Page 165 of By His Rule

“Can I buy you a drink?” she offers, noticing that my glass is empty. “We’ve got a lot of years to catch up on.”

“I was just leaving.”

“Aw, come on. Just one—for old time's sake.”

39

LORELEI

“Motherfucker,” I bark, my grip on my cell tightening to the point I fear the screen is going to crack.

The photo staring back at me does prove one thing, though…I did the right thing last night.

After talking to Tate, I’ll admit, I did feel a little guilty for not even replying to Kian.

He didn’t say why he had to cancel—for all I knew, he could have fallen ill and his message was a cry for help.

I wasn’t all that concerned, though, because I managed to convince myself not to reply.

Then, when the food arrived…I really did want to message him.

But that was what he wanted, right?

Messaging him would have been playing right into his hands.

Kian is a player. He knows how to manipulate women into doing exactly what he wants them to do.

Well…I am not one of those women.

I will not fall for the fancy night out in the designer gown—nor will I fall for the pity dinner after he bailed on our date that I didn’t even want.

I totally ate every mouthful of it, though.

How could I not? The second I discovered it wasn’t him or Matt standing on the other side of the door and I opened it to the waft of garlic, cheese and a whole host of other flavors, there was only one thing I was doing with the contents of the tray. Devouring them.

I’d only snacked since getting back from the gym, knowing that he’d take me somewhere incredible; I was starving despite my inability to decide on my own dinner.

As I ate it, I couldn’t help but try and figure out what pulled him away from me. He was more than keen for the date earlier in the day. I figured that it had to have been something important.

Well, now I have my answer.

Tia fucking Halliwell.

That’s who was so important that he had to cancel on our fake date.

Much like Sasha, she’s everything I’m not. Blonde, blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones that I’m convinced are fake, as are her tits. She’s tall, and slim, and would grace any runway with ease and sophistication. She’s also a household name since her success on a Netflix series recently.

A bitter laugh spills from my lips as I continue to stare at them.

Each photograph of the two of them together is worse. He’s watching her closely with a smile playing on his lips. It’s not the sneer he gave Sasha on Saturday night, either; it’s different, and it cuts me right to the core.

“Fucking asshole.”

It shouldn’t hurt, because I shouldn’t care.

I agreed to fake dating.

Fake.

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