Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways)

Present

“Arya Roth must be good in bed, because she sure knows how to screw with a narrative.” Claire ricocheted a newspaper onto my office desk Monday morning.

I was neck deep in going through the documents Amanda Gispen had sent me over the weekend. The discovery stage was crucial for an ironclad case. I knew Conrad’s lawyers were going to file a motion in limine to keep the EEOC’s determination letter out of the case. I’d been so wrapped up in the material over the weekend that Claire and I had gone through the evidence instead of engaging in a screw-fest like we’d planned. The only thing I was in the mood for screwing was the Roth family, and hard.

I glanced at the newspaper’s headline, frowning, while Claire parked a hip against my desk, hovering over me. In the photo in front of me, Conrad Roth was seen hugging kids at a hospital. Apparently, he’d gifted each of them a brand-new gaming console, from the variety most mortals couldn’t get their hands on.

. . . Roth has donated 1,500 GameDrop consoles to the Don Hawkins Children’s Hospital, along with a generous $2 million donation . . .

“This is bullshit.” I rolled up the newspaper and slam-dunked it into the trash next to me. Claire pulled out her phone and swiped her finger across the screen.

“There are three more positive items about Conrad Roth running on various news sites today. The hashtag #NoRothDoing is trending on Twitter. Ex-colleagues are coming forward and talking about how nice and professional he is. Women of power. Arya Roth is working extra hard on Daddy’s image.”

Arya’s name alone made me break out in hives. The woman didn’t just manage to get under my skin; she dug her way into my gut and lit a bonfire there.

“#NoRothDoing is the stupidest hashtag I’ve ever heard, and unfortunately, I’ve heard many.”

“I happen to agree, but it’s working.” Claire sighed. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I’ll do my talking in the courtroom, in front of a jury that actually makes a difference. Internet trolls are not my target audience.”

“Should we be more tactical about this? Maybe scare her a little?” Claire perched her ass on the edge of my desk, folding her arms. I rolled my executive chair back, putting some space between us. Claire was a gorgeous, ambitious, well-off twenty-seven-year-old. But she was starting to become a liability, wanting things like weekends away and for me to meet her parents. I’d laid out the rules when we’d started sleeping together, explaining I was so deep in the playboy zone I couldn’t find my way out of it into a healthy relationship with a map, a flashlight, and GPS. She’d said she understood, and maybe she had, once upon a time, but things were getting complicated, which meant I was days away from breaking things off.

“You want me to start talking to B-grade journalists? Because prejudicing the defendant is third-grade tactics.”

“I’m saying Arya Roth is undermining our case.”

“No. She is sweating, and it smells. I’m not worried about her.”

But Claire wasn’t completely wrong. As I skimmed through one of the articles on her phone, I realized I should’ve taken into consideration that Arya was still cunning, resourceful, and—most maddening of all—talented at what she did. By the time the news about Conrad Roth’s sexual harassment case had broken, Arya had found a hundred different ways to spin it. She used all the dirty tricks too. Amanda Gispen was recently divorced. Her ex-husband had been cheating on her, it was claimed. Arya had portrayed Amanda as a man-hater. Bitter about her divorce, her ex-husband, and the opposite sex in general. Amanda had recently fallen behind on her mortgage—obviously due to the divorce. Now tabloids were speculating she was going after her ex-employer to try to make a quick buck. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, as Conrad had offered her more than enough to cover seven hundred mortgages to not take the case to court.

Arya was thorough and persistent, and she worked twenty-four seven.

Unfortunately for her, so did I.

“Claire’s right.” Traurig’s low tenor came from the door. Claire stood up promptly, smoothing her pencil skirt. Traurig pushed off my doorframe, pretending like he didn’t see her channeling her inner Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. “Ms. Roth may pose an issue. You should keep an eye on her. Media coverage is everything. You should know that, kiddo. You won that case at the DA’s office because you were the tabloid’s darling.”

My jaw ticced. More than Arya was undermining my case, Traurig was undermining my prestige by calling me kiddo. He wouldn’t subject Claire to the same nickname, no. That would be viewed as sexist. But I was another alpha male whom he wanted to put in his place.

“It’s under control.”

“All I’m saying is you cannot afford to lose this case. There’s a lot on the line.” Traurig took on the role of Captain Obvious. He meant my chance of making partner.

