The Right Swipe - Alisha Rai Page 0,84
it took for Peter to muscle his way into her room, closing the door behind him so fast she didn’t have a chance to stop him.
Fucker.
Show no weakness. She lifted her chin. “What do you want?”
He spread his hands out. She’d once thought those hands were sensitive, the fingers long and slender, like a pianist, but they were a predator’s hands. “We haven’t had any time together, alone, in so long. I thought we could talk.”
“Have your assistant call mine.”
“Very funny.” He leaned back against her own door and perused her. She was abruptly very aware that she’d taken her blazer off. Her T-shirt didn’t cover her arms, and she couldn’t even cross them and hug herself in front of him. That wasn’t a power move.
He met her gaze. “Look at us, both competing for the same company. Isn’t that funny?”
“I wouldn’t say funny, but you always had a terrible sense of humor.”
“Did you finish up the absurd test?”
“I did.”
Peter snorted. “Imagine, this company making any money when people’s attention spans have shrunk to .06 seconds.”
“Imagine. Imagine being the sucker who buys it.”
His thin lips curled up. She glanced around the room, instinctively seeking escape. She’d left the windows open. She could jump, if she had to. Second story, but sand below.
He’d never been violent with her. But then again, she hadn’t thought he would systematically try to ruin her career and life’s work all those years ago either, and here they were.
How did you stay with him for so long?
Because he hadn’t shown her this side immediately. She hadn’t gone on her first date and looked for exits. She hadn’t woken up from their first overnight together fearful for her safety. A frog in slowly boiling water. “Spit out whatever you want to say, Peter.”
“Have a seat.”
“No.”
His face darkened. “You—”
Her phone chimed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.
“You’re talking to me, put your damn phone away.”
“It’s for work,” she lied. Peter might be wholly lacking in empathy, but he would understand work.
It was, actually, a text from her mother, with something silly about the engagement party. She ignored it and, listening to her instincts, clicked on Samson’s name.
Please come to my room. Right now. If I don’t answer, open the door, no matter what you hear or don’t hear.
It didn’t matter if Samson barging in would confirm Peter’s assumptions about the two of them. She didn’t want to be alone with her ex. She tucked the phone away and hoped Samson would get the text soon and that his recent coolness wouldn’t extend to ignoring her now.
“You want to work on our presentations together?” Peter’s smile was smarmy.
She snorted.
“Please, Rhiannon. It’s been years. Can’t we put this unpleasantness behind us and be colleagues? I’m sorry for the way you felt you were treated when you left Swype.”
The way she felt she’d been treated, and not the way he’d treated her. Ugh, this asshole. “Peter. Get out of my room. Go away.”
Once when they’d been dating, he’d told her that men thought in black and white, that they were literal creatures, and she’d taken issue with the flip-side assumption of that statement: that women were emotional, wishy-washy, shades-of-gray ambiguous creatures. Funny enough, he didn’t seem to have enough self-awareness to understand his argument was full of holes pierced by his own behavior. He’d never been able to take simple, direct orders. Not from her, at least.
He ignored her literal go away now too, though his mask slipped. “Bet you wouldn’t tell Samson to go away. You seem chummy.”
Aw shit. “We’ve been working together.”
“You’re closer than colleagues.”
“You’re hallucinating.”
“Am I? I think you’re sleeping with him. If so, it’s unfair you have an inside track on this bid.”
“It’s not an in. Samson doesn’t have enough ownership in this company to make any kind of difference. I need to prepare my presentation for tomorrow. Now please leave.”
The smile dropped, and so did any illusion that he wasn’t an asshole. “If you think fucking that idiot football player is going to get you anything but a lousy lay, you’re as stupid as I always thought you were.”
“Lousy lay? If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black.”
His cheeks flushed red. “I could show him the pictures.”
She went rigid. “You know what happens when you go down that route.”
A knock came on the door. It startled Peter enough that he stepped away. Before either of them could speak, the door opened and Samson stuck his head in the opening.
She’d never been happier to