Page 101 of Ruled By Rivalry

“You know,” I said, watching him stick it in place, securing the edges by pressing them against my finger. Again and again. My next words were meant to be a reminder—mostly to myself. “If we didn’t hate each other, we’d actually make an alright team.”

And not just because he was treating a single droplet of blood like I’d been shot, multiple times, in the heart.

He blinked up at me, no longer looking at his handiwork around my finger. “Hate each other?” he repeated. “Since when?”

I scoffed. “Since—” But cut myself off the next second. Since you stole my job and didn’t tell me, I wanted to say. Since you got the one thing I’d worked for my entire life and didn’t bother to tell me.

But I wasn’t sure I still believed it. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to or not. So, I pivoted. “Since I spilled my coffee all over you?”

The tension between his brows dissipated, making way for the easy smile that involuntarily moved something in the pit of my stomach. “Still not sure if that was a deliberate attack.”

“I wish I’d had the foresight,” I lied. “If I’d known how annoying you are—”

“You wouldn’t have let yourself be charmed by me?” He laughed at the look on my face. Outrage and amusement and shame, a little bit, that he’d stated it so . . . plainly. “Hey!” His hands lifted in defense. “Your words not mine.”

“You’re laughing,” I accused in disbelief. “I’ve fallen victim to Elliot Ashwood, and you’re laughing.”

His head tipped back, his Adam’s apple moved in sync with his shaking shoulders, and he wasn’t stopping. His giggle swept through the studio, and I could’ve listened to it for hours.

Chapter 39

Some days, it was easier to remember that we were rivaling interns and I’d basically lost already. Like when I saw Ronnie or Melissa and remembered their conversation all over again. When Elliot was working diligently or arguing on the phone and throwing words around I’d never even heard, never mind used. When he wasn’t Intern Elliot, but Elliot Ashwood. Confidence and authority in everything that he did.

Other days, it was harder. When he whispered “I told you so” into my ear while Daphne danced circles around her dress. When he very nearly kissed me once she was gone, and only decided to throw his arms around me at the last minute instead. When I realized, with all the might in the world, that I would’ve let him.

Then, when he groaned at my request to take the dozens of diamond samples home with us, but insisted on finding the perfect match for Daphne’s dress with me. Sitting on our living room floor, with small diamonds worth more than my childhood home’s mortgage scattered across the coffee table. With a half-eaten salad on the floorboards on one side of me, and his knee, continuously grazing mine, on the other.

“This is as awful as I imagined it.” He stretched his neck out, blinking furiously. “I can’t even tell the difference between gold and silver anymore, and don’t lie to me right now—neither can you.”

Even with the big lights on, it was getting harder to spot the difference between 0.2 mm and 0.8 mm. We’d been at it for hours. Shapes, sizes, and colors were starting to blend into one another. “Might be time to call it a day,” I admitted.

My head fell back against the couch, neck straining, eyes burning. I wanted to sleep so badly, I could do it right here. But—“At least let’s choose our favorites. We’ll look at those with a fresh perspective tomorrow, give the jeweler our pick, and tip him handsomely so he’ll have the job done by next week.”

“And by next week”—Elliot sighed—“you mean the end of this week?”

I grinned.

“And when you say we’ll tip him handsomely,” he continued, “you mean Rowen will?” Elliot must’ve still been cut off, so . . .

“You know me so well.”

A startling realization despite the humor in my tone. To be known by the one person who could and should use it against you. Who’d wound their way into your life so effortlessly, you only realized once it had already become a problem.

I stood. Quickly. “I know it’s late,” I started. “And New York is a very scary place at night.” He was already scowling before I added, “But I’m going for a run.”

I needed to, if I wanted to clear my head of that particular realization. That Elliot Ashwood knew me—probably deeply and intimately. Enough to recognize the way I thought and accurately predict it.

“I’ll come with—”

“No.” The point was to clear my head of him, not hear him huffing and puffing beside me. That’s how this entire mess had started. With him, inviting himself to my run on the first day of our week together.

A week that, in hindsight, changed a lot between us.

“Maeve,” he warned.

“Send someone with me, if you have to.” I rolled my eyes. He knew how stupid this was, and he wouldn’t let it go regardless.

“I cannot subject them to your seven-minute-a-mile pace. That’s torture. They’d sue.”