A walking tabloid headline waiting to happen.
He fights too much, flirts too much, and probably fucks too much, for all I know.
And I’m personally familiar with the kind of PR nightmare he can be. According to his narrative, I supposedly cost him a few hundred thousand during his last contract negotiations by wrapping up my client’s raise first. The team hit their cap, and Adler’s raise was sidelined. So what did this dick do? He turned me into the headline.
The headline of him calling me an ice queen flashes in my mind, followed quickly by the clip of him calling me a bitch. For the love of God, why can’t men be more original than bitch? There are so many more exciting ways to say you don’t like a woman. Bitch is so cliché.
That stupidly sexy grin grows. Again. “You’re looking at Mulland Exeter’s newest clients.”
Son of a bitch.
No. I had not heard that.
Again, not telling him that though.
Instead, my eyes scan the floor for our waitress, who thankfully just walked up. Swallowing half my martini in one sip, I square my shoulders and look at Rafe first. “Congratulations. We’re the best.”
Rafe nods. “That’s what Pete guaranteed us.”
“Peter . . .” And the hits just keep coming.
“What’s wrong, Olive? Hadn’t heard the news?” Logan challenges, an annoyingly condescending tone to his voice.
“My name is Olivia.” I hiss the words through clenched teeth.
The dealer slides cards across the table as I bite down on a stuffed olive.
“Yeah. I know.”
I choke. This fucker.
“It’s hard to forget the woman who cost you your new contract.” He throws down a chip.
“I didn’t cost you shit, Adler. It’s not my fault your agent blew it.” I look at my cards. A queen and a six.
Logan leans in, his hot breath fanning the side of my face. He smells like vanilla and bourbon with a hint of cigar lingering. “Hit it.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap but tap the table anyway.
The dealer slides over a five.
Twenty-one.
“Look at you go, Liv,” Serena cheers, tapping her glass to mine as Logan smirks... the entitled ass.
“You should trust me more often,” he stage-whispers.
“I’d rather walk through broken glass.” Dramatic—yes, but also true.
“Could be hot,” he murmurs, and it actually pains me not to throw my elbow into his stomach like I’d have done had my brother or one of my cousins pissed me off this badly.
We go back and forth like this for a few more hands, settling firmly into our roles. Enemies. Even if we never were until he shaped the damn narrative. But Serena is smiling at whatever jokes Rafe’s cracking beside her, and my cousin hasn’t smiled much in the past few weeks, so I keep my ass planted right where it is. I can take one for the team if it means she relaxes for a night.
I laugh at myself. Not like I’d actually takeone... not this one... not to bed... Sweet Jesus. Even my inner monologue is a traitorous bitch.
“What’s so funny?” Logan asks as he swaps out his now empty glass for another full one.
“Nothing. It’s just been a day, I guess,” I admit. No clue why I tell him that. I’m blaming exhaustion and aggravation.
