Page 41 of Ruled By Rivalry

The corner of her lip curled, and her smile no longer seemed nice when she toasted, “To Ashwood.”

After the first course, Rowen went up to the small podium the piano stood on and welcomed their guests. I didn’t dare question whether that speech was supposed to happen before we’d started eating and we’d been that late or if this had been the plan all along.

He thanked everyone for coming, discussed the process of transforming an old bank building into the restaurant where we were sitting, and explained how this space was intended to feel. Private and intimate, despite the tables around you.

They must’ve succeeded, because that’s exactly what it had been like with Elliot.

A space where New York City’s elite could wine and dine without the hassle of fans and paparazzi and whatever else they had to deal with. Not that I would know.

The second course was so small and fancy, I didn’t know what I was eating even when I’d swallowed the first bite, and it catapulted me into a new dimension. A spiritual awakening for my taste buds.

Halfway through the third course, Elliot nudged my shoulder with his and whispered, “We’re eating fish.”

The full fork hovered halfway to my mouth. “And?”

“You’re not using the fish fork.” My face must’ve expressed what I was thinking—What the fuck are you talking about?—because Elliot went on. “See how this one’s smaller, with wider tines?” He pointed at the fork still next to my plate, then to the one next to his; indeed, there was a difference between them. “And this one’s more sturdy, with longer tines?”

“That’s ridiculous,” I muttered, but everyone else at the table, I realized, was actually using the right fork. As inconspicuously as I could, I lowered mine. Scraped the food already on it back to my plate and placed it on the napkin beside it again. “Or not. I guess.”

I should’ve noticed that. In any other circumstance, I would’ve noticed. But not when I’d been so focused on my conversation with Daphne. Or the fact Elliot’s thigh still pressed against mine.

He shrugged, dimples on full display beside me. “Happens to the best of us.”

And for someone intent on using the right fork, he didn’t seem to mind talking with his mouth full.

Chapter 17

“Is it weird to take our leftovers home?”

“We’re starving interns, Maeve. We’ll take what we can get.”

Which was how we’d ended up back home, stuffing leftover gourmet meals into my Tupperware meant for meal prepping.

“He wouldn’t really let you starve, would he?” I asked. Maybe because with my face still hidden in the cool depths of our fridge, I could avoid having this conversation with eye contact.

“Who? Hunter?”

I nodded, realized he couldn’t see. “Yeah, your grandfather.”

His amused huff filled the otherwise quiet kitchen. “God knows the lengths that man would go to in order to teach me a lesson.”

I dared a glance out of the fridge to figure how serious he was. Judging by the absentminded frown on his lips, very.

I took another moment to prepare myself (for rejection or the truth) before asking the question I really wanted answers to. “What happened? In that meeting before you moved in?”

His eyes finally—unfortunately—flicked to me, still crouching in front of the fridge. Almost level with parts of him I shouldn’t even think about. Elliot Ashwood was supposed to be a Ken doll; no genitals in sight and no time wasted thinking about what he could do with them.

I shot to my feet, if only to further avoid those thoughts, and it brought a smile to his lips. Amused, teasing. “Hold on—it’s no longer ‘What did I do?’ but ‘What happened?’” He gasped. “And you’re calling it a move-in, not a break-in!”

Just like that, my base-level annoyance was back. It announced itself with a loud, unapologetic groan. “You know what? Never mind.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He shook his head playfully, and then . . . actually answered my question. “Not much happened, per se.”

I froze, scared any small reaction might make him realize that opening up to his biggest competition at work wasn’t a good idea. Even the fridge stayed open—I wasn’t taking any chances, and it was the only light in the room.

“He showed me the photos, read that Goss article out loud, then wondered if I had, and I quote, lost my damn mind.” I had to exhale or I might pass out, and to my surprise, he kept going. “‘This is the exact thing that got you into your position in the first place,’ he said, and if he were talking about nosy paparazzi who’ve lost all sense of integrity, he’d be correct.”

Paparazzi that I’d called. Did that mean I’d lost all sense of my integrity, too?