Page 26 of Ruled By Rivalry

“I sent you an email. I’m not breaking in.” I went to wholeheartedly disagree with the statement—what else would he call entering an apartment without permission?—but Elliot gave me a look that kept my mouth shut. In a swift motion, he finally kicked the door behind him shut. Still holding my wrist, as if he didn’t feel entirely safe from my vase beating yet, a key dangled from his other hand.

Around the same keychain I’d gotten, with the number eleven and an Ashwood bow on it.

I didn’t mean to laugh. A dry, humorless sound. “No, seriously. Is this some sort of . . . I don’t know, Ashwood initiation thing—?” A bit late for that, but . . . the corners of my mouth fell.

I spotted the suitcase. Standing right behind him, by the door. “Wait.”

Elliot leaned against the wall, head tilted, clearly amused. “You certainly have a thing for unforgettable greetings.” His gaze swept down my frame, and I tried very hard to ignore that I was only wearing a lacy tank top and shorts, leaving little to the imagination. He was trying to do the same thing, and neither of us was doing a good job at it. His eyes darted back up to mine, then dropped down my body again. Three times he looked, before finally saying, “First the coffee. Now . . . this.”

The attack, I told myself. Not my very revealing sleeping attire.

I shook my head. Denial, not conviction. “They told me I’d be living by myself.”

“Change of plans.” Elliot pushed himself off the wall, finally let go of my wrist—leaving a tingling spot behind—and rolled his suitcase past me into the living room. “You just scored yourself the roommate of a lifetime.” Lights on, shoes off: He’d gotten comfortable on the couch before I’d even managed to follow him. “Make sure you say thanks the next time you see Hunter.”

Oh my God.

A twelve-hour day at work, the Ashwood Annual news, meeting Daphne and Ryan . . . I’d gotten home so tired and exhausted, I’d barely managed to finish my skin-care regimen. I’d been lucky enough to make it into bed at all, so his meeting with Hunter Ashwood had been the last thing on my mind.

But of course. My sabotage. The gossip headlines. A photo of Elliot and Allegra fleeing a club hand in hand.

Elliot wouldn’t just voluntarily move into a two-bedroom in SoHo unless he had no other choice. Unless it wasn’t his choice at all.

“The meeting with your grandfather,” I guessed.

“Perceptive one, aren’t you?”

I ignored the approval in his tone and what it was doing to me. I couldn’t be sure this whole mess was my fault yet, so I had to ask, “What did you do?”

“Hey.” His hands shot up in defense, leaning back into the cushions. “Why are you assuming I did anything at all?”

The look I gave him was one big Do you really have to ask? But my eyes fell down his frame anyway, and seeing him in anything other than those perfectly tailored button-ups caught me more off guard than I would’ve expected.

I shouldn’t be witnessing him this way; as Elliot Ashwood instead of just Intern Elliot I’d gotten to know at work.

“Call it a lucky guess,” I mused.

“Alright, Lucky.” His eyes rolled with a laugh, and he—

He sounded just like he had in that leaked video, and I only realized it now. “You’re drunk.”

It wasn’t the missing formal wear or product in his hair that made him seem different. Not the low light of the floor lamp or the fact that he was in my apartment at all. He was drunk, his guard was down, and he was a completely new person.

Elliot shook his head more vigorously than needed. “I’m not,” he said, then patted the spot beside him again, pairing the gesture with a look. I think it was the blue eyes, the creased brow, and the Please? in his gaze that made me comply. I placed the empty vase on the low table in front of us. “Just tipsy,” he corrected. “Can’t survive an Ashwood dinner without at least a bottle of wine. Trust me.”

“What happened?”

“Long story short: I fucked up, so I’m being punished.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I’m six fucking years old. It’s incredible how he can make any grown man feel like a fucking child.”

“You swear more when you’re drunk—tipsy, sorry,” I corrected. I wasn’t sure why I voiced that observation out loud.

“Because I’m pissed.” He sank deeper into the couch, hands washing over his face. “Because not only do I have to intern at my own fucking company now.” I didn’t point out that, technically, it’s not his just yet. “Not only will I have to take the subway, but I’ve been kicked out of my home. Living in a two-bedroom the size of Mom’s closet.”

“With me,” I offered unhelpfully.

Elliot waved it off. “That’s not the issue here. Are you listening to me?”

I thought I was. But then he said that I wasn’t the problem, and everything he’d said before kind of . . . vanished. The way his gaze subtly swept over me again contributed, probably.