“The line is mine to conquer. Sit back and enjoy a cocktail.”

“That’s what I like to hear, kiddo.”

“And cut the kiddo crap.”

He laughed, elbowing Claire on his way out. “Touchy. You take care of that one, will you?”

Traurig left my office. Claire loitered behind, playing with the wisps of her silky hair.

I arched a sardonic eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“Look.” Claire cleared her throat. “This may be out of line . . .”

From experience, sentences that started like this always preceded something out of line. Already, my patience was thin, snappable, like crème brûlée.

“But I couldn’t help but pick up on a weird vibe between you and Arya Roth. Now, obviously, knowing you, I’m aware you would never jeopardize a case or take it on if there is any . . .”

She trailed off, hoping I’d volunteer some information. I flashed her a lethal stare, daring her to finish the sentence. She squirmed. “Funny business. I’m just wondering if you’d like me to take on more responsibility in the case where she is concerned. If she makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, maybe I could liaise with her directly so you don’t have to deal with her personally, or . . .”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh.” She faltered. “May I ask why not?”

Because I’m rabid with revenge and want a front-row seat when Arya finally gets what she deserves.

“Because I can handle a community-college-degreed aging teenybopper who has a few contacts at some local newspapers just fine.”

The way I’d managed to reduce Arya to nothing more than a glorified Bratz doll surprised even me. Although I doubted I was on point about most of those things. Her issue had never been a lack of IQ points but lack of a soul.

“Point made.” Claire nodded with dignity. “You know, you look different this morning. More . . . alive.”

I swallowed but didn’t reply. What could I say? That seeing Arya again gave me a hard-on from hell?

Claire swaggered her way to the door, then stopped on the threshold and knocked on the doorframe. “Just let me know if you need anything, Christian.”

How about Arya, spread eagle on my desk, panting my name—the old and the new one—begging me for mercy?

Well, now. I really needed to break things off with Claire if I’d started answering her that way. Even if it was just in my head.

“Absolutely.”

The minute Claire left my office, I plucked the newspaper back from the trash and began highlighting potential holes in Arya’s carefully constructed narrative.

She was about to find out I did not take any prisoners when I went to war.

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just got back from a war zone.” Riggs took a pull of his beer, his hooded eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

“It’s trivia night, not the plague.” Arsène knocked back his beer. We were at the Brewtherhood. I propped my elbows against the bar, watching groups of people huddling together around tables, getting ready for the main event. A stool was placed on the small podium usually reserved for college girls who danced half-naked. The host of the trivia night was some New Jersey–based reality star who was apparently semifamous for having sex with one of his fellow contestants in a public pool. This was the reason why I’d sworn off TV and the people on it. The line between culture and a steaming bag of shit blurred when it came to twenty-first-century entertainment.

“Bars were invented to get drunk and laid, not educated.” Riggs tilted his empty beer in Elise’s direction, motioning for her to get us another round. “I need a vacation.”

“You live to vacation,” I amended. “Settle the fuck down for a minute.”

“Never,” Riggs vowed. I believed him. The nomad turned to me, frowning. “Speaking of holiday destinations, how does Alice like her new Florida condo?”

Alice was the most important woman in my life. In all our lives, to be honest. But I was considered to be the “good” kid. The one who gave a shit and sent flowers for birthdays and Christmas cards whenever I wasn’t able to make it.

“She’s crazy about it. Between all the senior field trips and tai chi classes, she’s zen as shit,” I confirmed. “I talked to her a couple days ago.”

“We should visit her,” Riggs said.

“If anyone is able to drag me out of New York City, it’s her,” Arsène agreed.

“I’ll talk dates with her.” I nodded curtly, though I knew there was no way in hell I was leaving before winning the Conrad Roth case.

“Hey, we should do the trivia bullshit.” Arsène turned his back to a woman who was gingerly approaching him on high heels. God forbid he had a conversation with someone who wasn’t in the MacArthur Fellowship Program. “My head is full of useless pieces of information, and I enjoy winning.”

“Even if what you win is a two-night vacation in a three-star hotel in Tacoma?” I took a swig of my whiskey. “Because that’s the shit you’ll be winning here.”

