Page 3 of Ruled By Rivalry

She blinked at me like she couldn’t quite believe I was here either. “To the left, straight ahead, left again.”

I nodded—vigorously—and didn’t even manage to say Thanks! before the door closed between us.

Left, straight, left again.

This time, the directions burned right into my brain. In five years, I’d still be able to recount them in my sleep. A trauma response, maybe. Something that would forever remind me of what my first meeting with Hunter Ashwood had been: a complete disaster.

I found the Roland name plaque exactly two minutes before nine, right where both the security guard and Rimmed Glasses had promised it’d be. The coffee vending machine in front of it was a sign, I think. A gift from the universe that said, Things will get better now.

They had to get better, starting with that coffee. The past thirty minutes hadn’t just shaved twenty years off my life, but the caffeine already in my system had immediately given way to panic and adrenaline and shame, leaving space for the next fix currently trickling into a to-go cup.

I was tired. I needed a minute to collect myself, preferably with a black coffee and some breathing exercises. Before Rachel could swoop me up into what would turn into . . . the best day of my life?

The coal-black liquid (that seemed to be complimentary, thank God) filled the cup to the rim, and I took a deep breath to mark a new beginning. The last thirty minutes hadn’t happened.

I’d walked into Adeline Ashwood without incident, immediately found my way, and had been so early, I still had time to get a coffee.

I took a long sip, and it washed the embarrassment straight out of my body. I was probably first-degree burning the inside of my throat, but the wake-up call was needed.

Stop fucking around, Maeve.

When I opened my eyes, I almost felt normal again. Like I could go in there and finally nail at least one of my first impressions of the day—never mind that it was the fourth one. Just in time, the clock read nine on the dot, and a door opened behind me.

And it all happened so fast, there was nothing I could’ve done.

I turned, ran straight into a chest, the cup slipped out of my grasp, and trying to catch it only resulted in its contents spilling directly onto the stranger’s crisp white shirt. And shoes.

Fuuuuuck. Hot liquid dripped off him, and I was very aware that this might be my second attempted assault of a stranger in the span of minutes. Screw trying to be positive; today literally couldn’t get any worse.

He cursed like a sailor, shook his arms out, and tried to keep the drenched shirt from burning his skin. Judging by his pained hisses, he was quite unsuccessful.

“I’m so sorry—” I said, reaching for the enormous stain, but attempting to rub it out only made it worse, so I finally looked up at the guy whose day I’d just ruined.

And . . . fuck again. Apparently, it could get worse.

Chapter 2

Elliot Ashwood.

Dark-blond hair—messy. Perfectly tailored pants paired with an Adeline Ashwood dress shirt that cost more than my entire outfit . . . and sneakers. Rough-edged face and a scowl on his lips, but also the kindest blue eyes.

He was a study in contrasts, except for the annoyance bunching up his brows, which was in perfect harmony with the look on his face and the words coming out of his mouth.

Fuck and Damn it and the popular combination of both: God fucking damn it.

It wasn’t his looks, the insults, or even the fact that the whole effortlessly chic thing was doing wonders for him. It was his last name.

I’d just spilled coffee all over Elliot. Fucking. Ashwood. I was still rubbing the stain on his chest.

If you had any interest in luxury fashion, the stock market, or, well, celebrity gossip, you knew Hunter Ashwood, and you knew his grandsons. They’d been in the public eye for as long as I could remember: an article here, a scandal there, a combined millions of followers. The Ashwood family was a looming presence on- and offline, always there to make sure you never forgot who they were, how much power they had, and that they weren’t afraid to wield it.

My hand lowered. I took a step back.

“Oh my God.” Was I shaking? My hands clutched tightly around the empty cup, its lid on the floor between us a reminder of what just happened. I couldn’t stop staring at the stain the size of Manhattan on his shirt either. “I’m so sorry.”

“You mentioned, yeah.” He was still busy trying to shake off excess liquid. None came off. The stain, of course, stayed the same size. Seemed bigger, somehow. “That’s not really going to fix this, though, is it?”

The low cadence of his voice commanded even the air in the room. He straightened, finally looked up from the disaster on his chest, and I couldn’t do anything about our gazes meeting. Why would I?