The Right Swipe - Alisha Rai Page 0,20

she’d been acutely conscious of how . . . too much she was. Too much volume, too much melanin, too much ambition. Too much visibility.

Sonya had always tried to get Rhiannon to tone it down, ignore the haters, keep her head down. The best revenge is success, she’d preached, when Rhiannon had come home upset after someone was cruel to her. You’ll show them.

And she had. Big picture wise, her mother had never tried to stifle Rhiannon’s ambitions. Sonya had wept with pride when Rhiannon had gotten into every Ivy League school she’d applied to, then wept again when she’d dropped out of Harvard and headed to California to start her empire. Not with pride, the second time, but with worry that her daughter was throwing her future aside and going so far away. Rhiannon always felt a cocktail of guilt and love when it came to her mom, but that guilt trip had been epic.

Rhiannon hadn’t spoken to her mom for almost a month after the debacle that was her exit from Swype four years ago. She’d been so ashamed, fearful of the I-told-you-so’s. If success was the best revenge, what was failure?

Luckily, before Sonya could come out to California and investigate her daughter’s radio silence, Katrina had swooped in with money and a plan to get Rhiannon’s career back on track.

“So how did the conference go? Other than not getting a chance to get face time with Annabelle.”

Rhiannon had tried to keep Katrina up-to-date on that front, at least. “Uh, great.”

“Suzie said the activation went wonderfully, and we got some good press coverage.”

The activation had been a walk-through interactive experience for guests, and it had been a hit. “Yup. Your shares are safe.”

“You know I don’t care about the shares. I care about a cat.”

“Not this again. I’ll think about it.”

“One little kitten, that’s all I’m talking about, roomie. You’ll barely know it’s here.”

Rhiannon grinned at the long-running joke. They both knew she’d cave on the cat eventually, even if she wasn’t an animal person.

A rush of love ran through Rhiannon, and she had to take a sip of juice to counter the lump in her throat. Katrina actually did care more about getting a cat than her shares.

When Rhiannon had been lost and alone, her reputation tarnished among those who might hire her, and her possibility for making it big almost nil, Katrina had pulled a last-minute Hail Mary.

Rhiannon had come to this house. Katrina had, silently, slid a blank check across the same table they were eating breakfast at. “I want to fund your next venture. I believe in you.”

“Do you have any idea how much a start-up costs?” she’d asked Katrina.

Katrina’s eyes had been kind. “Do you have any idea how much my husband left me? I have money. You have the brains. Make money for both of us.”

At the time, Rhiannon had assumed Katrina’s quiet but lush lifestyle was funded by her previous modeling career and truly hadn’t had any idea how much money a famous Indian jeweler could leave his much younger wife. It turned out, a lot.

Katrina put her fork down, her plate cleaned. She was a fast eater. “I did happen to live-stream the audio of that interview you did. You were great, even handling that stupid question about your hiring practices. Was the football player as hot as he sounded?”

Rhiannon took a giant gulp of orange juice, draining the glass. She wished she’d thought to make mimosas. Not because she liked mimosas, but because then there would be a champagne bottle on the table. “Yeah, so. Funny story.”

“Oh?”

“The football player was B.B.”

“What?”

“Yup.”

“Oh my God. Hashtag BeachBastard? How could you not text me immediately?”

“I was still . . . processing it.” She’d processed it for the rest of the day after the interview and all of yesterday too. Processing it had given her such a stress headache, she’d moved her flight so she could leave after her very last commitment yesterday.

Rhiannon didn’t keep many secrets from Katrina. She’d told her all about Samson when she’d returned from Cayucos, pissed and hurt. Katrina had been adequately outraged on her behalf. She’d initially referred to Samson as #BeachDick, but #BeachBastard had alliteration going for it.

“What on earth was hashtag BeachBastard doing there?”

“From what I gathered, Annabelle’s a family friend.”

Katrina bared her teeth. “He went from ghosting you to talking about how he’s looking for love on Matchmaker? What garbage.”

Rhi slammed her fist down on the table. “That’s what I said! Total hot garbage.”

“I