Chapter 32
I wasn’t proud to admit that in the following week, I saw Allegra more than my own best friend. Every obligation Elliot had, Allegra had, too. (Whatever happened to the agreed-upon one-week time frame for dragging me around? And why wasn’t I complaining about it? No comment.)
Dinner with politicians, a new Ashwood Hotel opening, brunch at the penthouse. Their social calendars must’ve looked identical, and I wasn’t sure how coincidental it was.
She hovered, was what I was trying to say.
Elliot kept giving her the benefit of the doubt, which would be sweet if I didn’t feel some sense of . . . jealousy whenever I saw them together. My brain wrongly identifying him as mine just because he’d kiss me into oblivion every night until I fell asleep.
He told me not to worry. Said she needed a friend. Suggested giving it a week. And Elliot was incredibly persuasive.
But it had been a week. And she was still here, in our living room, trying to convince Elliot to go clubbing on a Monday night again and very nearly succeeding. “Come on,” she whined. “You love it there!”
“You love it there.” He laughed, getting a sheepish shrug in return. His eyes flicked to me, sitting on the couch beside Allegra, for only a second. “But I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the last time we went out together, it made headlines.”
“We always did.”
“And I got kicked out of the penthouse.”
I tried not to feel too guilty about that.
“Less ideal,” she admitted. “But it cannot possibly get worse than this.”
Elliot laughed, assuming she meant the penthouse situation. I glared at her, knowing she meant me. Here. With him. As if to confirm, she sent me a sweet smile.
Completely oblivious, Elliot held an incoming call in our direction, getting up. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and it took everything in me not to scream, Don’t leave me alone with her. “Maeve and I have some more work to do, so I really can’t go out tonight. Next time, though. Promise.”
Another side-eye from Allegra. I’d been racking them up for weeks.
I didn’t mean to fall into the typical I-hate-his-ex cliché, and I don’t think that was exactly it. I wanted to like her, almost as much as I wanted her to like me. But that tension had been hanging between us almost as long as we’d known each other.
The look on her face told me that she was very keen on fulfilling that I-hate-every-girl-in-his-vicinity cliché, though. And she didn’t waste another second before she let me know.
Her eyes were still glued to her phone when she said, innocently, “I know what you’re doing.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t play dumb, Maeve. You’re determined; I’ll give you that.”
“What exactly are we talking about here?”
Allegra snickered, finally abandoning her phone to look at me. “You. Weaseling your way into his life for all the wrong reasons. I care about Elliot. I—” She swallowed her next words, almost choked on them. “Is it the money? The fame? He’s not the only way to get either, you know?”
I blinked at the woman beside me. Her perfectly straight hair tucked behind her ears, makeup subtle enough to barely register, enhancing her best features naturally. Her outfit looked suspiciously close to clubbing wear for someone who’d had the idea to go “spontaneously.”
“You’re being serious,” I figured.
“He’s Elliot Ashwood. Of course—!”
“Look, Allegra. I’m going to be honest here.
” I kept my voice low, just to make sure he wouldn’t overhear.
“I’m not fighting you over a guy. Have him, if you’d like.
” The suggestion made my insides clench, but it was the truth.
“He doesn’t even have any money right now. And I don’t want to be famous.”
She looked unconvinced. “Yet you’re walking around in Adeline Ashwood that cost more than you could ever afford.”
The shoes. The dress. Touché.
“I—” But she cut me off.
“And you shouldn’t be with him, then.” Her tone was sharp, words clipped. “Elliot is money, fame, influence. If you don’t want anything to do with that, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I didn’t choose to live with him.”
She rolled her eyes, which made sense, I guess. If she were in my shoes, she’d just move. Rent the next best luxury condo to get away from a roommate she didn’t want. I wasn’t even sure she comprehended how big of a privilege that was.
“If I’d known . . .” she mumbled, not meant for my ears. “I would’ve never—” But she cut herself off again, head shaking so vigorously I was scared she might hurt herself when she got up. I couldn’t say I wasn’t relieved at her departure, though. The anxiety in my stomach thanked her, at least.
