Page 29 of Ruled By Rivalry

“Sorry,” I breathed. I didn’t need to be louder because he was right there. And I didn’t want to make apologizing to him a habit, anyway.

“For using my room as a walk-in closet?” he asked, and his lips quirked. “Or for cursing me with the knowledge of what’s below those perfectly curated outfits of yours for the rest of my fucking life?”

Bingo.

There was the swearing again. The reminder that he was drunk, that he didn’t mean what he was saying, that he probably (hopefully) wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow. That we’d wake up, back to reluctant colleagues who’d never experienced the exact tension I’d been running away from my entire life.

I was tired. He was drunk. We both weren’t being ourselves, which made the step I took toward him more defensible. In my head, it clearly meant Could you let me through? But his pupils dilated, and his eyes widened for a second, and only then did I realize that my assumption was off.

Taking a step toward a good-looking man in dim lighting usually didn’t mean I want to leave. It usually just meant I want you.

In the way I’d told him a thousand times that I didn’t.

I didn’t answer his hypothetical question, just whispered, “Sorry.”

“What for this time?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” I prefaced.

“And I’m—tipsy.”

I suppressed my smile. “Sorry for the room. Sorry for the underwear—”

“Definitely don’t apologize for that.”

“Sorry for . . . getting closer. I shouldn’t have done that.” But I didn’t take a step back. Watched his lips curl, his tongue flick across them, and him, not moving away either. My lack of sleep was making me delirious, I think. I couldn’t explain what was happening any other way.

He shook his head. “I’m the one not letting you leave, so I should be sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Something in the pit of my stomach flared, sent heat up my spine, all the way into my cheeks. If possible, the room shrank further. Nothing between us but the bundle of clothes still in my arms.

Time passed. I didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t seem in a hurry to say anything else at all. With every second of silence, the room got hotter, my skin clammier, and the olive-green lace panties on top of the pile in my arms more obvious.

To his credit, he hadn’t glanced at them once.

Elliot sighed, crossed his arms, and leaned his shoulder against the wall. He made a decision, right then and there. “We should sleep, right?” he murmured. “It’s way past your bedtime, and nothing good happens after midnight, anyway.”

Whether the suggestion was for his sake or my own, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that it snapped me out of whatever fatigue-induced trance I’d been in—where I’d been playing with the possibility of kissing Elliot Ashwood, even if just for a second—and catapulted me out of the room.

“Sorry,” I said again, then felt incredibly stupid for it. “I’ll get the rest of my stuff tomorrow.” Because there was no way I’d step another foot in his vicinity when it was dark and late and neither of us was in a state known for critical thinking skills.

Tired and drunk, that’s all we’d been. I kept repeating the words until they lulled me into a short, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 11

Elliot would still be asleep when I got up at six. By the time I got back from my run, he’d be in the shower, and by the time I’d showered, he’d be in that familiar pants-shirt combo I’d come to know, having a protein smoothie in the kitchen.

Within the week, it had become an accidental routine; dancing around each other until it was time to get to work.

I’d try to leave the apartment unnoticed, just to get a head start to the office. So far, though, I hadn’t been successful—Elliot always noticed and insisted on walking with me.

Most evenings, he wouldn’t come straight back home. He’d have a thing, meet a friend, go to the gym, and make sure, with everything that he was, to remind me of my lack of a social life. While he was out having fun, I was working. Picking up his slack, and whatever tasks he deemed himself above, apparently.

My Sunday was supposed to look the same. He’d left for a “luncheon” (who the fuck called it luncheon?) at noon, and I didn’t think he’d come back until I was already asleep. Thought I’d have my peace with an overpriced drink at the coffee shop by the office.