Page 3 of Shark’s Edge

While I let out an awkward laugh, Rio folded her arms and pouted. The woman was a force of nature when it came to scheming for everyone’s Happily Ever After.

The idea of Viktor Blake wasn’t horrific. Quite the opposite. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed hottie who honored his sinewy Russian heritage so well, he’d been offered a promo deal with Stone Global’s fitness supplement division.

If getting horny and horizontal with someone were my main goal right now, the man would be in the top three on the list. But still third. One of the spots would always be filled with Chris Hemsworth’s name. And the other?

Sebastian Shark.

Viktor Blake was no Sebastian Shark.

A fact that neither man mourned, if the rumors about their professional rivalry were true.

“Come on. Getting horizontal with Viktor the Golden God has to have crossed your mind, Abbi. No disrespect to your brother, my amazing husband, but it crossed my mind when I covered for you that afternoon last month.”

I raised a firm hand. “See it and talk to it, Rio. Shit like that is not going down between Viktor Blake and me.”

“But—”

“Leave it.”

“But—”

“Leave. It.” I could hear the next but already churning in her throat. “You know my rules, okay? I didn’t just make them up for my health. Or even for . . . How do you always say it?”

“Misplaced nobility.” Her tone was wry but incisive.

“Ahhh, yes. My misplaced nobility.”

My own tease earned me a huff from my sister-in-law. She folded her arms, facing me like a lawyer in cross-exam mode. “Why don’t we just call it what it really is?”

“And why am I scared to ask what it really is?”

“Because you know what I’m about to say.” She filled the air with tinny clangs as she tapped a fingernail against the table. “They’re self-erected walls between you and humanity.”

“Self-erected wa— I don’t erect anything!”

Rio turned her hand over with splayed fingers. “Dropping the mic. My work here is done.”

I pressed my lips together, holding in a retort. All right, fine. Maybe I was fond of walls. But sometimes—a lot of times—the world needed walls. They kept life organized. Created boundaries where they were needed.

I wasn’t indifferent and unfeeling. I was ambitious and focused. Separating professional and personal relationships was good business. And good business led to great business. And great business was the measure of my success.

And success—the resounding, undisputed kind—was where I was bound. No matter what it took. Including lifelong celibacy.

Since arriving here four years ago, just a month after high school graduation, I’d worked to build my name in a city where every other person owned a restaurant or catering outfit. Some of LA’s most prominent companies—and with their notable leaders—relied on me. Crossing the line with any of those clients would be killing my dream before it began.

Speaking of that dream . . .

“Not so fast, dear sister. Your work here also means prepping the appetizers for the private party tonight.” I smacked my hands together. Back to the grind. Best subject change in the world. “Chop-chop. We’re running behind on the pesto.”

“And you’re running behind on the erections.”

“Burning daylight, girlfriend,” I hollered while turning and punching the button for the roll-up door, preparing to load the van with the lunch delivery boxes.

“Wasting your va—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Rio!”

I looked back into the kitchen from the loading dock and saw a glazed stare overtake Rio’s face. I thought it was my threat that brought her crass retort to a grinding halt, but I was mistaken.