The Rivals - Vi Keeland Page 0,6

me eat.”

Not surprisingly, he didn’t. Over the next half hour, I finished off my food and guzzled another drink. Weston kept trying to make small talk, but I continued to shoot him down. Then my bladder was full, and I didn’t want to try to balance my oversized purse, laptop, and planner while I hovered over a public toilet. So I reluctantly asked the pain in the ass to keep an eye on my stuff.

“I’d love to keep an eye on your stuff.”

I rolled my eyes yet again. As I stood, I wobbled a little. Apparently the alcohol had given me more of a buzz than I thought.

“Hey, be careful there.” Weston grabbed my arm and held on tight. His hand was warm and strong and—oh my God, I’m definitely tipsy thinking this.

I tugged my elbow from his grip. “I slipped on my heel. I’m fine. Just watch my things.”

In the bathroom, I relieved myself and washed my hands. Catching a look at my reflection, I noticed I had mascara smeared under my eye. So I wiped it off and ran my fingers through my hair—out of habit, not because I gave a shit what I looked like for Weston Lockwood.

When I returned to the bar, my nemesis was at least preoccupied with something other than me for a change. I took my seat and noticed my drink had been refreshed.

“Sugar waxing, huh?” Weston said without looking over at me. “How is that different from regular waxing?”

My face wrinkled. “Huh?”

He tapped his finger at whatever he was looking at on the bar in front of him. “Is the sugar edible? Like, after you get all buffed out, you’re ready for some action? Or are there chemicals mixed in?”

I leaned in and squinted at what he was reading. My eyes widened.

“Give me that! You’re such an asshole!”

The jerk had taken my daily planner, which had been sitting on the bar to my left, and helped himself. I grabbed for the book, and Weston held up his hands in surrender.

“No wonder you’re so cranky. Your period is due in a few days. Have you ever tried Midol? Those commercials crack me up.”

I shoved my planner into my bag and waved for the bartender as I yelled, “Can I please get my check?”

The bartender came over. “You want to sign it to your room?”

I lifted the strap of my bulky bag to my shoulder and stood. “Actually, no. Sign it to this asshole’s room.” I thumbed toward Weston. “And give yourself a hundred-dollar tip from me.”

The bartender looked at Weston, then shrugged. “No problem.”

With a huff, I took off toward the elevator bank, not waiting or giving a shit if Mr. Wonderful wasn’t happy about paying the bill. Impatiently, I jabbed my finger against the button to call the elevator a half-dozen times. Whatever the alcohol had done to ease my anger, it now came roaring back with a vengeance. I felt like throwing something.

First at Liam.

Then at my father.

And twice at that asshole Weston.

Thankfully, the elevator doors slid open before I took my anger out on some unsuspecting hotel guest. I hit the button for the eighth floor and wondered if the minibar would have some wine.

“What the hell?” I pressed the button on the panel a second time. It illuminated, yet the car continued to sit there. So I jabbed my finger at it a third time. Finally, the doors started to glide closed. Just as they were about to shut completely, a shoe blocked them from closing.

A wingtip shoe.

Weston’s smiling face was there to greet me when the doors bounced open.

My blood was near boiling. “So help me, Lockwood, if you try to get in this car, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

He entered the elevator anyway. “Come on, Fifi. What’s wrong? I’m just playing around. You’re taking things way too seriously.”

I counted to ten in my head, but it didn’t help. Fuck it. He wanted to get a rise out of me? He was going to get one. The doors slid shut again, and I turned and backed him into a corner. Seeing my face, he at least had the decency to look a little nervous.

“You wanna know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong! My father thinks I’m inept because I don’t have an appendage dangling between my legs. The man I spent the last eighteen months with was cheating on me with one of my cousins. Again. I