Page 117 of Ruled By Rivalry

Camila snorted despite herself. Until now, it seemed she’d sworn she wouldn’t as much as smile in Elliot’s presence. “How did I not see this?” Our faces puzzled, but she went on. “You’re sleeping with each other! Oh my God. Of course you are. Put two good-looking twentysomethings in a room, and what do you think’s gonna happen? Look at Oliver and me.”

Everyone, down to Project Management, ahhhhhed in understanding. So loudly, the next table over shushed us.

“It has more to do with the fact Maeve is much more talented, much more ambitious, and actually wants to work with you—” Only the way I kicked his shin below the table got him to shut up.

Too thick, I mouthed in his direction, then interlaced our hands on his lap in silent apology. He was laying it on way too thickly.

“Wow.” An ironic whistle from Camila. “If you hadn’t insulted my life’s work to the entire world, I might actually believe you’re a decent guy, Elliot.”

Even if it made for some uncomfortable situations, I loved that she had no filter. Loved that she simply addressed another elephant at the table instead of dancing around it. It reminded me so much of Mom.

“I’m sorry about that. I don’t know if I ever said that—”

“You didn’t,” Camila, Oliver, and Gabriel deadpanned in unison.

“I was young and stupid and out of touch.” Everyone at the table gave him a look that seemed to imply he still was. But he must’ve done a lot of growing to be able to admit to all of this. “Drunk, too. It was never about your work or its quality. Always just about hurting him. I don’t even know what happened that particular time anymore. It didn’t even make sense, really. I always wear Ashwood. I’m wearing it right now.” And he looked good as hell in Gabriel’s design. “I make Maeve wear it, and she looks beautiful in every single one of your pieces, Camila.”

A loud sigh.

I couldn’t believe I was at the Ashwood Annual, unconcerned with the show and much more interested in . . . my coworkers making up, or whatever was happening around me.

Camila sat a little straighter. “Multiple times, I told Maeve not to trust you. I told her you’d do anything to ruin her chances, and she needs to be quicker in ruining yours.”

“Oh, she certainly tried.” Glance in my direction that I avoided like the plague.

“And she stopped when . . . ?” Unfortunately, avoiding his gaze meant I caught Camila’s right away. Curiously, she raised her brows.

“I don’t know.” When did I stop trying to sabotage him? “When we started working on the Annual looks together, maybe?”

Her eyes shifted back to Elliot. “And when did you—?”

“The second I saw who spilled coffee on my shirt.”

Music. Comedians. A speech from no other than Hunter Ashwood, looking visibly irritated. I wondered whether that was his grandson’s fault. I wondered if said grandson had that same worry—and if it was the reason he dragged me back into our ballroom-sized library, still not open for guests. Why he kissed me against the closed door, then a shelf, and why I was sitting on a rolling ladder as he stood between my legs.

For distraction.

“You’re going to have to talk to him eventually—” I tried to say between one kiss and the next, but he shook his head before I’d even finished the sentence.

“Not if I have something to say about it. Let’s not talk about him,” he pleaded. A fair enough request, judging by the way he was pressing against my thigh and the urgency in his kisses.

Elliot groaned against my mouth. “There are some unproductive days ahead of us, Maeve. I don’t know if I can let you go to work tomorrow when a single look at you gets me going this hard.”

I giggled into his hair, threw my head back when his lips moved to my neck. “You look so—”

His ringtone interrupted a skin-heating compliment. I saw in his eyes that he was tempted to ignore the call. “I really don’t want to answer,” he said, but shuffled out from between my legs anyway. “But calls only come through on the fifth try, so it’s probably—Rowen,” he said by way of greeting, not sounding pleased about his brother’s interruption.

I wasn’t either, but the bits and pieces I picked up through the speaker were the real problem.

Hunter. Way to you. Any minute.

The door opened. Urgency but no hurry in the way it swung open. Irritation but no anger on Hunter Ashwood’s face when he spotted his grandson, then the girl he almost banged on a ladder in a library. That’s what it must’ve looked like.

That’s what would’ve happened, too.

Which almost made it worse. The stoic gaze, the glued-into-place frown. Those icy-blue eyes that seemed to see through my soul two months ago still had the same ability. I actually shuddered in place.

“Bit too late,” Elliot muttered into the phone, then hung up and let it slip into his pocket. To his grandfather, he said, “Not here. Not now. Please.”