asked.

In the conference room, Simon walked over to his designated seat, a scowl on his face. "You look like someone just stoned you." William Blake, his personal assistant, said, noticing the awkward glances from those who walked in after Simon. "How long is this supposed to take?" Simon grunted, picking up his phone. "Uhm, about four hours. You already knew that. What’s wrong? Or rather, did something happen?" William asked. "It's of no significance," Simon muttered.

Serena nodded at the lawyer, who was promptly escorted out so staff could handle the final paperwork. Then her eyes landed on Whitney, who stood in the middle of the office with barely contained excitement—completely oblivious to how much of a rookie she still was. She turned her head, glancing at the modern yet modest surroundings, then blurted out with a huff, “Ruiz Star might’ve squeezed its artists dry, but at least they had taste. This place? It’s giving… storage closet.” Right as those words left her mouth, the door opened again. Simon entered—impeccably dressed, square shoulders, steel presence. His gold-rimmed glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose, giving him the air of a s