On her way out, she almost ran into Elliot’s chest, and it might’ve been deliberate, too.
“Leaving?” he asked, but his eyes flicked to me behind her. I must’ve mistaken the look on his face for worry, like he was scared he might only find my unmoving, bloodied body in her wake.
One final time, Allegra tried her luck. “Unless you want to come with?”
Eyes back on her, he pressed his lips together tightly. “Next time,” he repeated, and a second later, she was out of our apartment.
“Sorry.” He stayed in the doorway, holding his phone up. Adding, in explanation, “Rowen.”
I should tell him. About Allegra. What she said. That I was right. Oh, and that a week had passed, and she was still here every day. Whether it was for distraction or just to spend more time with Elliot didn’t really matter after the conversation we’d just had.
But if I told him, would he believe me?
If it came to it, would he put the accusation of a near stranger he wanted to sleep with (me) over the word of a woman he’d trusted for years? A woman he’d loved pretty recently? If she cried and begged, told him I was crazy and just trying to come between them . . . why wouldn’t he believe it?
Allegra was the kind to do it, that much was obvious. She’d probably been hoping I’d tell him. From the door, he was trying to figure my silence out. “What is it?”
I couldn’t risk it. Not when a single look of his forced the corners of my lips upward. When it forced me out of my seat, all the way toward him, too.
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I’m tired.”
He poked the tip of my nose with a laugh, and the fuzzy feeling in my stomach turned from anxiety to excitement. “I wasn’t lying when I said we still have some work to do.”
“I know,” I cried. “And if you hadn’t said anything, I would’ve.” It just felt so nice, having someone else to push me. Not needing to find that motivation deep within myself, as I always had.
“I know,” he mirrored. Elliot looked at me, tucked a loose strand behind my ear, and caressed my cheek. Then, like someone flicked a switch, he threw me over his shoulder.
My squeal echoed through the small apartment, bounced off the walls of my room until, laughing, I found myself on top of my bed. Him, on top of me. Laughter dying out until it was nothing more than heavy breaths between us.
“We should—”
I held him by the collar. “We’ve got time, right?”
“Maeve Peterson,” he gasped, but let himself be pulled back on top of me. “I didn’t take you for the procrastinating type.”
I didn’t either. There was something about Elliot that made me throw reason out the window, though. The second he touched me, nothing in the world mattered more than his lips on mine and his hand between my thighs.
Not my job. Not my future.
Logically, I knew that wasn’t true. And yet I couldn’t deny the way my core tightened, my breath picked up, and my nipples perked. I’d dismissed my needs for so long that once I finally listened to them, it was hard to regain control.
I didn’t tell Elliot we should continue working on that Annual concept. I didn’t point to the sketchbook on my desk. I didn’t choose work over pleasure.
Instead, I said, “Let’s just . . . I don’t know.” My grasp tightened around his shirt. “Take five. Get to work after.”
“After.” He hummed playfully. “You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”
Apparently.
“I’d love nothing more.” And as if to prove it, he breathed a kiss to my lips. “But I don’t trust myself to stop when I should.”
“Because you shouldn’t.”
“And we really have to finish those first sketches tonight,” he rolled on. Another kiss on my cheek, then chin. Neck. “Okay, well, you have to finish them. I can’t draw.”
“Elliot.” Frustration and a million other things. “I couldn’t care less about that right now.”
And I never thought I’d hear those words out of my mouth, either.
My fingers unbuttoned his shirt. One after the other until I had a perfect view of chiseled abs and a glimpse of boxer briefs.
“Fuck. You don’t know what you do to me, Maeve.” And the way he tried to suppress his groan made it worth the missed work. His next words traveled straight between my legs. “I still fuck my hand every time I think about you a little too long. It’s becoming a bit of an inconvenience.”
“So fuck m—”
“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.”