“Especially.” Arsène accepted his fresh beer from Elise, slipping her a tip without making eye contact. The man hated women with such a passion I suspected he’d be one of those people who died alone and left all their millions to the neighbor’s dog or someone random on the other side of the world. “Helps me see how the other half lives.”

“You don’t give a crap how the other half lives.”

Arsène clinked his beer bottle with mine. “Said other half doesn’t need to know that.”

“I take everything I said about trivia night back. Apparently, it has its merits.” Riggs’s gaze cut to the entrance. I followed his line of sight, biting down on my tongue until the metallic taste of blood spread in my mouth.

You have to be kidding me. What are the goddamn odds?

It had been three weeks since I’d met Arya in my office. Three whole weeks in which I’d regrouped, gotten myself together, and managed to forget about her annoying mouth and delectable body. Now here she was, waltzing into my home field, wearing a little black number with a pearl choker and killer red Balenciaga heels. There were three more women with her, all wearing beauty-pageant-type sashes that said The Sherlock Holmesgirls. Apparently, she wasn’t only cold and mean; she was also lame.

“Pick your jaw off the floor, buddy, before someone steps on it.” Riggs clapped my shoulder in my periphery, chuckling. “All right, I see you’re eyeing little Audrey Hepburn over there. Luckily for you, I’m not picky. I’ll take Blondie.”

“How about you take a hike.” I brushed his touch away. “I’m out of here.”

“Long day at the office?” Riggs flashed a grin full of dimples and stubble. No wonder he melted panties and hearts solely by existing. “Let me guess, oatmeal and a Dan Brown book for dinner?”

Maturity-wise, my best friend was no older than the carton of milk in my fridge, and not half as sophisticated.

“This woman is the daughter of a defendant in a case I’m working on, dum-dum.”

“So?” Arsène furrowed his brows. “It’s trivia night, not a public orgy.”

“Can’t put it past Riggs not to make it one.” I slid into my peacoat. The last thing I needed was to ogle Arya Roth. Impulse control was my favorite form of art. I always reined in my needs. I hadn’t googled or checked on her since I was fifteen. Ignored her existence thoroughly since freshman year. To me, she was as good as dead. Seeing her all pretty and happy and alive wasn’t on my agenda. Not if I could help it. “Stay out of trouble, and make sure this guy puts a rubber on it.” I clapped Arsène’s back, about to head out.

“Thanks, Dad. Oh, and by the way.” Riggs blocked my way with his body. He glanced at something behind my back. “Audrey Hepburn is coming our way, and unlike you, she seems mighty happy to see you.”

“Of course.” Arsène’s eyes flickered behind me curiously, a grin spreading across his face. “Arya Roth.”

I stuffed my pocket with my wallet and phone, my jaw hardening.

“She’s a bombshell.” Riggs whistled.

“She sure detonated my life,” I ground out. “I’m out of here.”

I turned around, colliding with someone small. That someone, of course, was Arya. I almost knocked her down on her ass. She stumbled a few steps back, and one of her friends, presumably the one Riggs wanted to make the latest notch on his belt, caught her.

“Fancy bumping into you. Literally.” Arya recovered, her sharp smile intact. Was she following me? Because that was illegal, on top of being unethical. I eyed her with open disdain.

Impulse control. You’re Christian, not Little Nicky. She can’t hurt you.

“Ms. Roth.”

“Leaving already?”

“I see nothing escapes you,” I drawled flatly.

“Apparently, you escape me. Is trivia not your strong suit, Mr. Miller?”

Smirking, I tilted my head down to whisper in her ear. “Everything is my strong suit, Ms. Roth. You’d be wise to remember that.”

Straightening, I noticed there was a flicker of something in her face. Recognition? Confusion? Did she remember me? Whatever it was, it vanished, replaced by a frosty smile.

“Actually, your media management could use a few tweaks. I happen to be here with my business partner, Jillian, and our dream team, Hailey and Whitley. Give us a call after our case is over. We’ll give you some pointers.” Arya produced a black business card with rose-gold cursive lettering, shoving it into my hand. I caught the words Brand Brigade. Well, well. She had her own company. Then again, she also had a daddy who’d buy her a spaceship if she wanted to play astronaut.

