Chapter 4
Elliot was slurring. Despite sitting on the edge of a pool, he kept swaying back and forth. His feet splashed around the water while Allegra, her head on his lap, giggled, then traced her finger down his arm—less toned back then.
I was looking at a version of Elliot Ashwood who hadn’t yet discovered the gym.
Tilting the phone for both of us to see, Paula and I nestled deeper into my couch just in time for his first words.
“Listen, guys,” Video-Elliot said theatrically. His arms opened widely and Allegra’s hand fell back to her stomach. “That’s why I’m here and not in Bumfuck Nowhere, Connecticut. I didn’t want to go to Yale because fuck Ashwood. Fuck everything we’ve built.”
The camera shook with laughter. Snickers and cackling filled the backyard, and it only seemed to fuel his next words: “I honestly wouldn’t touch anything coming out of Adeline Ashwood with a ten-foot pole.”
My best friend gasped, the video kept playing, but neither of us was really paying attention anymore. The most important—the most quoted and talked about—part was finished.
Fuck everything we’ve built. I honestly wouldn’t touch anything coming out of Adeline Ashwood with a ten-foot pole.
“And he’s interning for them now?!” Paula couldn’t believe it. Was already neck-deep in social media research, which is what she liked to call doomscrolling drama accounts. “Talk about a PR stunt.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“Can’t imagine he wants to be there.” She gave me a look, continuing to scroll without seeing what she was scrolling past. “Clearly, he’s not a fan of the family business. Why else would he work for it now, if not for publicity reasons?”
I hadn’t told her about the competition part of our temporary collegiality.
That would have meant admitting things weren’t going as perfectly as everyone had expected.
Elliot Ashwood was just the cherry on top of a sundae full of aggravated assault, embarrassment, and spilled coffees, none of which I wanted to acknowledge, let alone say out loud or to anyone else.
Paula mirrored my own sigh, letting her phone fall into her lap and her head back against the couch. “What’s he like, then?” she asked. “Except for incredibly hot.”
I snickered. “Not much else to it, really.”
“And you’re not even . . . considering it?”
“Considering what?”
“You know. Hooking up. Sleeping with him. Finally—”
“Nope.” My head shook as I sat straighter. “We work together.” And he’s trying to steal my job. She couldn’t know that part, but it still felt important enough to remind myself.
“People hook up with their coworkers all the time,” Paula argued.
“And how often does that work out?” I knew I’d got her when she shrunk back into the cushions, so I doubled down. “Hook up with your coworker once, and the next thing you know, you’re getting fired for an HR complaint.”
“But—”
“For having sex in a supply closet or scanning your ass on the printer. It’s risky—”
She officially gave up. “And you don’t do risks. I know. But come on, it’s Elliot Ashwood. And I’m trying really hard not to freak out about the fact you work with him now.”
I couldn’t help the laugh. “You’re not doing particularly well.”
“Elliot Ashwood, Maeve!” She must’ve thought that if she simply repeated his name often enough, reminded me of his pretty hair and prettier eyes one more time, I might change my mind. “Why aren’t you freaking out more?”
“He’s kind of a dick.” I shrugged. “Arrogant, selfish.”
“Maybe it comes with the money.” Paula tried not to smile and failed.
Every thought, every emotion, had always been displayed on her face, free for anyone to read and interpret.
It was probably why I felt so at ease with her now—after unexpected twists and turns and a bunch of people I couldn’t read at all, getting Paula felt just as comforting as her presence in general.
“I was about to ask if your boyfriend’s like that too. But I know the answer.”
“Used to be, at least.” She snickered. “Hey, I bet they know each other, don’t you think? Growing up rich in New York? Same high school, maybe? Did Ashwood ever work with the Pressleys?”
Oh my God.
Her words hit like lightning, and I felt stupid for not connecting those dots sooner. They must’ve known each other. At the very least, Henry should know someone who knew Elliot. Someone who must’ve known why—
“Probably,” I said. Eager, suddenly. “Do you think you could find out? Maybe Henry knows someone who knows something. About why Elliot is really—”
“Hello!” Paula interrupted with a gasp, and the look on her face told me there was no need to go on before she added, “I’m a journalist. You had me at, Do you think you could find out?”
Clearly, she was delighted. Ecstatic. I love doing soccer profiles, but I kind of miss the intrigue and mystery of journalism. The next second, she had Henry on the line, and my heart soared when he said, “Yeah, know the Ashwoods fairly well. Why?”
Knowing why Elliot was at Adeline Ashwood—why he was trying to steal my job and pretending like that’s not exactly what he was up to—was the first step to figuring him out and beating him at his own game. I’d told myself to be better.
And I was well on my way to being the best they’d ever had.