Page 87 of The Thing About My Rival

“Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen in a couple of months. Well…” He tips his head and that familiar glint is back in his eye, his lips twitching. “Apart from me getting the job. That’s a dead cert.”

He tucks a finger under the stray strand of hair that’s fallen across my face and eases it back behind my ear, brushing my temple. His touch causes butterflies to flutter down the side of my neck and into my chest.

“But I know that right now there’s something I want to show you.” His voice is soft, almost velvety. His eyes affectionate and kind. This other side of him, the side the world doesn’t see, makes me feel like I’m in on a huge secret. It’s intoxicating, addictive, and impossible to resist. “Can we go with that for now?”

I’m not one to not look beyond the end of my nose when it comes to plans—particularly life plans—but I find myself silently nodding.

Inside, my heart is having a big old chat with my brain, telling it to just go with the flow for a couple hours—because I’m intrigued, because I know he gets me, and if there’s something he wants to show me, it’s bound to be something I’m interested in.

My brain, currently being a pile of gray mush, is unable to argue.

“Come on.” Hugo gives me one of his beaming, dazzling smiles. And, with a playful slap on both butt cheeks, he drops his lips to my forehead. “Let’s go.”

Then he takes my hand, and I let him lead the way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HUGO

I hand Mario two bills that amount to double what he charges for Boston’s best hot dogs and turn to face the best view in the city—the back of Wilcox’s head.

Well, the front of it is better, but the back is all I can see right now, so I’ll take it.

She sits where I left her, at a picnic bench, her back to the table, facing an open grassy area of Boston Common, framed by the bright green trees and city buildings gleaming against a clear blue sky.

She leans back and rests her elbows on the table, stray hairs that have escaped her ponytail waving in the gentle breeze.

What the fuck has gotten into me? I’m noticing the movement of strands of hair, the greenness of trees, and sun bouncing off buildings. Either someone crept in the other night while I was sleeping and made some adjustments to the wiring of my brain, or—more likely—it’s all Wilcox’s fault.

How has this woman affected me so deeply? I want to be around her as much as possible, I want to talk to her as much as possible, and I definitely want to do what we did in the pub on Saturday night as much as possible.

I’ve heard talk that these are all symptoms of “falling for someone,” but I never expected to contract the affliction.

And if I were going to fall for someone, Wilcox should be the last name on the list. How am I supposed to battle against her for this job when her smile makes my stomach feel funny and Mr. Happy do a little jig? Putting her out of the job would make her miserable. I don’t want Wilcox to be miserable. She deserves all the joy in the world.

“Don’t let them go cold,” Mario says.

I turn back to see him pointing at the two giant delicious hot dogs sitting on the counter of his cart.

“Never, Mario. Thanks.” I shove a handful of condiment sachets into one pocket, napkins into the other, and head back to Wilcox.

This really is the perfect early summer evening. And I’m lucky enough to spend it with the perfect woman.

“Whoa.” Her eyes widen when I hand her the veggie dog she asked for. “Maybe we only needed one of those between us.”

As she takes it from me, a couple bits of fried onion land in her lap. If we weren’t in a public place, I’d dive down there headfirst and lick them off.

“Like Lady and the Tramp you mean?” I empty my pockets onto the table and straddle the bench beside her. The perfect position to admire her profile. “You start at one end, me at the other, and we meet in the middle?”

“Then their lips touch, right?” She side-eyes me withthe most delicious sarcastic pout. “I’m not kissing you with onion breath.”

On paper, they might not look like the most romantic words on the planet. But falling from her lips, they send a surge of desire through me that tips me over the edge. I’m certain she wouldn’t have mentioned kissing if she didn’t actually want to kiss me. And I can’t wait another second to have my mouth on hers.

“Then you’d better kiss me now.”

Leaning over our hot dog-holding hands, I capture her sweet, delicious cupid’s bow between my lips. She tips her head, her mouth welcoming me, our tongues finding each other.

Jesus Christ, this woman has my groin permanently ready to be called off the bench. She only has to look at me and my balls start their warmup stretches and lunges. The brush of her lips gets them jogging, and when her tongue touches mine the ref might as well blow the whistle because it’s game over.

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