“Thank you, Ms. Roth, but I’d rather get advice from the street person on the corner of Broadway and Canal, who shouts into a megaphone that aliens kidnapped him and he is now immortal.” I flicked her card straight to the trash can behind the bar.

“Good idea, Mr. Miller. He still understands more than you do about media management.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but I could tell by the glint in her eyes she wasn’t used to men looking at her like she was less than solid gold.

“You’re still here,” I sighed, when she made no move to stop blocking my way. “Please enlighten me as to why.”

“Did you see they assigned Judge Lopez to the lawsuit?” Arya’s eyelashes fluttered.

“I’m not discussing the case with you.”

I sidestepped her. At the last minute, she slipped her hand out to touch my bicep. The touch shot an arrow of heat straight to my groin. My body always had a way of betraying me where she was concerned.

“Stay,” she demanded, just as the reality TV dropout announced into the microphone that all groups needed to be registered and take a seat before the game began. “Let’s see what you’re worth.”

I stuffed my fists into my front pockets. “Whatever I’m worth, you can’t afford it.”

“Good. Show me what I’m missing.”

“I doubt you’ll be graceful in defeat.”

“I’m a pretty honorable person,” she argued.

I snorted. “Sweetheart, you and the word honor shouldn’t even be in the same zip code, let alone sentence.”

Arya turned around and walked away, her minions wobbling behind on stiletto heels.

“Riggs, sign us up, we’re staying,” I barked out. My eyes were still on Arya. Riggs moved toward the stage. I was sure whatever name he chose for our team was both offensive and at least a little sexually demeaning to women.

Reality TV Douche, who identified himself as Dr. Italian Stud (credentials unconfirmed), announced there were eight teams, including the S Team D, as Riggs had dubbed us.

Leave it to Riggs to associate me with genital herpes in front of someone I was supposed to see in court next week.

“I’d call you an idiot, but then idiots all over the world would take offense.” I turned to Riggs, resisting the urge to bash his head against the colonial table. I tried not to look at Arya, but it was hard. She was right there. Beautiful, shiny, and destructive. Like a human red button.

By the time the first few rounds were up, only four teams were left. There were Team Quizzitch, a group of tech bros in round reading glasses and trendy haircuts; Girl Squad, a bunch of college girls; the Sherlock Holmesgirls—that was Arya’s team—and Arsène, Riggs, and I.

The warm-up questions for the second round required the IQ of a beer sleeve. From naming the capital of the US to how many points a snowflake traditionally had. Despite the questions barely requiring two functioning brain cells, Girl Squad got kicked out next for not knowing which country The Sound of Music took place in, confusing Austria with Australia.

“Reminds me of that time you told a chick you had a BA in astronomy and she told you she was a Taurus and asked if it’s really true that they’re perfectionists,” Riggs ribbed Arsène, cackling.

Begrudgingly, and only to myself, I had to admit the Sherlock Holmesgirls were good. Arya and Jillian especially. Unfortunately for them, between Arsène and myself, they stood no chance. During holidays, when Arya had been working on her tan in Maui or skiing in Saint Moritz, Arsène would drag Riggs and me to the library at the academy, and we would read entire encyclopedias to burn time.

Forty minutes after the evening had begun, Team Quizzitch fell apart for getting the month Russians celebrated the October Revolution wrong (the answer was November), leaving us and the Sherlock Holmesgirls to go head-to-head.

“Things are heating up over here.” Dr. Italian Stud rubbed his palms together excitedly, speaking too close to the microphone onstage. He had enough hair wax to sculpt a life-size statue of LeBron James and teeth as big and white as piano keys. It didn’t help that he had the whole ripped-jeans-and-tacky-branded-designer-shirt look going on, his top clinging to a body that had seen more steroids than an ICU unit. I was still surprised he was literate enough to read the questions. “Holmesgirls, who do you think is going to win?” He turned to Arya, who sat all the way across the room.

She tucked flyaways of her chestnut hair behind her ears, and again, I found myself ogling. “We’ll win, no question about it.”

“What about you guys?” Dr. Stud forced himself to rip his gaze from Arya. Arsène shot him a pitying look.

“I’m not even going to grace that with an answer.”

By the look on Dr. Italian Stud’s face, I could tell his heart was firmly with the Holmesgirls, and so were other parts.

