Page 87 of Ruled By Rivalry

“Don’t,” he snapped, but rolled his hips against mine anyway. “Don’t you dare say it. I can’t. I shouldn’t. I really don’t want you to regret this.”

“I won’t.” I was so convinced that his denial physically hurt.

“You don’t know that. Not when in a few weeks, you might hate me. You might never want to speak to me again. If we do this—” He shook his head, and I felt it against my chest. “I can’t have you regret it.”

Deep down, I knew what he was saying made sense. It was thoughtful of him to prioritize my feelings above all else. But my newly discovered urges (apparently quite selfish) didn’t appreciate the gesture.

“In case you win.” That sobered me, though. The possibility came back to me. Of him, taking everything I’d ever worked for when he didn’t even really want it. He’d said so himself.

It finally forced me to scramble out from under him, ignoring whatever flickered behind his eyes. Grabbing my sketchbook from the small desk by the even smaller window, he threw it toward me. It landed by my feet with a thud. A harsh reminder of what my priorities should be.

“Even then.” I flicked through the pages, but I could barely breathe, never mind concentrate enough on what I was looking at. “I won’t hate you.”

I said it to prove a point, not because I thought it was true. I might very well hate him, even if my heart didn’t think it was a possibility. Somewhere deep down, I knew he was right.

“You’ll strongly dislike me,” he amended.

“Very strongly.”

The joke fell flat. I knew because Elliot’s lips didn’t even twitch, and that was usually the bare minimum. Incredible, the way we could go from sexual tension deluxe to awkward silence in the span of three minutes. Our ability should be studied.

If I hated him—the way that I should—it wouldn’t send a sharp pang of something through my chest. I wouldn’t jump off my bed for literally anything else to do. “I need some fresh air,” I said, unsure. “I think.”

And I wouldn’t be relieved when he said, “It’s the middle of the night. Let me come with you.”

A suggestion, but not really.

“Okay.”

Chapter 33

It didn’t feel like the middle of the night, but what could I have expected from the city that never slept?

The lights in Wall Street’s towers were still burning brightly. Restaurants and bars were still serving customers, and Midtown’s skyscrapers illuminated the night sky more than the stars ever could.

Still, it felt like we were the only two people walking through SoHo on a Monday night, if you ignored the couple ten feet ahead of us doing the same thing.

Only that they were holding hands, laughing, and talking, while the only thing we’d said to each other so far was Elliot asking “You hungry?” and my timid response of “Sure.”

We were both stuck in our own heads. Mine was a battlefield: work versus Elliot. I held my sketchbook tighter against my chest as he opened the door to a diner for us with the words “Don’t ever tell anyone I come here.”

And finally, the air between us lightened. “Because it’s not a Michelin-star restaurant?”

“Precisely.”

I didn’t expect the middle-aged waitress with dyed-red hair to greet him by name, very nearly pinch his cheeks in excitement, and ask, “The usual?”

“Thank you, Mary. Yes, and a menu.”

Mary’s eyes wandered over, not so subtly scanning me from head to toe before her brows rose. I couldn’t identify what it meant. Was she impressed? Disappointed? Embarrassed for me because he brought girls here all the time?

I wondered how often Allegra had sat at the exact table she was leading us to, then hated that I was thinking of her in the first place.

Mary gestured to a booth in the far corner, its red leather worn and faded, and I slid into it opposite of Elliot. My sketchbook landed on the wooden table between us, right next to my menu. “Quite a leap from the places you usually frequent,” I noted, looking around.

Red-and-white checkered floor, long bar in the middle, booths and tables winding around the U-shaped counter. Ancient-looking lights hung from the ceiling, dipping the diner and its few occupants in a yellow glow.

“It’s certainly no Ashwood Hotel bar,” Elliot agreed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me curiously as I studied the menu. “Sometimes, when I don’t want to feel like Elliot Ashwood, I come here. Mary either hasn’t caught on or just couldn’t give less of a shit who she serves her awful coffee and greasy pancakes to. It feels nice, you know? To be yelled at for not finishing my plate and argue over whether or not she’s going to accept the 50 percent tip.”