Page 57 of Ruled By Rivalry

Apparently, all I needed to get used to the feel of Elliot’s lips on mine was another five minutes of them there. That had been enough to consider letting him do whatever to me on a conference table—when I had no experience in whatever, and I should probably start whatevering in a bed. At the very least, on something with cushioning.

And probably with a person who wasn’t . . . trying to steal my job?

I groaned into our empty apartment, clutching the first failed design attempt against my chest when I let myself fall into bed. The bedding almost matched the dress in color and, judging by Oliver’s assessment, in quality, too. I could’ve probably tied a sheet around that mannequin, and he would’ve liked it more.

Because it would’ve been something new and bold and daring.

But that hadn’t been the assignment. And Camila had nodded off on the design.

Another groan as I sat up. At least Allegra was gone, and it didn’t seem like anyone had snooped through my room either, which was a small—and very much needed—relief after the day I’d had.

My underwear was in the drawer, still coordinated by color and material. My sketchbook was still neatly lined up with the desk. The only imprint on my bed was from my own ass. I went to hang Daphne’s would-be outfit onto the back of my door, but the space was occupied.

By a dress I didn’t recognize.

Wait.

In three long strides, I held the unfamiliar fabric between my fingers.

Silky smooth satin. A black that looked almost midnight blue if the light hit it right.

This couldn’t be Allegra’s doing, though. No way she’d leave something this nice for me. She’d always been pleasant, but it was obvious the woman couldn’t stand me. Her smiles were too wide, she always seemed a little too surprised to see me, and well, she was obviously still in love with Elliot. The guy she knew I lived with.

The guy who, somehow, must’ve left this here. For me. The little note tucked between the hanger and strap of the dress confirmed it.

Tonight’s black tie. Didn’t need you to worry about an outfit again. Pick you up at 8. —E

And, like he couldn’t help himself, a winky face was scribbled on the corner of the paper.

His handwriting was as messy as I’d expected it. T’s blended into I’s, and the ink smeared halfway across the paper. I didn’t want to know what his palm must’ve looked like afterward.

But between kisses and almost-whatevers in empty meeting rooms, when did he have the time to pick up dresses and leave handwritten notes behind? He’d said he needed to get some stuff done before the fundraiser tonight, but it couldn’t possibly have been . . . this?

I didn’t notice at first. That I was smiling so hard my cheeks began to hurt, and the corners of my mouth strained. Five minutes must’ve passed, during which I absentmindedly stroked the fabric of his dress, rereading that note. Over and over again.

Thin straps, a square neckline, a tailored bodice, and a skirt that gently flared out from the waist. I’d recognize Camila Rodriguez’s craftsmanship anywhere. Without checking the tag, I knew it would say Adeline Ashwood. I also knew it had to be from one of Camila’s earlier collections, back when she was still playing it safe. But the way that skirt moved so fluidly was uncanny.

An Adeline Ashwood. Aside from that kind of tacky T-shirt Mom found at a thrift store years before she’d died, I’d never felt one of their designs on my body. And this one hugged my waist and accented every single part of me perfectly.

Mom would probably cry.

Every time I passed by my reflection, I had to do a double take.

I straightened my hair again, put on Mimi’s pearls—necklace and earrings she wouldn’t let me leave home without—and at three minutes past eight, there was a knock on the door.

My stomach, already quite tumultuous, did a 180 at the implication. Of Elliot Ashwood here to pick me up.

“You know you have a key, right?” I shouted from the other side of the apartment, trying to calm my nerves by reminding us both that he was my roommate. I briefly considered wearing the heels he’d gotten me, but I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, nor did I want to risk breaking my ankles in front of a bunch of rich people. I slipped into a pair of black kitten heels and pulled the door open.

I’d been grinning for the past two hours, so I didn’t blame my smile on seeing him leaning against the railing of the stairway, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed. He’d redone his hair in what I’d lovingly dubbed the Steven Stewart style. The top buttons of his black shirt were open, in defiance of the crisp formality of his suit. At least he wasn’t wearing sneakers.

I wasn’t grinning like an idiot because of what he said, either. “Just wanted to do this correctly.”

“This?”

Elliot huffed. “Right. I’m not taking you out,” he remembered. “Doing it right as in . . . the way fundraiser and gala nights usually go for me. I’m expected to bring a date, which means I’m expected to pick her up.” He raised his brows like he’d just made a very compelling point. And I didn’t have it in me to disagree. “Just another thing on my long list of hard duties.”

I faked a pout, patted his shoulder in what should’ve been a teasing gesture. But instead, the scorching touch seemed to surprise us both. I took a step back, just to make sure I wasn’t three seconds away from jumping him again. Steer away from that—and fast. “You get all your dates Ashwood dresses every time, too?”