“All right, someone here is competitive. We’re entering the final round. Remember—one strike and you’re out. This is the money time. Or to be exact, the Denny’s voucher time! One hundred bucks, y’all!”

“I can hardly contain my excitement.” Arsène took a pull of his beer, his voice paper dry.

“What’s Joe Biden’s middle name? Holmesgirls, this goes to you and will pass to the STDs if you can’t answer the question.”

The women huddled with their heads touching, whispering, before Arya straightened her spine and said, “Robinette. Final answer.”

“You’re correct. Huh. Didn’t know that.” Dr. Italian Stud scratched his stiff hair. I doubted he knew what continent he was on, so that didn’t surprise me. He turned to us. The room was still crowded, brimming with people who wanted to see which group was going to hit the jackpot.

“Next question goes to the STDs—how fast does the earth spin?”

“One thousand miles per hour.” Arsène yawned.

“Holmesgirls—what did the Romans use as mouthwash?”

“Urine!” Jillian called out, practically leaping from her seat, the cocktails on her table sloshing over. “They used urine. Which is super kinky, but who are we to judge?”

“Correct! STDs, what was the ice cream cone invented for?”

“Holding flowers,” I said without missing a beat.

Dr. Stud whistled. “Dang, I’m finding out all kinds of interesting things tonight! It almost makes me want to open a book.” He turned toward our rival team. “Okay, Holmesgirls—what can’t a cheetah do that a tiger and a puma can?”

Arya opened her mouth instinctively to answer, but the words didn’t come out. She frowned, taken aback by the idea of not knowing something.

“Cat got your tongue?” I arched a brow, scanning her in amusement.

She turned to Jillian. They whispered back and forth. I sat back, folding my arms over my chest. Arya Roth out of sorts was my favorite view in the world. More than the sunrise, probably.

“I’m guessing you’ll want to take that one when they pass it to us.” Arsène was selling stock on an app on his phone as he spoke.

“Hey!” Dr. Italian Stud shrieked. “You’re not supposed to use your phone! You’re cheating.”

“You’re not supposed to be hosting a knowledge-based game. You’re a dumbass,” Arsène retorted, not taking his eyes off his screen. “Yet here we are.”

But Riggs snatched the phone from our friend, tilting it toward Dr. Italian Stud so he knew Arsène was selling stock, not googling anything.

Arya scratched her cheek, and my dick twitched in my slacks. I would never touch her again with a ten-foot pole—I’d learned from my first and last mistake with her—but it was tempting to make her scream my new name and deny her an orgasm or two.

“Holmesgirls?” Dr. Italian Stud probed, checking the time on his phone. “The clock’s ticking. Ten more seconds before I pass it to STDs.”

“One moment,” Arya snapped, turning her gaze back to Jillian and the other women. For a second, I saw the old Arya. The scraped-kneed girl who would growl in protest when we did laps in her pool and I’d start a nanosecond before her. She would splash me, then proceed to talk me into a dozen more competitions—who could hold their breath underwater the longest, who could cannonball farther into the pool—until she won something. We were both fiercely stubborn. That hadn’t changed. What had changed was my willingness to pacify her. To give up something just for the pleasure of seeing her smile.

Arya’s ears turned a nice shade of scarlet. Our eyes met. Something passed between us. A faint recognition.

“Four . . . three . . . two . . .” Dr. Italian Stud counted back the seconds.

“Swim!” Arya cried out. The word stabbed me in the gut. I’d just been thinking about our pool time together. “Maybe a cheetah can’t swim? And a tiger and a puma can?”

“Your answer is incorrect.” Dr. Stud made an exaggerated sad face, shifting toward us in his seat. “I’m passing this to the STDs. If you get this answer right, you win.”

I turned to look at Arya, staring at her dead in the eye, her humiliation radiating from her body in waves. “Retract their claws.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed.

“The one thing cheetahs can’t do that pumas and tigers can is retract their claws. Not all felines were born equal.”

“Correct!” Dr. Italian Stud cried out. “S Team D, you are the winners!”

“No!” Arya stood up, stomping her foot. It was ridiculous, bratty, and—underneath all of this—stupid adorable.

Because it proved she was still the same spoiled little princess I loved to hate.

