Page 24 of Rivals to Lovers
“Tell me Ahab wouldn’t have been wanking off every day, Moby Dick or no Moby Dick. I mean, a dude at sea?”
“Jane Eyre would totally have been rubbing one out on the regular,” Mo said. “Young woman with a tough job and a hot boss? That’s—”
“Only natural,” he finished. He stood, breaking eye contact, and rubbing his hands on his jeans.
“Stress does that to some people,” Mo said to his back. She could still sense the warmth of his body, just a foot away.
His eyebrow quirked. “Doeswhatto some people?”
It was her turn to stand. She wanted to see if he would step back from her, but he held his ground. “You know …”
“No, tell me.”
“Makes them horny,” Mo said, not seeing a point to avoiding the word.
“Oh, see, I thought stress made people OD on edibles. My mistake,” he deadpanned.
She shoved him lightly. The hardness of his chest under her hand made her stomach go liquid. He must have seen something in her face, because his laughter stopped. His glance snagged hers, eyes brown and flinty.
Once, on vacation in Colorado with friends, she’d seen a wildcat up the hill, hidden by the trees, all except those gleaming eyes. Instead of feeling hunted now, his changed expression made something in her predatory. Her heart racehorsed in her chest. She wanted to feel the full weight of him, take the measure of this man who was trying to beat her. He was her better by so many common standards—educationally and financially and socially. But here, this weekend, in this ballroom, they were equals. She was staring at his mouth. As she forced her gaze back up to meet his, she noticed that he too had been eyeing her lips.
Without knowing who leaned first, leaning happened. Mutual leaning, though Mo would never admit to leaning more than Wes did. Once their lips met, the kiss deepened instantly. A magnetic tug so deep she felt it through her core. She was so dialed in to his lips that when his fingertips whispered over the back of her neck, she froze. It was her fault for focusing on the kiss so completely. Or maybe his fault for having the power to do that, directing her whole being through a sieve until all her neuroticism and ridiculousness had been processed into a thin sandy mixture that he let fall through his fingers. Until those fingers touched her.
He must have felt her back go taut. He drew back like she’d bitten him. “Sorry,” he said. The light shifted above them as a cloud passed over the sun, the yellows and greens and pinks going dark, the spell of the last few minutes broken. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“No, I wanted—”
“Okay, good, because—”
“Stress.” She interrupted his interruption. “Too much stress.”
He smiled wanly. “Something like that. I wouldn’t figure you for the reckless type. You seem too—I don’t know. Type A?”
She scoffed, then took a breath. “Type A? I’m a perfect AB mixture, thank you very much.” If he wanted to pretend the kiss didn’t happen, she could do that. She couldn’t forget what she’d felt pressing against her leg, even through his expensive jeans. It made her curious and yes, deeply and enragingly horny. But midwestern girls were good at many things, and hiding behind a smile and joke when all you wanted to do was scream or punch or kiss someone was one of those skills. “We should continue the tour.”
“We should,” he said, but as they walked down the hallway he said, “You have a really good mouth. It’s—pert.”
She took the chance to appreciate the ceiling before responding. They entered yet another room, this one a gallery with plenty of distractions from his exasperating eyes and the way he kept trying to knock her off-balance. If she didn’t keep moving, she might accidentally kiss him again. “Pert mouth? That makes it sound like I wash it out with cheap shampoo.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “Is that a shampoo?”
“Oh, I bet you were bathed in the finest of argan oils with sheepskin washcloths or something.”
“Sample size, but sure. Something like that. Let’s say that my mom has always gotten a lot of free products. Expensive and nice-smelling ones, and I’ve taken my share of them. I got my pick of the men’s ones.”
“But you had to share them with your dad, right?”
“Ha, not anymore.” His back was toward her as he looked at an impressionist painting of a shepherd and lamb, but she could tell his manner had changed. Something in him completely shut down, as if the room had cooled forty degrees, but only on his half. She had no idea what the problem was. Did his dad get sick or something? Was that what all the frantic whispering was about at the dress store? She had pretended not to notice, focusing on her dress, but she could tell something was wrong.
“You didn’t hear that,” he said after a moment. “Sorry. I’m—not on today.”
“Not on?”
“Don’t you ever have to beonat work? Or with friends? I feel like that’s all I’m ever asked to be.”
“I mean, I’m friendly at work, or professional. It’s not a struggle for me, but I guess our jobs are different.”
“And you …” He left the space open for her to fill. She realized she hadn’t told him she was the clichésmall-town-girl-in-NYC-doing-the-food-service-thing-to-make-rent. It was a clichébecause the formula worked. “I work in catering.”
