Page 40 of Mad Rivals
Just as maybe I’m the right person for Bradley Group.
Instead of asking why she isn’t that person—something I can relate to more than she knows—I ask something else that I’m wondering. “Then why are you working there? Why’d you leave a graphic design job for this?”
Her eyes dart to mine, and I know I’ve mentioned it before, but she seems surprised I remember that about her.
The server drops by our next round before she answers, and she helps herself to a generous swig first. “There were a lot of little reasons, to be honest. Clem and I wanted to prove our independence, and we did for five long years. We lived in a shitty apartment in a bad part of town working shitty jobs we both hated.” Another sip of vodka. “We were both working the kinds of long hours where you don’t even get to have a social life, and it sort of all came to a head. I closed my eyes on the train home, and someone stole my wallet and my Kindle, and then I fell getting off the bus, and—” She cuts herself off and sets her hand over her eyes for a beat, and then she closes her eyes.
“And?” I prompt. It’s hard to imagine the sophisticated and smart Kennedy Van Buren as anything less than what’s seated beside me.
“And I had no money to buy dinner, limped home with a bleeding knee to listen to my neighbor banging his girlfriend,looked at the cracks in my walls, and asked Clem if she was happy because I was sure the hell not.”
“Was she?”
She shakes her head, and I can’t help but reach across the table and circle my fingers around her wrist. I give it a squeeze, and I’m not sure why. Solidarity, maybe. Sympathy.
Her eyes fall to the place where my hand connects with her skin, and I study her face as she studies my hand.
Her eyes are rimmed in red, and she sniffles a little as she makes these rather surprising confessions.
“All I wanted was a little independence. I wanted to make it on my own. My parents said the door was always open if I wanted to return, and I knew I had the solution for both Clem and me. I know the business. I was raised there. I worked there until I left for college. It just took admitting that I failed to the two people I most wanted to succeed in front of.”
“You didn’t fail.” My voice is soft and tender, and I’m not even sure where it came from.
Her eyes lift to mine, and I let go of my hold on her wrist.
“Babe, your wallet was stolen. You were in a dangerous situation. You got out of it. Why would you think that’s a failure?” I ask.
Her brows dip together. “Did you just call mebabe?”
My brows mirror hers as I think back. “Did I?”
“You did.” Her eyes have gone from red-rimmed to slightly twinkling, and I get the distinct impression shelikesthat I called her that.
If I did, it slipped out.
But if it slipped out, it’s because I’m starting to feel more and more like there’s something here. There’s enough between us that it feels appropriate to call her an endearment likebabe. I just don’t know if she’s ready for it.
“Sorry. I meant to saytiger.” My eyes twinkle back at her, and then I drain what’s left in my second beer as I feel the intensity thicken between us.
And I can’t wait to take it to another level.
CHAPTER 17: Kennedy Van Buren
I Want Him to Kiss Me
This entire night has been easier than I was expecting, and it’s only leaving me confused.
We’ve covered a lot of topics, but we haven’t gotten to the thing I know he wants to ask. He keeps ordering us another round, and I keep drinking, and I should really stop since my lips tend to get looser and looser the more the vodka flows, but I’m finding myselfenjoyingthis evening.
He said his dad wouldn’t tell him what went down between our fathers, and I don’t honestly know all that much.
But it sort of feels like the next couple years of working on this project together will go a lot smoother if we can do it from a place of friendship rather than from that place of rivalry that I’ve been working from.
And I’m getting this strange sense from him that he’s being genuine. He cares. He’s not just here to get some insider info on me or my company.
It’s like something is shifting between us, and I like it. Maybe it’s the vodka, but maybe it’s not. I’m tucking my dad’s warning away, but I’m also an adult who can handle myself despite my recent failures proving otherwise.
I clear my throat after our server drops off our latest round of drinks, and I blurt, “Your dad did something underhanded to my dad. I don’t know what it was, but they played football together, and they were close friends until your dad stopped playing. I guess they lost touch. Years later they were competing for bids, and your dad did something to win the bid over my dad, but he didn’t say what. He made it sound like he’d do it again, and I asked what we could do to fight it, and he said that your dad has connections we can’t fight against. I don’t know what any of it means, but my dad warned me off your entire family.”