There was a flurry of excitement. Dr. Stud even shot a confetti gun and called us up to the stage to receive our prize and an unnecessary bro hug. Arsène threw a wad of cash at Elise and retreated into the night without as much as a goodbye, done with the human race for one evening. Riggs moved to a corner of the bar, being pawed by the Girl Squad chicks, who cooed over him. Arya thundered into the restroom, her cheeks flushed, probably to cry into the sink.

A wiser man wouldn’t follow her. Yet here I was, making my way to the unisex restroom. Since going inside with her was deranged, I opted for loitering around and answering emails on my phone until she got out. Still creepy, but not restraining-order worthy. When she stepped out, her face was wet, her shoulders slumped. She stopped midstep when she saw me.

“Are you following me?” she demanded.

“Funny, I was about to ask you the very same thing. This is my hangout spot. There are over twenty-five thousand nightlife establishments citywide. What are the odds of you showing up here for the first time in my life right after news of the trial broke?”

“Pretty good, considering we probably live in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and travel in the same social circles.”

“Got me all figured out?” I stroked my jawline, my eyes skimming her face.

She tilted her chin up. “More or less. Although I will say, you’re a hard man to track, Mr. Miller. Not a whole lot of info available about you on the net.”

My lips twitched. She had bought into my high-flying-millionaire charade. Probably thought we were a part of the same yacht club.

“How far did you get in your research?” I braced an arm over her head, trapping her between me and the restroom wall. She smelled like Arya. Of peachy shampoo mixed with the sweetness of her skin. Of long, lazy summers and spontaneous pool swims and ancient books. Like my impending downfall.

Her eyes met mine. “You finished Harvard Law School. Got pulled straight into the DA’s office. Traurig and Cromwell recruited you after you nailed a huge case even though you were the small fry. Lured you to the white-shoe dark side. Now you’re known as the shark who gets his clients fat settlements.”

“Where’s the mystery, then?” I leaned forward an inch, breathing more of her. “Sounds like I’m an open book. Need my Social Security number and full medical history to complete the picture?”

“Were you born eighteen?” She cocked her head sideways.

“Fortunately for my mother, no.”

“There’s no information about you prior to your time in Harvard.”

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “My accomplishments before eighteen include winning beer pong games and getting lucky in the bed of my truck.”

She eyed me skeptically, her delicate brows furrowing. I spoke before she could ask more questions.

“I’ll give you one thing: you make that bag of trash who sired you look like a real angel in the media.”

“That’s an easy task. He is innocent.” Her lips were inches from mine, but I was in complete control of the situation.

“That’s not for you to decide. If you continue tampering with the narrative before the trial, I’ll be inclined to move for a gag order on the case. The temptation of shutting your mouth up is already too much.”

“Are outspoken women an inconvenience to you?” she purred, her eyes sparkling. It felt so much like our banter from a decade and a half ago that I almost laughed.

“No, but whiny little girls are.”

That made her pull away. She twisted her mouth in annoyance. “Did you come here for anything other than to rub your small, insignificant win in my face?”

Would you rather I rubbed something else in it?

“Yes, actually.” I pushed off the wall, giving her—and myself—some space. “First things first—the Brewtherhood is my domain. My territory. Find a girly cocktail bar that hosts trivia nights. Better yet—read a book or two before you try it next time. Your general knowledge could use a few tweaks.” I used the word she’d used for my media-management skills.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to tell me to go shove my self-importance up my rear in five different languages, but I proceeded before she could cut into my words.

“Second—I think I deserve one piece of information in return for this.” I produced the Denny’s voucher Dr. Douchebag had handed me earlier tonight. Her eyes zinged with exhilaration. I knew she didn’t care for the actual voucher. Only about what it represented. About going home with the prize. This was classic Arya. She would catch my foot when we did laps at the pool, playing dirty sometimes. Anything to win.

“You want a piece of information?” she asked. “You’re insufferable. How’s that for a fun fact? Now hand that over. My employees deserve free Denny’s meals.”

She reached to grab the voucher. I raised my hand higher, chuckling. “Sorry, I should’ve specified. I get to ask the question.”

She tossed her arms in the air, unused to being challenged. “Shoot.”

“How shall I address you—Miss or Mrs.?”

I’d made it a point not to check Arya’s marital status, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious. There was no ring on her finger. Then again, she didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d flaunt a statement ring.

