Page 10 of Ruled By Rivalry

“To be fair, Cami, someone showed up with a tinfoil hat last year. That’s not what we were thinking with the celestial theme either.” Gabriel Laurent was a gangly man and French to the core. After fifteen years in New York and just as long with Ashwood, he still sounded like he’d just stepped off a plane from Paris. The accent was so thick, I almost didn’t understand when he added, “So much for faith.”

“We’re not just going to disregard a good theme because you’re scared of what they might interpret it as. That’s not our job. Our job—”

“Is to dress our ambassadors in spectacular looks, which we’ll need a spectacular theme for. We all know elemental fashion is your thing.” Wind made her silk dresses look like they were breathing, and long veils she designed seemed like rippling waves. Of course Camila would be adamant on a nature-inspired theme. “You’ll have the upper hand with this one. We all know it.”

“As will you with fairies and gnomes.”

Oliver’s face was the color of an overripe tomato by now, and Camila seemed to love that. She sent me a look over her shoulder and paired it with a wink that said, I know exactly what I’m doing. He proved her right the second he said, “An enchanted theme is more than fairies—”

My notes were a mess; they were arguing so fast, I didn’t have time to worry about the quality of my handwriting when I jotted down: Whispers of the Arcane: not (!!!) fairies and gnomes!

Camila turned back to the table, a victorious smile on her lips. “And nature is more than just leaves, Oliver.”

Touché. She’d gotten him precisely where she wanted, unable to argue back without invalidating his own position.

Elliot and I stood by the wall, watching the carnage. This meeting was a vital part of deciding the creative direction of Adeline Ashwood for the coming year, so it was understandable that Camila, Oliver, and Gabriel were on edge. The annual theme was the focus of every collection after the gala, until a new theme was chosen a year later.

“Guys.” The project managers finally got a word in, and I recognized the black ponytail and rimmed glasses from the worst day of my life. She cleared her throat as Camila and Oliver glowered at each other from opposite sides of the table. “Let’s try to take a more productive approach here, alright?”

Silence.

She sighed. “We’ve narrowed it down to three themes: Whispers of the Arcane, The Spirit of Earth, and The New Romantics. I take it none of you love the modern spin on the romantic movement in the eighteenth century?” More silence. “Okay, cool. That was my idea. Moving on,” she muttered. “At the end of the day, Mr. Ashwood will have the last say, but we’ll need to narrow it down to two in order to get started on inspo designs.”

The other Mr. Ashwood leaned against the wall beside me lazily while I was determined not to let my back touch it. His hair was in between messy and styled in a way that invited you to run your fingers through it, while I’d spent twenty minutes just to get my headband to sit right.

Elliot didn’t have to try. Meanwhile, I had to double the trying to compensate for the fact that I was competing against someone who didn’t have to. I’d taken notes; he’d been texting. I glanced at his phone for barely a second to confirm I was right.

But his eyes met mine when I diverted my gaze. The corners of his lips quirked, and—

“I’m not staring,” I immediately clarified, my voice less than a whisper, barely audible at all as the discussion around the table continued.

Returning my attention to the meeting, I could still feel his eyes on me. Studying, assessing, and then moving his lips just a little too close to my ear to play it off. Like I was about to feel them against my skin if I breathed the wrong way.

So, I didn’t.

“If you weren’t staring,” he murmured, knowing exactly what he was doing, “then I’m not Elliot Ashwood.”

He straightened, finally focused back on the argument alive and well at the table and left me and my flushing face alone. It was probably the color of my hair by now—fiery red and ready to set me aflame.

While, sure, I’d had random party kisses with pretty girls and that make-out session with Carter Jackson in my senior year of high school, none of them came close to Elliot—in looks or any of the other qualifying traits.

I’d never had much time for the intricacies of complicated interpersonal relationships when I was so focused on reaching this point in my life. Graduated, internship, job (almost) lined up. Living with three girls who seemed to love nothing more than exactly those interpersonal relationships, all I’d ever seen was heartbreak and grief over guys who, most of the time, looked like my big toe.

I couldn’t afford distractions like that, so I’d always lived vicariously through their experiences—gave them advice, got angry on their behalf, swooned at the rare sweet gesture—and then went back to running or studying or working toward my future.

Not getting my heart broken by a guy with the communication skills of a rock seemed like a reward for all my hard work. I’d gladly pay that price over and over again to end up here.

Which meant I had no time for my body’s sudden desire to flush in Elliot’s vicinity or feel his pesky presence in every room he entered before I’d even spotted him. I focused back on the conversation at hand, and my cheeks went back to their normal color.

My notes now had a hole the size of Elliot in them, though.

“What about sustainability?” someone asked. Someone who sounded very similar to—

My head shot back to him. And indeed, Elliot’s lips were moving. There were words coming out of his mouth. “Reclaimed Reverie, or something like that.”

Why was he talking?

Personally, I thought when our gazes had crossed the second he walked into the room, we’d come to an unspoken agreement: Shut up and listen. Don’t draw more attention to ourselves than absolutely necessary.