Page 33 of Ruled By Rivalry

“Or once again, I’ll disappoint.”

I didn’t know why my first instinct was to defend him against . . . himself? “I’m sure you don’t—”

“No need to pretend you care. Or disagree. Or even want me to be here.” The tight smile on his lips when he turned his head looked wrong. Felt that way, too. “Sorry.” He shook his head again, snorted in faked amusement. “I shouldn’t have even said anything. We should head back, right?”

We should.

Just like I should have let that simple confession go too. But for the rest of the day, it lingered. I thought of it when I sat across from him in a meeting, when we both got afternoon coffee for our bosses, and when, a few hours later, he took me along to that interview; a late-night show appearance I was his plus-one to.

Every time I looked at him, I wondered what else hid behind his perfectly tailored facade, and if I’d ever get to find out.

Chapter 13

It never occurred to me that Elliot would have his own team. Assistant, stylist, PR manager. That he needed an additional three people working on his hair to make it look as effortlessly good as it always did on camera, or that he preferred to wear makeup for public appearances.

I’d been searching for flaws in him for weeks, but he’d had years to find them, and he wasted no time covering them up.

I’d also never considered Elliot could be a pacer. The red retro clock above the door of his dressing room counted down from five minutes, and he was pacing the length of it like he’d been born to do it. I watched from the small couch.

Shaking his head, he fidgeted with his fingers and raised his hands to—

“Don’t!” It slipped out as I jumped toward him, trying my best to keep him from messing up his perfectly messy hair. All I saw was that hour of work they’d put into those luscious locks.

He lowered his hands, so I lowered mine. But it didn’t change anything about the fact that I was standing in front of him now. I’d averted a crisis, yes, but at what cost?

Awkward eye contact and the feel of his amused huff against my cheek.

“It’s that good, huh?” he muttered. “If I’d known you like my hair like this—”

I shook my head. “They just put a lot of time into it.”

“—I would’ve started wearing it this way much earlier.”

Something in my chest fluttered. My neck craned to look up at him. “Really?” I asked, teasing him to distract from every other reaction I’d had. “You would’ve ordered your stylists to your house every morning, robbing you of an hour of precious sleep? For what?”

His lips curled. “For you to look at me this way.”

“I’m not looking at you any particular way.”

“Are you sure about that?” Elliot tilted his head, and something in his gaze made it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re standing here, after all,” he added.

“Because—”

“And you haven’t complained about my outfit either, which means you must like it.” Gray pants and a simple blue button-up that made his eyes look great. No need to admit that, though.

I shrugged, tried not to let his words affect me. “I’d close another button.”

Elliot’s smile bloomed, revealing dimples and a spark in his eyes. A glance at the clock behind him told me that we had another two minutes before he’d be on stage.

“Really?” His hands went to his buttons, playing with them as he raised a brow. “I was thinking of opening another one.”

And he did—only to annoy me.

“You can’t seriously mean that.” My eyes flicked from his to the silver bow on his necklace, more visible now. “That’s the sluttiest thing a man could do,” I deadpanned.

“Sex sells, Maeve Peterson.”

Another minute on the timer. Any second, there’d be a knock on the door and a production assistant ready to escort Elliot to the stage, where he’d sit for twenty minutes, smiling and apologizing for his mistakes. But how was anyone supposed to take him seriously with the top four buttons of his shirt wide open?