Her mouth curled up in a smile. “You are interested.” Her eyes flared.

“You are delusional.” I suppressed the urge to brush away one of her flyaway hairs with my thumb. “I like to know things. Knowledge is power.”

She licked her lips, peering at the voucher I held between my fingers. Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I could see her resolve crumbling. She wanted to keep the mystery alive but wanted to win even more.

“I’m single.”

“Color me surprised.” I handed her the ticket. She snatched it, like I was going to change my mind any second, stuffing it into her purse.

“I’m guessing you’re with the pretty associate.”

“Now why would you guess that?” I was surprised. I ignored Claire completely during work hours, unless it was related to a case we were working on.

Arya shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

“I can also call it jealousy.”

She smiled easily. “Tweak the narrative as you please to help your fragile ego, honey. It’s a free country.” She turned around, ready to leave.

“You have good instincts, silver-spooned princess.”

Her head spun so fast I thought it was going to dislocate from her shoulder. “What did you just call me?”

Well, shit. It had just spilled out of my mouth. Like it hadn’t been almost two decades. Like we were still the same kids.

“Princess,” I said.

“No. You said silver-spooned princess.” Her eyes narrowed into slits.

“Nope,” I lied. “But that’s not a bad nickname.”

“Your gaslighting game is weak. I know what I heard.”

“Well, seeing as you don’t have any way to prove it, and I’m not budging, I would strongly suggest you let it drop. I called you a princess. Nothing more.”

She considered it for a full minute before nodding curtly. “See you at the pretrial hearing next week.” She saluted, not waiting for me to confirm or deny my relationship with Claire.

Of course. Next week. I had to wait seven days until I’d see her again.

Which is dandy. You hate her, remember?

“Can hardly wait.”

She walked away, her stilettos rapping over the sticky wooden floor. Typical. She always left dents wherever she went.

“Oh, and Ms. Roth?”

She stopped and turned around, arching a brow. I ran my tongue over my teeth.

“Nice claws.”

That night, I allowed myself one slipup.

Okay, fine, two slipups.

First—I googled Arya. She was the director and founder of Brand Brigade, along with Jillian Bazin. Had gone to Columbia University cum laude, participated as a consultant in several political campaigns, and frequented charity events with Daddy dearest. Suppose they were two peas in a messed-up pod, running over everyone on their way to their next target. There were a few photos of her too. Of the stunning woman who’d made me swear off green-eyed brunettes for life.

The second slipup happened in the shower, while I pressed my forehead against the tiles, closing my eyes and letting the hot needles of water wash the day away. Looking down, I found myself hard as a stone. My cock was engorged, begging for release.

Impulse control. Remember you hate her.

But what my brain knew very well, my idiot body refused to accept. Every time I thought about Arya in that black dress and those pearls, my cock tapped against my abs to draw attention. Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to be relieved. I could call Claire and have her take care of the problem, but Claire wouldn’t do.

This was when I started making excuses for my cock, which was never a good place to be in.

As with everything, I presented myself with astute arguments.

1. What is one jerk-off, in the grand scheme of life?

I still loathed Arya Roth. I was still going to take her and her father down, ruin her perfectly constructed universe. The plan hadn’t changed.

2. Better get it out of my system now than with her.

I couldn’t have her. She was off limits. Caving in to temptation in the shower was far better than yielding to it in the Mandarin, going through an entire box of condoms while screwing my entire lawsuit in the process.

3. She’d never know.

My favorite out of the three.

Arya would never guess the man she’d seen today was the kid who’d kissed her with trembling lips. Who used to count up the days each September until next summer break. Who would sneak into Duane Reade to sniff the shampoo she used when missing her had become too much.

I grabbed my dick, my palm moving up and down. I closed my eyes, squeezing it harder, imagining my fingers running up her thighs, flipping her dress up, pressing her against my office desk, flattening her back over a pile of documents and my laptop . . .

A low snarl ripped from my mouth. I didn’t even get to the part where I was inside her before my hand was coated with warm, sticky release.

I staggered backward, turning off the faucet and pushing the glass door open. I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked over to the mirror, leaning against the vanity, scowling at myself.

You fool. I shook my head. She’s already dug her way deep inside your veins.