Chapter 7
Elliot was still there, sending another wave of dread through me. If he didn’t stand to lose billions, he’d probably be home by now. Or at some cool club, cutting the line. Taking a weekend to vacation on an island I’d never heard of.
The blood in my veins was humming, and the noise in my head wouldn’t quiet. Every second that passed made it more obvious how fucked I was.
Through the glass, I observed him. Hand on his computer’s trackpad, scrolling through something that cast a sharp light on his features.
He was squinting at the screen, so captivated by what he was reading that he didn’t react when I pushed the door to Oliver’s office open.
Of course, the head designer was long gone by then.
The only reason Elliot hadn’t left with him was probably so the security guy could say Elliot was the last to leave the office yesterday with an impressed look on his face, not once mentioning that I’d been the last to leave every day before that.
I wouldn’t be surprised if whatever Elliot was looking at had nothing to do with the work we’d been ordered to do.
Don’t be afraid to play dirty—he certainly won’t be.
I had a plan, and I was willing to see it through. I hadn’t had much time to come up with it—the walk from the archives to the offices wasn’t long—and sure, most of it was out of my control beyond a certain point. But he’d given me the idea for it himself.
The paparazzi who couldn’t wait to get a scandalous shot of me in the weeks following it. They ruin lives, Maeve.
Maybe they’d ruin his shot at Adeline Ashwood too.
Without a word of warning, I announced my presence: “Let’s get those drinks now.”
But Elliot didn’t startle, which made some of my confidence waver. Was I that predictable?
He couldn’t have possibly known I finally decided to take matters into my own hands on a random Monday night.
Still, his eyes trailed to me like there was nothing more natural—and predictable—than Maeve Peterson in his doorway, asking to get drinks.
That’s how he got up too. Casually closing his laptop, smirking ever so slightly.
With every second of silence, my heartbeat picked up a little. If only because Elliot Ashwood was the most unpredictable person I’d ever met, and I’d never been a fan of unpredictability. I liked knowing what people were going to say before they said it. I liked anticipating reactions correctly.
He looked at me like he could see right through me now, and it only cemented my decision. Hurt his chances before he hurts yours.
“I’d ask if your day was that bad,” he finally said, and I didn’t mean to exhale in some form of relief.
Shrugging into his suit jacket, completing the casual billionaire heir vibe I’d gotten used to—button-up, tailored pants, and those ridiculous sneakers—his brows rose.
“But I’m sure you won’t tell me either way. We’re rivals after all.”
I didn’t like how lightly he took the matter—mocking, laughing, holding the door that had closed behind me open until I slipped back out into the hall. He wasn’t worried about me in the slightest; he saw no threat in my invitation.
Elliot Ashwood was convinced he’d win one way or another. Most likely because he had no idea how determined I was. The lengths I’d go to.
“Although I’m not sure how normal it is for one rival to take the other out for drinks,” he added with one last glance into the office.
Oliver’s studio was the exact opposite of his wife’s. No clutter, folders neatly sorted into an alphabetized shelf. His first design, a corseted dress shirt, hung in a frame on the wall.
Heading down the hall, I snickered. “You’re not taking me out.”
“No?” I could hear the smile, see the dimples, but didn’t turn to confirm. “What, then? Are you taking me out?”
“No one’s taking anyone out.” Unless we were talking about the other kind. “We’re getting drinks. To . . . get to know each other better.”
“Oh.” He hummed in amused consideration, passing me to call the elevator.
“I just thought that if I’m choosing the bar, and I’m taking you there.
I’m paying and walking you home after . .
.” He trailed off, letting his words linger.
I knew the point he was trying to make and blatantly ignored it until he said, “It just seems like I’m taking you out. ”
The doors of the elevator slid open, and with an innocent shrug, he gestured for me to get inside.
“Nope.” I didn’t dare a glance at our reflection in the mirror. He felt so close, I didn’t need to see it, too. “Not taking me out.”
His hands had disappeared in the pockets of his pants, Ashwood shirt casually tucked into them, and his hair was a little messier than usual.
No longer purposefully styled, but a product of his hand running through it one too many times.
Elliot’s brows lifted, and something in my stomach fizzled in reaction.
