Page 35 of The Thing About My Rival

“So.” He puts down his glass and steeples his fingers under his perfectly stubbled chin. “Should we be grown-ups and talk about Paris?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

HUGO

It’s hard to tell, because there’s almost no bloody light in this place, but I’m pretty sure Wilcox just blushed. I’m also pretty sure the blush has extended down her neck and onto her chest, because it always does, but I’m trying really hard not to look.

The glimpse of the swell of her breasts on either side of her low neckline is very distracting.

There’s silence for a moment while she tastes the wine.

She’s obviously stalling while she decides how to play this. She’s easier to read than she thinks—at least it’s easy for me, like there’s some part of me that instinctively understands some part of her.

But I can’t believe she hasn’t decided long before now what she’d do when the subject of that night in Paris came up. I mean, it had to come up at some point. Wilcox might be into yoga and sharing circles, but she’s also great at tactical strategy. She would have thought this through.

She obviously wasn’t expecting it right now though.

And it’s even more fun to catch her off guard than I’d expected when I decided, on the way here, that we need to address it and move on if we’re to have any hope of making it through the season without one of us being relegated to a leave of absence.

Since I’m the loosest cannon, that one of us could very easily be me. And I can’t risk losing this job.

It’s every man for himself here, and if the only way for me to stay is to work with her then we have to get along. And if that means putting myself through the torture of talking about whatever the hell it was we did that night, then so be it.

Finally, she puts her glass down, the print of her lips left behind in the pink on the rim.

She looks at me. A bold move. Admirable play.

The round light thing in the middle of the table catches gold flecks in her eyes, making them look like sparks from a fire.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says with a dead straight face.

A laugh is out of me before I’ve even realized it’s happening.

“Oh, good one, Wilcox.” That was definitely not the response I was expecting. But then she is a very unexpected person in general. “Since the whole point of this evening is to encourage us to get along better, I thought we should probably start by addressing the elephant in the room. Or rather, the cleaners’ closet.”

She picks up her menu and opens it. “If we’re going to talk about anything, we should talk about how to nurture Ramon into the best striker the league has ever seen without his head being turned by the trappings of fame and fortune.”

She glances back up for a second, her face firm. “But you’re probably not the best person for ideas on that.”

I clasp my hands on the table and lean toward her. “I’d have thought you’d want to talk about it. Get it out in the open. And deal with it so we can get past it and move on. You’re the one who’s into talking things out, after all.”

She puts down the menu and mirrors my action, lacing her fingers on top of it and angling toward me. Toe to toe. It’s her pattern.

“I’ve already moved past it. Because it was a stupid drunken mistake. One you probably barely remember.”

“Didn’t remember it at all, actually.” I sit back and pick up my glass.

“Precisely.” She lifts her menu again. “Total ass,” she mutters as her eyes slide over the offerings.

“Well, I mean, I vaguely remembered theincident. But I didn’t know it was you until my friend Tom told me.”

“Is he the nice guy who got his driver to take me back to my hotel?”

“Sure is.”

“How do you have nice people as friends?”

“Erm, because I’m a nice guy.”

---