Page 17 of Mad Rivals

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He lifts a shoulder. “Figured you could give me a ride back.”

“You didn’t even ask,” I point out.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Could you give me a ride back to my office?”

“How do you know my office is anywhere near yours?” I demand.

“Because we were both on our way into the office when we met at Starbucks that morning, so I figure yours can’t be too far from mine, and Victor—the driver—has other shit to get to,” he says.

Okay, fine. Seems reasonable enough. Still, he doesn’t know I’m going back there.

Itdoesn’t matter.

I blow out a breath and pull my phone out to place my mobile order, and suddenly his big fingers are moving toward my arm, and he’s encircling my wrist before I even know what hit me.

His skin is touching mine. If he shifted his fingers infinitesimally, he’d feel my fluttering pulse as it picks up the pace at his proximity.

I refuse to give in to that feeling.

So he’s hot.

Big fucking deal.

I clear my throat as I fix a glare on him. “What are you doing?” I shake my arm from his grasp.

“I already ordered you one,” he says, and I don’t miss the hint of cockiness in his tone.

“So first you presume that I can drive you back to the office, then you presume to know my Starbucks order?” My voice is trembling with anger. God! The nerve of this guy.

“Idoknow your Starbucks order, but it was the other way around. I ordered in the elevator on the way down. Then I dismissed Victor.” His voice is warm and steady, and I hate him a little for it.

“Just because I ordered thatoncedoesn’t mean it’s what I always order,” I point out.

“Okay,” he says, and there’s more than a hint of sarcasm there. “Then show me what you were about to order, caffeine queen.”

My head whips over to him. “Caffeine queen?” I repeat.

He lifts a shoulder, and then we’re at the door, so he pulls it open and nods for me to walk in first.

I know he’s not a gentleman. He can certainly stop pretending like he is one.

“It’s how I refer to you in my head,” he says, his voice low as I walk past him into the shop.

Wait a second.

Did he just admit that hethinksabout me? I give voice to that thought. “You think about me?”

He nods. “Yes. Mostly with irritation.”

I purse my lips. “Well I don’t think about you at all,” I lie. I think about how maddening he is all the time.

I’ve studied his Instagram. I’ve scrolled through the images of him on the field. I’ve recalled his words the morning we met, back when he called megorgeous.

I’ve recalled my father’s words to stay away from him.

I think about him far more than I should.

He’s a forbidden fruit, and I need to stay away. Ihaveto stay away.