Nerves, probably. About what I was about to attempt. I only realized I’d held my breath when the doors opened back up and I fled into the lobby. A deep breath later, I shook my head again. “We’re getting drinks,” I repeated. “As coworkers. Co-interns, you could say.”
He snorted in amusement, getting through the gate and catching up to walk beside me.
Security opened the door for him without making eye contact, probably just happy the pathetically determined interns hanging around the office until nine were finally leaving, and with everyone out of the building, he could lock up and relax a little.
“Thanks,” Elliot said in passing, just as I slipped out behind him.
He slowed his steps to match my pace just as I was about to speed up. “Getting drinks,” he repeated. “Alright. If that’s what you want to call it.” There was still an edge of amusement in his tone before he added, “You don’t get taken out much, do you?”
Which I should definitely take offense to. “Excuse me?”
“If you don’t know the signs, I assume it doesn’t happen much.”
“You’re accusing me of not going on dates much?” My words didn’t line up with the way his gaze casually skipped through the busy streets of SoHo or the way his hand placed itself on my lower back, steering me out of the way of an oncoming horde of tourists.
“Not an accusation,” he said, hand falling away after they’d passed. That featherlight touch hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds, but I could still feel it lingering. Like it had seared itself into my skin and left a mark. “There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
Touché.
“No, but—” I cut myself off. “Why are we talking about my love life?”
Nonexistent, but still.
His sigh was exaggerated. “Can’t talk about work. Can’t talk about your personal life. Why did you even ask me out?” The amused mockery in his tone almost brought a smile to my lips. Instead, I rolled my eyes.
“Still didn’t ask you out, Elliot.”
“This is so confusing.” His laugh was careless and genuine and I . . . didn’t hate it. Not as much as I hated him, anyway.
Or the way his hand found the small of my back again, guiding me across a street without a traffic light or crossing point. I was sure my breath hitching got lost under the noise of the city and the words “Hanging out with a girl who doesn’t want you is confusing?”
“Very.” He nodded vehemently, laughed again. I still tried very hard to hate the sound of it. “But I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”
“Unbelievable.” That’s definitely what was happening. “It might be shocking, but not every girl wants you, Elliot. Some of them just work with you.”
Shaking his touch off, I walked faster. Only to feel his hand around my wrist a second later. Pulling me closer, around a corner I would’ve otherwise walked past. The look he gave me clearly read, What on earth are you doing?
Probably because I’d been ready to stomp off into downtown Manhattan without a clue in the world where I was going—just to prove a point to him. And I wasn’t exactly sure which one.
Back on track, his hands slipped into his pockets again.
“No, you’re right.” I was grateful that he otherwise ignored my accidental attempt at escape.
“Not every girl wants me. And, yes, some do just work with me.” A single glance in my direction, and he probably noticed I was deliberately not meeting it.
“Rachel, Hana, Camila. All just women I work with.” He pretended to think. “Bella, Maya . . .”
I groaned, and of course, when I did finally look at him, his dimples were on full display. To his list, I theatrically added, “Maeve.”
“Right.” Elliot nodded grandly. “If you say so.”
I did. And I would’ve said more if he hadn’t just led me into an intimidatingly beautiful hotel lobby. The golden plaque on one of the columns outside reading “Ashwood” wasn’t surprising. Why spend hundreds of dollars on drinks when you could just have them in the hotel bar your family owned?
He greeted the receptionist and bellboy and any other member of staff we passed like he’d known them for years—and he probably had. Inside the elevator, he pressed the button for the tenth floor, a tiny cocktail glass beside it.
It dawned on me when I was staring at our reflection for the first time.
Of him in his suit, next to me in a button-up and boot-cut jeans.
When I’d left for work this morning, my hair was in a sleek ponytail I’d honestly been proud of.
But between then and now was a ten-hour workday full of stress that had me abandon said ponytail for the sake of comfort.
Back in the archives, I’d thrown my hair in a bun using one of my pencils, and this was the first time I was seeing the result.
Messy. Casual.
Too casual for the high ceiling of the lobby, the chandelier hanging from it, and this elevator. The light it reflected and the way it made me look.
“What?” he asked suspiciously, watching me step closer to the mirror.
“I don’t look like I should be here.” I was way too busy taking the pencil out of my hair to worry about the honesty in my words. Or the fact that his gaze slowly slid down my reflection in confirmation.