Page 6 of Ruled By Rivalry

Because you’re a genius, I almost yelled. In case she’d forgotten.

“What I’m trying to say is . . . you’ll be okay too. We all saw your portfolio. You’re a talented girl. Don’t let whatever Rachel said get to you.”

Some of my own anxiety settled at the mention of hers, and some of the drained color returned to my face at the fact Camila Rodriguez had just called me talented. Something I’d gotten used to hearing in college and from friends, family, and teachers—whose compliments meant nothing in comparison to hers. No offense.

I shook my head, a half smile finally returning to my lips. If it were just Rachel’s words echoing in my mind like Camila had guessed, I would probably be jumping around the room after that compliment. I wished that was all it was. Wished the smug smirks and blue eyes weren’t what was really getting under my skin.

“It’s not Rachel,” I confessed, frustrated. “This doesn’t usually happen, I am sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

Her accent slipped and she looked honest-to-God horrified when she gasped, “A man?!”

It kind of reminded me of Mom.

The concern, damn-near outrage, in her voice let me know those had definitely been the wrong words. “No. God, no. Not like that. Elliot,” I corrected, mortified. “Ashwood. I can’t stop thinking about . . . well, how am I supposed to beat a guy who’s set to inherit the place one day?”

Immediately, her features relaxed. She audibly exhaled, let herself fall back into her chair. “For starters, he’s only set to inherit a quarter of the place.”

For a moment, Camila’s dark curly hair, paired with the look on her face, reminded me so much of my best friend, a pang of something shot through my chest. Good thing Paula wasn’t here to witness me as a rambling mess, googling a guy instead of working.

She wouldn’t believe it.

“Let me tell you something about Elliot, dear.” The woman opposite me hummed. “You’re right to be intimidated, going up against an Ashwood on their . . . home turf. He’s not dumb, very charming. But in my twenty years here, I haven’t seen that boy in the studio once.” The look on her face said everything I needed to know about how she felt about that. “He doesn’t care about Ashwood; he doesn’t care about what we do here—that video speaks for itself. He cares about the money and power his grandfather provides, and he doesn’t want to lose it. That’s why he’s here.”

Whatever that video meant, I vowed to find out the second I got home. I couldn’t very well have clicked on those links I’d spotted in articles while I was still sitting across from Camila.

“You’re a passionate, talented girl, Maeve. That’s why you’re here. I shouldn’t tell you this, but don’t be afraid to play . . . dirty—he certainly won’t be. This is your dream, isn’t it?”

Again, it felt a little bit like Mom’s voice in my head—with less swearing and more composure. But they were both right.

This was my dream. And I would fight for it. I had no problem getting my hands dirty.

Sure, he was an Ashwood. Sure, his grandfather owned the place. Sure, he seemed to have an effortless understanding of fashion. But I’d been preparing for this since before Mom died.

With every outfit I’d pulled together for impromptu runway shows in our too-small living room. Every hole I’d stitched and every patch I’d sewn onto jeans. Every time I helped her get dressed for a night out.

Every memory with her was an accumulation of reasons why I deserved to be here, and a reminder that I was ready for it. I’d been ready.

I straightened and snapped out of the nightmare called real life. There was nothing I could do about Elliot Ashwood now except for one thing.

Be better.

Thankfully, Camila had one of those faces you could read every wish off of, and I had an unnatural ability to read things off of faces. Thoughts, feelings . . . and those wishes.

Her eyes found mine, and I knew whether she needed another piece of paper, her pencil sharpened, or a note written down. Five minutes ago, the yawn rattling her chest screamed Coffee! louder than she could’ve. And because my motto was now officially Be better, I’d opted for the coffee shop around the corner instead of the vending machine down the hall. Thank you, empty cup with its logo in the trash.

Plain cappuccino, coconut milk. No syrups, no sugar.

The barista typed in the order, brown curls flying every possible direction when he looked back up at me, eyes huge behind his round glasses. “Never seen you here before,” he noted. “Not from around, are you?”

I sighed, tapped my phone against the machine, and waited for the successful ding indicating more money going out of my account. “That obvious?”

His amused snort brought a smile to my lips too. He was cute, all in all. A guy who—if I were normal about that kind of thing—I could like. Come back for every day until he’d no longer have to ask for my order, and I’d no longer have to pay. Until I’d pick him up after a shift and we’d go on a first date, then the second, and third, where he’d tell me he wasn’t ready for a relationship. I’d never see him again and would feel like crying every time I ordered a coconut cappuccino.

But I wasn’t normal about that kind of thing, had always been too determined, too focused to give relationships a try—so I’d be spared that inevitable fate.

The chances of any relationship working out at my age were so slim, why bother when I could focus on school or work without distractions and the inevitable heartbreak? I wanted my full focus on beating Elliot Ashwood, who was enough of a hurdle in himself.

“The accent’s a dead giveaway.” Cute Barista snickered, wiggling the to-go cup between us, Sharpie ready in the other hand. “Name?”