Page 70 of The Thing About My Rival

“Yes.” I rest my hands on my hips and stare at him. Desperately trying not to look directly into his eyes for fear I might see the part of him I can’t resist, the part that would make me crumble. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”

“Well, that’s not who I am, Wilcox. If I hear someone in trouble, I’m going to step in to help.”

“That’s the thing you’re not understanding. I wasn’t in trouble. I was handling itmy way.” I jab my finger into my chest. “I don’t need to be saved by anyone. Particularly not you.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, let’s just pretend Saturday night didn’t happen. It was obviously a ridiculous mistake.” I turn away to get my things so I can go.

But he takes my hand and whips me around, pulling me hard against him, like a dramatic ballroom dance move. My chest is flattened against his and I have to tip my head back to look at him.

“If it was a mistake for you”—his big chocolate eyes rove my face—“and you really mean that, that’s fine. But don’t ever think it was a mistake for me. It wasn’t.”

My whole body quivers—from the fight with Ramon, from the fight with Hugo, and now from his pecs pressing against my breasts. I might be crazy about this man…but Ican’tbe.

I gather every ounce of willpower I possess, press my hands flat against his chest, and push myself off him.

“This is too much, Hugo. All of it.” I gesture to theroom and to him, the tightness in my throat making my eyes prickle. “The job. The pressure of being the first woman in the job. Competing against you to keep the job. You. I’m competing againstyou—world famous soccer star Hugo freaking Powers. How can I ever beat you? It’s impossible.”

I draw in a shaky breath. “And now we’ve had sex. Crazy, passionate, world-dazzling sex. It’s too much.” My voice trembles as I try to control the tears pooling in my eyes. “Too much for any normal person to deal with.”

“World-dazzling, huh?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks a smirk that, even under these circumstances, sparks a tingle at my core.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter as I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I can’t let myself smile at his saucy jokes.

“And on top of all that. Now I have to go have dinner with my father.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “The cherry on top of the shit pie.”

I brush past him as I move toward the door and, damn him, if he doesn’t drag his fingers down my arm as I pass.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DREW

Suzanna reaches for my empty plate. “I’ll get dessert.”

These occasional dinners with them are never an enormous amount of fun. They’re just something I have to get through if I want to maintain any sort of relationship with my dad, which I do.

I just wish it wasn’tthisrelationship—one where it feels like neither of us wants to be here but we are anyway, one where I expend untold amounts of energy being cheery and bright, and one that results in me shedding at least a couple of tears after almost every interaction.

I’m not asking for the world, not for a sitcom parent who laughs and jokes and hugs and kisses me, and we all live on a pink fluffy cloud ofI love yous. I’d just like to be able to relax around him and not constantly feel like I’m taking a test that’s impossible to pass.

You’d think by age thirty-two I’d have given up trying to make this better. But isn’t there some unshakable thing in all of us that wants to be certain our parents love us? Orat leastlikeus? If I could stop myself searching for that, my life would certainly be a whole lot easier and less upsetting. But I can’t. Maybe it’s my competitive nature. I’m no more willing to admit defeat with my one vaguely present parent than I am with trying to get a player to understand the importance of a deft first touch of the ball.

“I can help.” I tell Suzanna.

Her hand is on my arm before my butt is barely off the seat to follow her to the kitchen, rather than be left alone to face the prospect of an awkward conversation.

“Wouldn’t hear of it,” she says with a gentle smile. “You stay here.”

I consider claiming a sudden need to visit the powder room to enjoy the new and impressively floral wallpaper again, but that might be a bit obvious.

I take my napkin from my lap, wipe my hands and spend some time folding it into a neat square as Suzanna’s back disappears around the corner and silence hangs between me and my father.

“Want me to drop the blinds a little?” I offer, in an effort to find myself something to do. “It looks like the light is right in your eyes.”

I turn to see the gorgeous sunset over the city behind me from their thirty-seventh-floor apartment. Although the seat across the table looks out at this fabulous panorama of the skyline, I always sit here, with my back to it, as if facing it would be too greedy, expecting too much, like I don’t deserve the view.

It’s silly—it’s not like anyone else needs the fourth seat. But this is how it’s been since they moved here when they got married twelve years ago. This is where I sat the first time I came for dinner, and where I’ve sat ever since. I know if I took a different spot it would be a whole thing,and the emotional energy that conversation would require isn’t worth the view.

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