Page 14 of Rivals to Lovers
“Yes,” he said, then paused. “Yes, it’s dark, not yes that my mother would hate you.”
“Do you hate me?” she asked.
“I don’t know you,” Wes said, though he wondered if he could admit now that he did, in one way at least, know her. The Google alert. The first book she’d written. But it didn’t matter, and he didn’t want to freak her out or even let on how deeply curious he was about her. Her book, that is, not the woman sitting next to him, leaning into his shoulder. She probably didn’t know that she was doing that last part.
“I think I hate you. I should unfollow you on LinkedIn.”
“That would be fair.”
“Like you’d even notice.”
He sighed and tried not to look at her lips. “I’d notice.”
“If only you weren’t cute, in a Sam Gamgee kind of way.”
He did what he did best: deflect. “Do you usually make a lot ofLord of the Ringsreferences when you’re high, or do I bring that out in you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, but if you eat some gummies too, we can see if it’s the batch.” This suggestion made her laugh harder.
Despite her silliness and lack of control over her legs, he was enjoying himself. Despite her yelling at him, they’d had a better conversation that he had at most parties. Many of his friends were famous-adjacent children like he was. That set weren’t necessarily based on kinship or similar interest, just the mutual annoyances they all put up with. A nepotism collective, maybe. He had work colleagues he was friendly to, clients he was collegial with, and then he had his family. Someone who could swing wildly from seventies-era television to fantasy toThe Proud and the Lostseemed like Wes’s kind of person. Plus she was attractive—that fact was undeniable.
He couldn’t tell her any of that, whether she was sober or otherwise, because he’d read her book and chosen her from the slush, then left the agency he’d chosen her for. And now they were rivals for the same book deal, which for either of them would be life changing. The sooner he got her back to her room, the less he would learn about her, and maybe that was for the best.
“Can you stand?” Wes asked.
“Can you?”
“I haven’t had any controlled substances,” he said. “And yes. I can.”
“We should go to the hot tub,” she said. It wasn’t even in a suggestive tone. It was an almost too-sober tone, likesuggesting they should go to the grocery store to get snacks. “The one off the patio. I’m so cold. That would be fun.”
Wes chewed his lip, trying not to imagine unwrapping that belt from around her waist, the curve of her body underneath. He might not accept her statement that he was cute, butsheundoubtedly was. He’d noticed in the car, and agonized about it over dinner, and now that tug was worse than ever. She had dimples in her cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes. He could tell those eyes were sparkling, even in the dark. “No. I don’t think we should do that tonight. Let’s get you upstairs. Can I … help you?”
She grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, so Wes knelt next to her and put out his arms to raise her up. She was unsteady, almost falling again, but he circled one hand underneath her armpit for support. The kitchen was dark, but a rope of light from near the baseboards ensured they didn’t slam into anything. When they got to the bottom of the long, curving stairs, Wes paused. She had already slipped from his grip once, and he didn’t want to chance things. “Let’s try the elevator.”
The elevator was down the hallway underneath the stairs. Wes held on to her body with one arm, using the other to press the button. The door opened with a ding, and she turned to it in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Jeeves,” she said.
The door closed. “Am I supposed to be Jeeves?” Wes asked. Now that they weren’t moving, she leaned against the wall, then used his shoulder for extra support.
“No, no, the elevator is Jeeves. Doesn’t it seem like someone in this house should be named Jeeves?”
In a movie, the elevator would have gotten stuck and they would have had to figure a way out of this situation.Luckily, with no cameras or producers around, the journey upstairs went smoothly. He didn’t think she noticed that during that short elevator trip her hand began to rub his arm—or rather, pet his jacket—in an absent way. His arm hair prickled.
As they got out of the elevator, Maureen stumbled ahead before Wes could get ahold of her. She began to topple again, but Wes jumped forward, catching her before she slammed to her knees. He’d stayed in the routine of starting the day with fifty push-ups ever since college, and that practice paid off as he hoisted her in his arms. At this new vantage, her eyes opened wider. Close range, Wes could see the flecks of light brown in her irises and take in that scent. Just her, with a bit of peony.
And then Estelle’s bedroom door opened.
Wes glanced from Mo’s body in his arms to Estelle’s curious, flushed face behind the door. Gary was behind her, both of them in bathrobes—which was interesting, to say the least. He might have been helping her get ready for bed, but then again, why was he dressed for bed too? Wes looked at Gary and Gary looked at Maureen, and suddenly Wes wanted the elevator to have gotten stuck after all.
“She’s not feeling so well,” Wes said, overlapping Gary’s explanation of “We were having our nightly chess game.” Wes didn’t think either man believed the other one. Gary waited for Wes to get to the door of Maureen’s room before Gary waved at Estelle and left, closing the door behind him.
“Well, that was awkward,” Wes said as he closed the door to Maureen’s room.
She made a humming noise and found her footing again, tottering toward the desk. Her room was like Wes’s butthemed around foxes instead of botanical prints. A line drawing of a fox kept watch over the bed that Maureen fell onto, still fully dressed. He moved to her, dimpling the bed with his weight. He tugged off her shoes and socks.
She murmured, “You’re very handsome, and I’m sorry I thought you were going to let us drive off a bridge. Your mouth is a good mouth.”
Wes didn’t know how much she would remember tomorrow, but he didn’t want her to dig herself into memories that might be embarrassing if those memories stuck. “It’s time to sleep.”
