Page 16 of Ruled By Rivalry

Touché.

“No, but—” I cut myself off. “Why are we talking about my love life?”

Nonexistent, but still.

His sigh was exaggerated. “Can’t talk about work. Can’t talk about your personal life. Why did you even ask me out?” The amused mockery in his tone almost brought a smile to my lips. Instead, I rolled my eyes.

“Still didn’t ask you out, Elliot.”

“This is so confusing.” His laugh was careless and genuine and I . . . didn’t hate it. Not as much as I hated him, anyway.

Or the way his hand found the small of my back again, guiding me across a street without a traffic light or crossing point. I was sure my breath hitching got lost under the noise of the city and the words “Hanging out with a girl who doesn’t want you is confusing?”

“Very.” He nodded vehemently, laughed again. I still tried very hard to hate the sound of it. “But I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

“Unbelievable.” That’s definitely what was happening. “It might be shocking, but not every girl wants you, Elliot. Some of them just work with you.”

Shaking his touch off, I walked faster. Only to feel his hand around my wrist a second later. Pulling me closer, around a corner I would’ve otherwise walked past. The look he gave me clearly read, What on earth are you doing?

Probably because I’d been ready to stomp off into downtown Manhattan without a clue in the world where I was going—just to prove a point to him. And I wasn’t exactly sure which one.

Back on track, his hands slipped into his pockets again. “No, you’re right.” I was grateful that he otherwise ignored my accidental attempt at escape. “Not every girl wants me. And, yes, some do just work with me.” A single glance in my direction, and he probably noticed I was deliberately not meeting it. “Rachel, Hana, Camila. All just women I work with.” He pretended to think. “Bella, Maya . . .”

I groaned, and of course, when I did finally look at him, his dimples were on full display. To his list, I theatrically added, “Maeve.”

“Right.” Elliot nodded grandly. “If you say so.”

I did. And I would’ve said more if he hadn’t just led me into an intimidatingly beautiful hotel lobby. The golden plaque on one of the columns outside reading “Ashwood” wasn’t surprising. Why spend hundreds of dollars on drinks when you could just have them in the hotel bar your family owned?

He greeted the receptionist and bellboy and any other member of staff we passed like he’d known them for years—and he probably had. Inside the elevator, he pressed the button for the tenth floor, a tiny cocktail glass beside it.

It dawned on me when I was staring at our reflection for the first time. Of him in his suit, next to me in a button-up and boot-cut jeans. When I’d left for work this morning, my hair was in a sleek ponytail I’d honestly been proud of. But between then and now was a ten-hour workday full of stress that had me abandon said ponytail for the sake of comfort. Back in the archives, I’d thrown my hair in a bun using one of my pencils, and this was the first time I was seeing the result.

Messy. Casual.

Too casual for the high ceiling of the lobby, the chandelier hanging from it, and this elevator. The light it reflected and the way it made me look.

“What?” he asked suspiciously, watching me step closer to the mirror.

“I don’t look like I should be here.” I was way too busy taking the pencil out of my hair to worry about the honesty in my words. Or the fact that his gaze slowly slid down my reflection in confirmation.

Hair falling down my back again, I flattened it against my head in one (useless) gesture and moved on to my shirt. We passed the sixth floor.

I undid the top buttons, trying to make it look less business and more casual, noticing how Elliot’s eyes zeroed in on that too. He cleared his throat before his attention snapped to the opening doors of the elevator. “No one will care what you’re wearing, Maeve. You’re with me.”

A fact spoken by a man whose every move had been dissected by the media since he was old enough to walk. For years, every word of his turned into a twisted headline for more clicks.

Seeing as I was about to use that to my advantage, I tried not to feel bad for him as I stepped out of the elevator. Easy enough.

My eyes drew away from his shoes. “You’re not necessarily dressed to perfection either.” But the dig fell a little flat. I barely whispered it into the space around us, too focused on everything else.

Towering shelves carved into concrete walls displaying bottles as if they were luxury items in a store. Each one was backlit with golden light and separated by columns that blended into the wall. The chandelier, at least my size, hung high and caught the dim light, sparkling just right. The bar beneath it curved along one side of the room like a river, polished surface reflecting the light. Black leather stools were neatly lined up below.

Definitely the kind of place you wore a long, tight dress to—or, at least, more than pants and a shirt straight from work. My hair should’ve been in an updo of some sort, not just falling down my back.

In my head, Mom was disapprovingly shaking her head. Your outfit will always be the first thing people notice.

Luckily, the first thing people noticed tonight was the Ashwood next to me. I was still blinking away my awe when he led me to a high table in a corner, with seats made of the same black leather and a table of the same polished stone as the bar. He grabbed a stool while I slid into the bench opposite him.