Page 413 of Ruthless Court

I blink.

“Laundry?”

“What do you have that I don’t?”

There it is.

Not sadness.

Not confusion.

Venom.

I shift the towels higher.

“Krista.”

“No. Seriously.”

She steps closer.

“What is it?”

I say nothing.

“I’m faster.”

This is a strange opening argument.

“Agreed.”

“I'm more athletic.”

“Also agreed.”

“People know who I am.”

“I know who you are.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do.

That is the problem.

She looks at my oversized Stanford sweatshirt, worn jeans, and glasses.

Then laughs once.

“You don’t even try.”

There’s so much bitterness in it that I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

“Kane never asked me to compete with you.”

Her expression hardens.